The magic casket
“And is that all that you have to tell us?” asked Thorndyke.
“Yes,” was the reply, “and enough, too. I make no comment on my
brother’s story, and I won’t ask whether you believe it. I don’t
expect you to. The question is whether you would undertake the
defence. I suppose it isn’t necessary for a lawyer to be convinced of
his client’s innocence in order to convince the jury.”
“You are thinking of an advocate,” said Thorndyke. “I am not an
advocate, and I should not defend a man whom I believed to be guilty.
The most that I can do is to investigate the case. If the result of
the investigation is to confirm the suspicions against your brother, I
shall go no farther in the case. You will have to get an ordinary
criminal barrister to defend your brother. If, on the other hand, I
find reasonable grounds for believing him innocent, I will undertake
the defence. What do you say to that?”
“I’ve no choice,” replied Chapman; “and I suppose, if you find all the
evidence against him, the defence won’t matter much.”
“I am afraid that is so,” said Thorndyke. “And now there are one or
two questions to be cleared up. First, does your brother offer any
explanation of the presence of these remains in his box?”
“He supposes that somebody at the ‘Red Lion’ must have taken the
jewellery out and put the remains in. Anyone could get access to the
luggage-room by asking for the key at the office.”
“Well,” said Thorndyke, “that is conceivable. Then, as to the person
who might have made this exchange. Is there anyone who had any reason
for wishing to make away with deceased?”
“No,” replied Chapman. “Plenty of people disliked her, but no one but
my brother had any motive for getting rid of her.”
“You spoke of a man with whom she was on somewhat intimate terms.
There had been no quarrel or breach there, I suppose?”
“The man, Gamble, you mean. No, I should say they were the best of
friends. Besides, Gamble had no responsibilities in regard to her. He
could have dropped her whenever he was tired of her.”
“Do you know anything about him?” Thorndyke asked.
“Very little. He has been a rolling stone, and has been in all sorts
of jobs, I believe. He was in the New Zealand trade for some time and
dealt in all sorts of things--among others, in smoked human heads;
sold them to collectors and museums, I understand. So he would have
had some previous experience,” Chapman added with a faint grin.
“Not in dismemberment,” said Thorndyke. “Those will have been ancient
Maori heads--relics of the old head hunters. There are some in the
Hunterian Museum. But, as you say, there seems to be no motive in
Gamble’s case, even if there had been the opportunity; whereas, in
your brother’s case, there seems to have been both the motive and the
opportunity. I suppose your brother never threatened the deceased?”
“I am sorry to say he did,” replied Chapman. “On several occasions,
and before witnesses, too, he threatened to put her out of the way. Of
course he never meant it--he was really the mildest of men. But it was
a foolish thing to do and most unfortunate, as things have turned
out.”
“Well,” said Thorndyke, “I will look into the matter and let you know
what I think of it. It is unnecessary to remark that appearances are
not very encouraging.”
“No, I can see that,” said Chapman, rising and producing his
card-case. “But we must hope for the best.” He laid his card on the
table, and having shaken hands with us gloomily, took his departure.
“It doesn’t do to take things at their face value,” I remarked, when
he had gone; “but I don’t think we have ever had a more
hopeless-looking case. All it wants to complete it is the discovery of
remains in Chapman’s house.”
“In that respect,” said Thorndyke, “it may already be complete. But it
hardly wants that finishing touch. On the evidence that we have, any
jury would find a verdict of ‘guilty’ without leaving the box. The
only question for us is whether the face value of the evidence is its
real value. If it is, the defence will be a mere formality.”
“I suppose,” said I, “you will begin the investigation at Stoke
Varley?”
“Yes,” he replied. “We begin by checking the alleged facts. If they
are really as stated, we shall probably need to go no farther. And we
had better lose no time, as the remains may be moved into the
jurisdiction of a London coroner, and we ought to see everything _in
situ_ as far as possible. I suggest that we postpone the rest of
to-day’s business and start at once, taking Scotland Yard on the way
to get authority to inspect the remains and the premises.”
In a few minutes we were ready for the expedition. While Thorndyke
packed the “research-case” with the necessary instruments, I gave
instructions to our laboratory assistant, Polton, as to what was to be
done in our absence, and then, when we had consulted the time-table,
we set forth by way of the Embankment.
At Scotland Yard, on inquiring for our friend, Superintendent Miller,
we received the slightly unwelcome news that he was at Stoke Varley,
inquiring into the case. However, the authorization was given readily
enough, and, armed with this, we made our way to Charing Cross
Station, arriving there in good time to catch our train.
We had just given up our tickets and turned out into the pleasant
station approach of Stoke Varley when Thorndyke gave a soft chuckle. I
looked at him inquiringly, and he explained: “Miller has had a
telegram, and we are going to have facilities, with a little
supervision.” Following the direction of his glance, I now observed
the superintendent strolling towards us, trying to look surprised, but
achieving only a somewhat sheepish grin.
“Well, I’m sure, gentlemen!” he exclaimed. “This is an unexpected
pleasure. You don’t mean to say you are engaged in this treasure-trove
case?”
“Why not?” asked Thorndyke.
“Well, I’ll tell you why not,” replied Miller. “Because it’s no go.
You’ll only waste your time and injure your reputation. I may as well
let you know, in confidence, that we’ve been through Chapman’s house
in London. It wasn’t very necessary; but still, if there was a vacancy
in his coffin for one or two more nails, we’ve knocked them in.”
“What did you find in his house?” Thorndyke asked.
“We found,” replied Miller, “in a cupboard in his bedroom, a
good-sized bottle of hyoscine tablets, about two-thirds
full--one-third missing. No great harm in that; he might have taken
’em himself. But when we went down into the cellar, we noticed that
the place smelt--well, a bit graveyardy, so to speak. So we had a look
round. It was a stone-floored cellar, not very even, but so far as we
could see, none of the flagstones seemed to have been disturbed. We
didn’t want the job of digging the whole of them up, so I just filled
a bucket with water and poured it over the floor. Then I watched.
“In less than a minute one big flagstone near the middle went nearly
dry, while the water still stood on all the others. ‘What O!’ says I.
‘Loose earth underneath here.’ So we got a crow-bar and prised up that
big flag; and sure enough, underneath it we found a good-sized bundle
done up in a sheet. I won’t go into unpleasant particulars--not that
it would upset you, I suppose--but that bundle contained human
remains.”
“Any bones?” inquired Thorndyke.
“No. Mostly in’ards and some skin from the front of the body. We
handed them over to the Home Office experts, and they examined them
and made an analysis. Their report states that the remains are those
of a woman of about thirty-five--that was about Mings’ age--and that
the various organs contained a large quantity of hyoscine; more than
enough to have caused death. So there you are. If you are going to
conduct the defence, you won’t get much glory from it.”
“It is very good of you, Miller,” said Thorndyke, “to have given us
this private information. It is very helpful, though I have not
undertaken the defence. I have merely come down to check the facts and
see if there is any material for a defence. And I shall go through the
routine, as I am here. Where are the remains?”
“In the mortuary. I’ll show you the way, and as I happen to have the
key in my pocket, I can let you in.”
We passed through the outskirts of the village--gathering a small
train of stealthy followers, who dogged us to the door of the mortuary
and hungrily watched us as the superintendent let us in and locked the
door after us.
“There you are,” said Miller, indicating the slate table on which the
remains lay, covered by a sheet soaked in an antiseptic. “I’ve seen
all I want to see.” And he retired into a corner and lit his pipe.
The remnants of mortality, disclosed by the removal of the sheet, were
dreadfully suggestive of crime in its most brutal and horrible form,
but they offered little information. The dismemberment had been
manifestly rude and unskilful, and the remains were clearly those of a
woman of medium size and apparently in the prime of life. The
principal interest centred in the left arm, the waxen skin of which
bore a very distinct tattoo-mark, consisting of the initials R.M. over
a very symmetrical heart, transfixed by an arrow, beneath which were
the initials J.B. The letters were Roman capitals about half an inch
high, well-formed and finished with serifs, and the heart and arrow
quite well drawn. I looked reflectively at the device, standing out in
dull blue from its ivory-like background, and speculated vaguely as to
whom J.B. might have been and how many predecessors and successors he
had had. And then my interest waned, and I joined the superintendent
in the corner. It was a sordid case, and a conviction being a foregone
conclusion, it did not seem to call for further attention.
Thorndyke, however, seemed to think otherwise. But that was his way.
When he was engaged in an investigation he put out of his mind
everything that he had been told and began from the very beginning.
That was what he was doing now. He was inspecting these remains as if
they had been the remains of some unidentified person. He made, and
noted down, minute measurements of the limbs; he closely examined
every square inch of surface; he scrutinized each finger separately,
and then with the aid of his portable inking-plate and roller, took a
complete set of finger-prints. He measured all the dimensions of the
tattoo-marks with a delicate calliper-gauge, and then examined the
marks themselves, first with a common lens and then with the
high-power Coddington. The principles that he laid down in his
lectures at the hospital were: “Accept no statement without
verification; observe every fact independently for yourselves; and
keep an open mind.” And, certainly, no one ever carried out more
conscientiously his own precepts.
“Do you know, Dr. Jervis,” the superintendent whispered to me as
Thorndyke brought his Coddington to bear on the tattoo-marks, “I
believe this lens business is becoming a habit with the doctor. It’s
my firm conviction that if somebody were to blow up the Houses of
Parliament, he’d go and examine the ruins through a magnifying glass.
Just look at him poring over those tattooed letters that you could
read plainly twenty feet away!”
Meanwhile, Thorndyke, unconscious of these criticisms, placidly
continued his inspection. From the table, with its gruesome burden, he
transferred his attention to the box, which had been placed on a bench
by the window, examining it minutely inside and out; feeling with his
fingers the dark grey paint with which it was coated and the
white-painted initials, “S.C.,” on the lid, which he also measured
carefully. He even copied into his note-book the maker’s name, which
was stamped on a small brass label affixed to the inside of the lid,
and the name of the lock-maker, and inspected the screws which had