"I am not sure, Jenny," said Mr. Pippet, as he took his seat and pulled the door to, "that your aunt was not right. This is likely to be a rather gruesome business, and the place doesn't seem a very suitable one for young ladies."
Miss Jenny smiled a superior smile as she fished a gold cigarette case out of her hand-bag and proceeded to select a cigarette. "That's all bunk, you know, Dad," said she. "Auntie was just bursting to come herself, but she thought she had to set me an example of self-restraint. As if I wanted her examples. I am out to see all that there is to see. Isn't that what we came to Europe for?"
"I thought we came to settle this peerage business," replied Mr. Pippet.
"That's part of the entertainment," she admitted, "but we may as well take anything else that happens to be going. And here we have struck a first-class mystery. I wouldn't have missed it for anything. Do you think it will be on view?" she added, holding out the cigarette case.
Mr. Pippet humbly picked out a cigarette and looked at her inquiringly. "Do you mean the head?" he asked.
"Yes. That's what I want to see. You've seen it, you know."
"I don't know much about the ways of inquests in England," he replied, "but I don't fancy that the remains are shown to anyone but the jury."
"That's real mean of them," she said. "I was hoping that it would be on view, or that they would bring it in—on a charger, like John the Baptist's."
Mr. Pippet smiled as he lit his cigarette. "The circumstances are not quite the same, my dear," said he; "but, as I am only a witness, you'll see as much as I shall, though, as you say, I have actually seen the thing, or, at least, a part of it; and I have no wish to see any more."
"Still," persisted Jenny, "you can say that you have really and truly seen it."
Mr. Pippet admitted that he enjoyed this inestimable privilege for what it might be worth, and the conversation dropped for the moment. Miss Jenny leaned back reposefully in her corner, taking occasional "pulls" at the cigarette in its dainty amber holder, while her father regarded her with a mixture of parental pride, affection and quiet amusement. And it has to be admitted that Mr. Pippet's sentiments with regard to his daughter were by no means unjustified. Miss Jenifer Pippet—to give her her full and unabridged style and title—was a girl of whom any father might have been proud. If—as Mr. Gimbler had very properly decided—the majestic Arminella "looked the part" of an earl's sister (which is not invariably the case with the genuine possessors of that title), Mistress Jenifer would have sustained the character of the earl's daughter with credit even on the stage, where the demands are a good deal more exacting than in real life. In the typically "patrician" style of features, with the fine Roman nose and the level brows and firm chin, she resembled her redoubtable aunt; but she had the advantage of that lady in the matter of stature, being, like her father, well above the average height. And here it may be noted that, if the daughter reflected credit on the father, the latter was well able to hold his position on his own merits. Christopher J. Pippet was fully worthy of his distinguished womenkind; a fine, upstanding gentleman with an undeniable "presence."
It was probably the possession of these personal advantages that made the way smooth for the two strangers on their arrival at the premises in which the inquest was to be held. At any rate, as soon as Mr. Pippet had made known his connexion with the case, the officiating police officer conducted them to a place in the front row and provided them each with a chair directly facing the table and nearly opposite the coroner's seat. At the moment, this and the jurymen's seats were empty and the large room was filled with the hum of conversation. For the sensational nature of the case had attracted a number of spectators greatly in excess of that usually found at an inquest; so much so that the accommodation was somewhat strained, and our two visitors had reason to congratulate themselves on their privileged position.
A few minutes after their arrival, a general stir among the audience and an increase in the murmur of voices seemed to indicate that something was happening. Then the nature of that something became apparent as the jurymen filed into their places and the coroner took his place at the head of the table. There was a brief interval as the jurymen settled into their places and the coroner arranged some papers before him and inspected his fountain pen. Then he looked up; and as the hum of conversation died away and silence settled down on the room, he began his opening address.
"The circumstances, gentlemen," said he, "which form the subject of this inquiry are very unusual. Ordinarily the occasion of a coroner's inquest is the discovery of the dead body of some person, known or unknown, or the death of some person from causes which have not been ascertained or certified, but whose body is available for examination. In the present case, while there is indisputable evidence of the death of some person, and certain evidence which may enable us to form some opinion as to the probable cause of death, the complete body is not available for expert examination. All that has been discovered, up to the present, is the head; whereas it is probable that the physical evidence as to the exact cause of death is to be found in the missing portion of the remains. I need not to occupy your time with any account of the circumstances, all of which will transpire in the evidence. All that I need say now is that the efforts of the police to discover the identity of deceased have so far proved fruitless. We are accordingly dealing with an entirely unknown individual. The first witness whom I shall call is Thomas Crump."
At the sound of his name, Mr. Crump made his way to the table, piloted thither by the coroner's officer, and took his stand, under the latter's direction, near to the coroner's chair. Having been sworn, he stated that he was an attendant in the cloak room at Fenchurch Street Station.
"Were you on duty in the evening of Saturday the 19th of August?"
"Yes, sir, I was."
"Do you remember receiving a certain wooden case on that evening? A case which there has been some question about since?"
"Yes. It was brought in about nine twenty; just after the nine fifteen from Shoeburyness had come in."
"Was there anything on the case to show where it had come from?"
"No, there were no labels on it excepting one with what I took to be the owner's name and address. I supposed that it had come by the Shoeburyness train, but that was only a guess. If it did, it couldn't have travelled in the luggage van. The guard wouldn't have had it without a label."
"Who brought the case to the cloak room?"
"It was brought in by the gentleman who I took to be the owner. And a rare job he must have had with it, for it weighed close on a hundredweight, as near as I could tell. He staggered in with it, carrying it by a cord that was tied round it."
"Can you give us any description of this man?"
"I didn't notice him very particularly, but I remember that he was rather tall and had a long, thin face and a big, sharp nose. He looked a bit on the thin side, but he must have been pretty strong to judge by the way he handled that case."
"Did you notice how he was dressed?"
"So far as I remember, he had on a dark suit—I fancy it was blue serge but I wouldn't be sure; but I remember that he was wearing a soft felt hat."
"Had he any moustache or was he clean shaved?"
"He had a moustache and a smallish beard, cut to a point; what they call a Torpedo beard. His beard and his hair were both dark."
"About what age would you say he was?"
"He might have been about forty or perhaps a trifle more."
"And with regard to the case, can you give us any description of that?"
“It was a wooden case, about fifteen inches square and perhaps eighteen inches high. It was made of plain deal strongly put together and strengthened at the corners with iron straps. The top was fitted with hinges and held down by eight screws. The wood was a good deal stained and rubbed, as if it had seen a fair amount of use. It had a label fastened on with tacks; just a plain card with the owner's name on it—at least, somebody's name—and an address. The name was Dobson
, but I wouldn't swear to the address."
"Well," the coroner pursued, "you took in the case. What happened next?"
"Nothing on that night. I gave the man his ticket and he took it and said he would probably call for the case on Monday. Then he said 'Good night' and went off."
"When did you see him again?"
"That was on Monday evening, about seven o'clock. It happened to be a slack time and I had more time to attend to him. He came and handed me his ticket and asked for the case. He pointed out one which he thought was his, so I went over to it and looked at the label that had been stuck on it, but it was the wrong number. However, he said that his name was on the case—name of Dobson—and I saw that there was a private label with that name on it, so I said he had better have a look at it and see if it really was his case. So he came into the cloak room and examined the case. And then he got into a rare state of excitement. He said it was certainly his name that was on the case and his address, but the label was not the same one that he wrote. But still he thought that the case was his case.
"Then I asked him if the contents of his case were of any particular value, and he said 'yes.' They were worth several thousand pounds. Now, when he said that, I began to suspect that there was something wrong, so I suggested that we had better open the case and see if his property was inside.
"He jumped at the offer, so I got a screw-driver, and we took out the screws and lifted the lid. And when we lifted it, the first thing that we saw was the top of a man's head, packed in with a lot of rags. When he saw it, he seemed to be struck all of a heap. Then he slammed down the lid and asked me where he could find a policeman. I told him that he would find one outside the station, and off he went as hard as he could go."
Here the coroner held up a restraining hand as he scribbled furiously to keep up with the witness. When he had finished the paragraph, he looked up and nodded.
"Yes; he went out to look for a policeman. What happened next?"
"While we had been looking at the case, there were two gentlemen who had come to collect their luggage and who heard what was going on. When Mr. Dobson—if that was his name—went out, they came over to have a look at the case; and we all waited for Mr. Dobson to come back. But he didn't come back. So, after a time, one of the gentlemen went out and presently came back with a constable. I showed the constable what was in the case, and he then took possession of it."
"Yes," said the coroner, "that is all quite clear, so far. Do you think you would recognize this man, Dobson, if you were to see him again?"
"Yes," replied Crump. "I feel pretty sure I should. He was the sort of man that you would remember. And I did look at him pretty hard."
"Well," said the coroner, "I hope that you will have an opportunity of identifying him. Does any gentleman wish to ask the witness any questions? I think he has told us all that he has to tell. The other witnesses will be able to fill in the details. No questions? Then we will pass on to the next witness. William Harris."
Mr. Harris came forward with rather more diffidence than had been shown by his colleague, which might have been due to his age—he was little more than a youth—or to the story that he had to tell. But, ill at ease as he obviously was, he gave his evidence in a quite clear and straightforward fashion. When he had been sworn and given the usual particulars, he stood, regarding the coroner with a look of consternation, as he waited for the dread interrogation.
"You say," the coroner began impassively, "that you are an attendant in the cloak room at Fenchurch Street Station. How long have you been employed there?"
"Not quite three munce," the witness faltered.
"So you have not had much experience, I suppose?"
"No, sir, not very much."
"Were you on duty on Sunday, the twentieth of August?"
"Yes, sir."
"Who was on duty with you?"
"No one, sir. It was Mr. Crump's Sunday off, and, being a slack day, I took the duty by myself."
"On that day, you received a certain wooden case. Do you remember the circumstances connected with it?"
"Yes, sir. The case was brought in about half-past ten in the morning. The man who brought it said that he would be calling for it about tea-time."
"Did this man bring the case himself?"
"Yes, sir. He carried it by a thick cord that was tied round it, and he brought it right in and put it down not far from another case of the same kind."
"Did you examine these cases or read the labels that were on them?"
"No, sir, I can't say that I did. I just stuck the ticket on the case that the man had brought in, but I didn't examine it. But I remember that there was another case near it that looked like the same sort of case."
"Did this man come back for the case?"
"Yes, sir. He came about four o'clock with another man who looked like a taxi-driver. He handed me the ticket and I went with the two men and found the case. Then the man who had brought it told the other man to take it out and stow it in the taxi. Then he pulled a time-table out of his pocket and asked me to look over it with him and see how the trains ran to Loughton and Epping. So we spread out the time-table on the luggage-counter and went through the list of Sunday trains; and while we were looking at it, the taxi-man took up the case and went out of the station. When we had finished with the time-table and the man had taken one or two notes of the trains, he put the time-table back in his pocket, thanked me for helping him and went away."
"Did it never occur to you to see whether he had taken the right case?"
“No, sir. My back was towards the taxi-man when he picked the case up. I saw him carrying it out towards the entrance, but it looked just like the right case, and it never occurred to me that he might have taken the wrong one. And the one that was left looked like the right one and it was in the right place."
"Yes," said the coroner, "it was very natural. Evidently, the exchange had been carefully planned in advance, and very skilfully planned, too. Now, with regard to these two cases: were you able to form any opinion as to the weight of either or both of them?"
"I never felt either of them," the witness replied; "but the one that the man brought in seemed rather heavy, by the way that he carried it. He had hold of it by the cord that was tied round it. The other one seemed a bit heavy, too. But when I saw the taxi-man going out with it, he had got it on his shoulder and he didn't seem to have any difficulty with it."
"And, with regard to these two men. Can you give us any description of them?"
"I hardly saw the taxi-man, and I don't remember what he was like at all, excepting that he was a big, strong-looking man. The other man was rather small, but he looked pretty strong-built, too. When we were looking at the time-tables, I noticed two things about him. One was that he seemed to have a couple of gold teeth."
"Ah!" said the coroner, "presumably gold-filled teeth. Do you remember which teeth they were?"
"They were the two middle front teeth at the top. He showed them a good deal when he talked."
"Yes; and what was the other thing that you noticed?"
"I noticed, when he put his hand on the time-table, that his fingers were stained all browny yellow, as if he was always smoking cigarettes; and his hand was shaking, even when it was laying on the paper. I didn't notice anything else."
"Can you tell us how he was dressed?"
"He had on an ordinary tweed suit; rather a shabby suit it was. And he was wearing a cloth cap."
"Had he any moustache or beard?"
"No, sir; he was clean shaved—or, at least, not very clean, because he had about a couple of days' growth, and as he was a dark man, it showed pretty plainly."
"How did he strike you as to his station in life? Should you describe him as a gentleman?"
"No, sir, I should not," the witness replied with considerable emphasis. "He struck me as quite a common sort of man, and I got the idea that he might have been a seaman or some kind of waterside character. We see a good many of that sort on our
line, so we get to recognize them."
"What sort of men are you referring to?" the coroner asked with evident interest, "and where do they come from?"
"I mean sailors of all kinds from the London and the India Docks, and fishermen and longshoremen from Leigh and Benfleet and Southend and the sea-side places up that way."
"Yes," said the coroner, "this is quite interesting and may be important. Fenchurch Street has always been a sailors' station. However, that is for the police rather than for us. I think that is all that we want to ask this witness, unless any of the gentlemen of the jury wish to put any questions."
He glanced interrogatively at the jury, but none of them expressed any curiosity. Accordingly, the witness was allowed to retire; which he did with undisguised relief.
The next witness was the constable who had been called in to take charge of the case, and, as his evidence amounted to little more than a statement of that fact, he was soon disposed of and dismissed. Then the coroner pronounced the name of Geoffrey Buffham, and that gentleman rose from the extreme corner of the court and worked his way to the table, casting a leer of recognition on Mr. Pippet as he passed. His evidence, also, was chiefly formal; but, when he had finished his account of his search for the constable, the coroner turned to the subject of identification.
"You saw the man who had come to claim the case. Can you add any particulars to those given by the attendant?"
"I am afraid I can't tell you very much about him. The light was not very good, and, of course, until he had gone, there was nothing to make one take any special notice of him. And then it was too late. All I can say is that he was a tallish man with a rather dark beard and a prominent nose."
The coroner wrote this down without comment, and then, apparently judging Mr. Buffham to be worth no more powder and shot, glanced at the jury for a moment and dismissed him. Then he pronounced the name of Christopher J. Pippet, and the owner of that name rose and stepped over to the place that had been occupied by the other witnesses. The coroner looked up at the tall, dignified figure, apparently contrasting it with its rather scrubby, raffish predecessor; and when the preliminaries had been disposed of, he asked apologetically:
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