The magic casket
“This,” said I, as I picked up the former, “accounts for the strong
smell of scent in the compartment.”
“Possibly,” Thorndyke agreed, “though you will notice that the odour
does not come principally from the handkerchief, but from the back
cushion of the corner seat. But here is something more distinctive--a
most incriminating piece of evidence, unless it can be answered by an
undeniable alibi.” He held out to me a sheet of letter paper, both
pages of which were covered with writing in bright blue ink, done with
a Hectograph or some similar duplicator. It was evidently a circular
letter, for it bore the printed heading, “Women’s Emancipation League,
16 Barnabas Square, S.W.,” and the contents appeared to refer to a
“militant demonstration” planned for the near future.
“It is dated the day before yesterday,” commented Thorndyke, “so that
it might have been lying here for twenty-four hours, though that is
obviously improbable; and as this is neither the first sheet nor the
last, there are--or have been--at least two more sheets. The police
will have something to start on, at any rate.”
He laid the letter on the seat and explored both of the hat-racks,
taking down the dead man’s hat, gloves, and umbrella, and noting in
the hat the initials “F.B.” He had just replaced them when voices
became audible outside, and the station-master climbed up on the
foot-board and opened the door to admit two men, one of whom I assumed
to be a doctor, the other being a police inspector.
“The station-master tells me that this is a case of homicide,” said
the former, addressing us jointly.
“That is what the appearances suggest,” replied Thorndyke. “There is a
bullet wound, inflicted apparently at quite short range--the waistcoat
is perceptibly singed--and we have found no weapon in the
compartment.”
The doctor stepped past us and proceeded to make a rapid examination
of the body.
“Yes,” he said, “I agree with you. The position of the wound and the
posture of the body both suggest that death was practically
instantaneous. If it had been suicide, the pistol would have been in
the hand or on the floor. There is no clue to the identity of the
murderer, I suppose?”
“We found these on the floor under the dead man’s seat,” replied
Thorndyke, indicating the letter and the handkerchief; “and there is
some glass trodden into the carpet--apparently the remains of an
electric flash-lamp.”
The inspector pounced on the handkerchief and the letter, and having
scrutinized the former vainly in search of name or initials, turned to
the letter.
“Why, this is a suffragist’s letter!” he exclaimed. “But it can’t have
anything to do with this affair. They are mischievous beggars, but
they don’t do this sort of thing.” Nevertheless, he carefully bestowed
both articles in a massive wallet, and approaching the corpse,
remarked: “We may as well see who he is while we are waiting for the
stretcher.”
With a matter-of-fact air, which seemed somewhat to shock the
station-master, he unbuttoned the coat of the passive figure in the
corner and thrust his hand into the breast pocket, drawing out a
letter-case which he opened, and from which he extracted a visiting
card. As he glanced at it, his face suddenly took on an expression of
amazement.
“God!” he exclaimed in a startled tone. “Who do you think he is,
doctor? He is Mr. Francis Burnham!”
The doctor looked at him with an interrogative frown.
“Burnham--Burnham,” he repeated. “Let me see, now----”
“Don’t you know? The anti-suffrage man. Surely----”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted the doctor. “Of course I remember him. The
arch-enemy of the suffrage movement and--yes, of course.” The doctor’s
brisk speech changed abruptly into a hesitating mumble. Like the
inspector, he had suddenly “seen a great light”; and again, like the
officer, his perception had begotten a sudden reticence.
Thorndyke glanced at his watch. “Our train is a minute overdue,” said
he. “We ought to get back to the platform.” Taking a card from his
case, he handed it to the inspector, who looked at it and slightly
raised his eyebrows.
“I don’t think my evidence will be of much value,” said he; “but, of
course, I am at your service if you want it.” With this and a bow to
the doctor and the station-master, he climbed down to the ground; and
when I had given the inspector my card, I followed, and we made our
way to the platform.
The case was not long in developing. That very evening, as Thorndyke
and I were smoking our after-dinner pipes by the fire, a hurried step
was heard on the stair and was followed by a peremptory knock on our
door. The visitor was a man of about thirty, with a clean-shaved face,
an intense and rather neurotic expression, and a restless, excited
manner. He introduced himself by the name of Cadmus Bawley, and
thereby, in effect, indicated the purpose of his visit.
“You know me by name, I expect,” he said, speaking rapidly and with a
sharp, emphatic manner, “and probably you can guess what I have come
about. You have seen the evening paper, of course?”
“I have not,” replied Thorndyke.
“Well,” said Mr. Bawley, “you know about the murder of the man
Burnham, because I see that you were present at the discovery; and you
know that part of a circular letter from our League was found in the
compartment. Perhaps you will not be surprised to learn that Miss
Isabel Dalby has been arrested and charged with the murder.”
“Indeed!” said Thorndyke.
“Yes. It’s an infamous affair! A national disgrace!” exclaimed Bawley,
banging the table with his fist. “A manifest plot of the enemies of
social reform to get rid of a high-minded, noble-hearted lady whose
championship of this great Cause they are unable to combat by fair
means in the open. And it is a wild absurdity, too. As to the fellow,
Burnham, I can’t pretend to feel any regret----”
“May I suggest”--Thorndyke interrupted somewhat stiffly--“that the
expression of personal sentiments is neither helpful nor discreet? My
methods of defence--if that is what you have come about--are based on
demonstration rather than rhetoric. Could you give us the plain
facts?”
Mr. Cadmus Bawley looked unmistakably sulky, but after a short pause,
he began his recital in a somewhat lower key.
“The bald facts,” he said, “are these: This afternoon, at half-past
two, Miss Dalby took the train from King’s Cross to Holmwood. This is
the train that stops at Densford Junction and is the one in which
Burnham travelled. She took a first-class ticket and occupied a
compartment for ladies only, of which she was the only occupant. She
got out at Holmwood and went straight to the house of our
Vice-President, Miss Carleigh--who has been confined to her room for
some days--and stayed there about an hour. She came back by the
four-fifteen train, and I met her at the station--King’s Cross--at a
quarter to five. We had tea at a restaurant opposite the station, and
over our tea we discussed the plans for the next demonstration, and
arranged the rendezvous and the most convenient routes for retreat and
dispersal when the police should arrive. This involved the making of
sketch plans, and these Miss Dalby drew on a sheet of paper that she
took from her pocket, and which happened to be part of the circular
letter referring to the raid. After tea we walked together down Gray’s
Inn Road and parted at Theobald’s Road, I going on to the
head-quarters and she to her rooms in Queen Square. On her arrival
home, she found two detectives waiting outside her house, and
then--and then, in short, she was arrested, like a common criminal,
and taken to the police station, where she was searched and the
remainder of the circular letter found in her pocket. Then she was
formally charged with the murder of the man Burnham, and she was
graciously permitted to send a telegram to head-quarters. It arrived
just after I got there, and, of course, I at once went to the police
station. The police refused to accept bail, but they allowed me to see
her to make arrangements for the defence.”
“Does Miss Dalby offer any suggestion,” asked Thorndyke, “as to how a
sheet of her letter came to be in the compartment with the murdered
man?”
“Oh, yes!” replied Mr. Bawley. “I had forgotten that. It wasn’t her
letter at all. She destroyed her copy of the letter as soon as she had
read it.”
“Then,” inquired Thorndyke, “how came the letter to be in her pocket?”
“Ah,” replied Bawley, “that is the mystery. She thinks someone must
have slipped it into her pocket to throw suspicion on her.”
“Did she seem surprised to find it in her pocket when you were having
tea together?”
“No. She had forgotten having destroyed her copy. She only remembered
it when I told her that the sheet had been found in Burnham’s
carriage.”
“Can she produce the fragments of the destroyed letter?”
“No, she can’t. Unfortunately she burned it.”
“Do these circular letters bear any distinguishing mark? Are they
addressed to members by name?”
“Only on the envelopes. The letters are all alike. They are run off a
duplicator. Of course, if you don’t believe the story----”
“I am not judging the case,” interrupted Thorndyke; “I am simply
collecting the facts. What do you want me to do?”
“If you feel that you could undertake the defence, I should like you
to do so. We shall employ the solicitors to the League, Bird &
Marshall, but I know they will be willing and glad to act with you.”
“Very well,” said Thorndyke. “I will investigate the case and consult
with your solicitors. By the way, do the police know about the sheet
of the letter on which the plans were drawn?”
“No. I thought it best to say nothing about that, and I have told Miss
Dalby not to mention it.”
“That is just as well,” said Thorndyke. “Have you the sheet with the
plan on it?”
“I haven’t it about me,” was the reply. “It is in my desk at my
chambers.”
“You had better let me have it to look at,” said Thorndyke.
“You can have it if you want it, of course,” said Bawley, “but it
won’t help you. The letters are all alike, as I have told you.”
“I should like to see it, nevertheless,” said Thorndyke; “and perhaps
you could give me some account of Mr. Burnham. What do you know about
him?”
Mr. Bawley shut his lips tightly, and his face took on an expression
of vindictiveness verging on malignity.
“All I know about Burnham,” he said, “is that he was a fool and a
ruffian. He was not only an enemy of the great reform that our League
stands for; he was a treacherous enemy--violent, crafty, and
indefatigably active. I can only regard his death as a blessing to
mankind.”
“May I ask,” said Thorndyke, “if any members of your League have ever
publicly threatened to take personal measures against him?”
“Yes,” snapped Bawley. “Several of us--including myself--have
threatened to give him the hiding that he deserved. But a hiding is a
different thing from murder, you know.”
“Yes,” Thorndyke agreed somewhat dryly; then he asked: “Do you know
anything about Mr. Burnham’s occupation and habits?”
“He was a sort of manager of the London and Suburban Bank. His job was
to supervise the suburban branches, and his habit was to visit them in
rotation. He was probably going to the branch at Holmwood when he was
killed. That is all I can tell you about him.”
“Thank you,” said Thorndyke; and as our visitor rose to depart he
continued: “Then I will look into the case and arrange with your
solicitors to have Miss Dalby properly represented at the inquest; and
I shall be glad to have that sheet of the letter as soon as you can
send or leave it.”
“Very well,” said Bawley, “though, as I have told you, it won’t be of
any use to you. It is only a duplicated circular.”
“Possibly,” Thorndyke assented. “But the other sheets will be produced