The magic casket
seen nothing to suggest the existence of any others. From time to time
I tested the condition of the plaster, impatient to rejoin my
colleague but fearful of cracking the thin cast by raising it
prematurely. At length the plaster seemed to be hard enough, and
trusting to the strength of the canvas, I prised cautiously at the
edge, when, to my relief, the brittle plate came up safely and I
lifted it clear. Wrapping it carefully in some spare rag, I packed it
in the research-case, and then, taking this and the lantern, made my
way back to the house.
When I had let down the catch and closed the front door, I went into
the drawing-room, where I found Thorndyke stooping over the dark stain
at the threshold and scanning the floor as if in search of something.
I reported the completion of the cast and then asked him what he was
looking for.
“I am looking for a button,” he replied. “There is one missing from
the back; the one to which the collar was fastened.”
“Is it of any importance?” I asked.
“It is important to ascertain when and where it became detached,” he
replied. “Let us have the inspection-lamp.”
I gave him the lamp, which he placed on the floor, turning it so that
its beam of light travelled along the surface. Stooping to follow the
light, I scrutinized the floor minutely but in vain.
“It may not be here at all,” said I; but at that moment the bright
gleam, penetrating the darkness under a cabinet, struck a small object
close to the wall. In a moment I had thrown myself prone on the
carpet, and reaching under the cabinet, brought forth a largish
mother-of-pearl button.
“You notice,” said Thorndyke, as he examined it, “that the cabinet is
near the window, at the opposite end of the room to the couch. But we
had better see that it is the right button.”
He walked slowly towards the couch, still stooping and searching the
floor with the light. The corpse, I noticed, had been turned on its
side, exposing the back and the displaced collar. Through the strained
button-hole of the latter Thorndyke passed the button without
difficulty.
“Yes,” he said, “that is where it came from. You will notice that
there is a similar one in front. By the way,” he continued, bringing
the lamp close to the surface of the grey serge dress, “I picked off
one or two hairs--animal hairs; cat and dog they looked like. Here are
one or two more. Will you hold the lamp while I take them off?”
“They are probably from some pets of hers,” I remarked, as he picked
them off with his forceps and deposited them in one of the invaluable
seed-envelopes. “Spinsters are a good deal addicted to pets,
especially cats and dogs.”
“Possibly,” he replied. “But I could see none in front, where you
would expect to find them, and there seem to be none on the carpet.
Now let us replace the body as we found it and just have a look at our
material before the police arrive. I expected them here before this.”
We turned the body back into its original position, and taking the
research-case and the lamp, went into the dining-room. Here Thorndyke
rapidly set up the little travelling microscope, and bringing forth
the seed-envelopes, began to prepare slides from the contents of some
while I prepared the others. There was time only for a very hasty
examination, which Thorndyke made as soon as the specimens were
mounted.
“The clothing,” he reported, with his eye at the microscope, “is
woollen in both cases. Fairly good quality. The one a blue serge,
apparently indigo dyed; the other a mixture of black and white, no
other colour. Probably a fine tabby or a small shepherd’s plaid.”
“Serge coat and shepherd’s plaid trousers,” I suggested. “Now see what
the hairs are.” I handed him the slide, on which I had roughly mounted
the collection in oil of lavender, and he placed it on the stage.
“There are three different kinds of hairs here,” he reported, after a
rapid inspection. “Some are obviously from a cat--a smoky Persian.
Others are long, rather fine tawny hairs from a dog. Probably a
Pekinese. But there are two that I can’t quite place. They look like
monkey’s hairs, but they are a very unusual colour. There is a
perceptible greenish tint, which is extremely uncommon in mammalian
hairs. But I hear the taxi approaching. We need not be expansive to
the local police as to what we have observed. This will probably be a
case for the C.I.D.”
I went out into the hall and opened the door as Meade came up the
path, followed by two men; and as the latter came into the light, I
was astonished to recognize in one of them our old friend,
Detective-Superintendent Miller, the other being, apparently, the
station superintendent.
“We have kept Mr. Meade a long time,” said Miller, “but we knew you
were here, so the time wouldn’t be wasted. Thought it best to get a
full statement before we inspected the premises. How do, doctor,” he
added, shaking hands with Thorndyke. “Glad to see you here. I suppose
you have got all the facts. I understood so from Mr. Meade.”
“Yes,” replied Thorndyke, “we have all the antecedents of the case,
and we arrived within a few minutes of the death of the deceased.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Miller. “Did you? And I expect you have formed an
opinion on the question as to whether the injuries were
self-inflicted?”
“I think,” said Thorndyke, “that it would be best to act on the
assumption that they were not--and to act promptly.”
“Pre--cisely,” Miller agreed emphatically. “You mean that we had
better find out at once where a certain person was at--what time did
you arrive here?”
“It was two minutes to nine when the taxi stopped,” replied Thorndyke;
“and, as it is now only twenty-five minutes to ten, we have good time
if Mr. Meade can spare us the taxi. I have the address.”
“The taxi is waiting for you,” said Mr. Meade, “and the man has been
paid for both journeys. I shall stay here in case the superintendent
wants anything.” He shook our hands warmly, and as we bade him
farewell and noted the dazed, despairing expression and lines of grief
that had already eaten into the face that had been so blithe and
hopeful, we both thought bitterly of the few fatal minutes that had
made us too late to save the wreckage of his life.
We were just turning away when Thorndyke paused and again faced the
clergyman.
“Can you tell me,” he asked, “whether Miss Fawcett had any pets? Cats,
dogs, or other animals?”
Meade looked at him in surprise, and Superintendent Miller seemed to
prick up his ears. But the former answered simply: “No. She was not
very fond of animals; she reserved her affections for men and women.”
Thorndyke nodded gravely, and picking up the research-case walked
slowly out of the room, Miller and I following.
As soon as the address had been given to the driver and we had taken
our seats in the taxi, the superintendent opened the
examination-in-chief.
“I see you have got your box of magic with you, doctor,” he said,
cocking his eye at the research-case. “Any luck?”
“We have secured a very distinctive footprint,” replied Thorndyke,
“but it may have no connexion with the case.”
“I hope it has,” said Miller. “A good cast of a footprint which you
can let the jury compare with the boot is first-class evidence.” He
took the cast, which I had produced from the research-case, and
turning it over tenderly and gloatingly, exclaimed: “Beautiful!
beautiful! Absolutely distinctive! There can’t be another exactly like
it in the world. It is as good as a finger-print. For the Lord’s sake
take care of it. It means a conviction if we can find the boot.”
The superintendent’s efforts to engage Thorndyke in discussion were
not very successful, and the conversational brunt was borne by me. For
we both knew my colleague too well to interrupt him if he was disposed
to be meditative. And such was now his disposition. Looking at him as
he sat in his corner, silent but obviously wrapped in thought, I knew
that he was mentally sorting out the data and testing the hypotheses
that they yielded.
“Here we are,” said Miller, opening the door as the taxi stopped. “Now
what are we going to say? Shall I tell him who I am?”
“I expect you will have to,” replied Thorndyke, “if you want him to
let us in.”
“Very well,” said Miller. “But I shall let you do the talking, because
I don’t know what you have got up your sleeve.”
Thorndyke’s prediction was verified literally. In response to the
third knock, with an obbligato accompaniment on the bell, wrathful
footsteps--I had no idea footsteps could be so expressive--advanced
rapidly along the lobby, the door was wrenched open--but only for a
few inches--and an angry, hairy face appeared in the opening.
“Now then,” the hairy person demanded, “what the deuce do you want?”
“Are you Mr. William Ponting?” the superintendent inquired.
“What the devil is that to do with you?” was the genial answer--in the
Scottish mode.
“We have business,” Miller began persuasively.
“So have I,” the presumable Ponting replied, “and mine won’t wait.”
“But our business is very important,” Miller urged.
“So is mine,” snapped Ponting, and would have shut the door but for
Miller’s obstructing foot, at which he kicked viciously, but with
unsatisfactory results, as he was shod in light slippers, whereas the
superintendent’s boots were of constabulary solidity.
“Now, look here,” said Miller, dropping his conciliatory manner very
completely, “you’d better stop this nonsense. I am a police officer,
and I am going to come in”; and with this he inserted a massive
shoulder and pushed the door open.
“Police officer, are you?” said Ponting. “And what might your business
be with me?”
“That is what I have been waiting to tell you,” said Miller. “But we
don’t want to do our talking here.”
“Very well,” growled Ponting. “Come in. But understand that I am busy.
I’ve been interrupted enough this evening.”
He led the way into a rather barely furnished room with a wide
bay-window in which was a table fitted with a writing-slope and
lighted by an electric standard lamp. A litter of manuscript explained
the nature of his business and his unwillingness to receive casual
visitors. He sulkily placed three chairs, and then, seating himself,
glowered at Thorndyke and me.
“Are they police officers, too?” he demanded.
“No,” replied Miller, “they are medical gentlemen. Perhaps you had
better explain the matter, doctor,” he added, addressing Thorndyke,
who thereupon opened the proceedings.
“We have called,” said he, “to inform you that Miss Millicent Fawcett
died suddenly this evening.”
“The devil!” exclaimed Ponting. “That’s sudden with a vengeance. What
time did this happen?”
“About a quarter to nine.”
“Extraordinary!” muttered Ponting. “I saw her only the day before
yesterday, and she seemed quite well then. What did she die of?”
“The appearances,” replied Thorndyke, “suggest suicide.”
“Suicide!” gasped Ponting. “Impossible! I can’t believe it. Do you
mean to tell me she poisoned herself?”
“No,” said Thorndyke, “it was not poison. Death was caused by injuries
to the throat inflicted with a razor.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Ponting. “What a horrible thing! But,” he added
after a pause, “I can’t believe she did it herself, and I don’t. Why
should she commit suicide? She was quite happy, and she was just going
to be married to that mealy-faced parson. And a razor, too! How do you
suppose she came by a razor? Women don’t shave. They smoke and drink
and swear, but they haven’t taken to shaving yet. I don’t believe it.
Do you?”
He glared ferociously at the superintendent, who replied:
“I am not sure that I do. There’s a good deal in what you’ve just
said, and the same objections had occurred to us. But, you see, if she
didn’t do it herself, someone else must have done it, and we should