Chapter XI
The Blackmore Case Reviewed
One of the conditions of medical practice is the capability oftransferring one's attention at a moment's notice from one set ofcircumstances to another equally important but entirely unrelated. Ateach visit on his round, the practitioner finds himself concerned with aparticular, self-contained group of phenomena which he must consider atthe moment with the utmost concentration, but which he must instantlydismiss from his mind as he moves on to the next case. It is a difficulthabit to acquire; for an important, distressing or obscure case is aptto take possession of the consciousness and hinder the exercise ofattention that succeeding cases demand; but experience shows the facultyto be indispensable, and the practitioner learns in time to forgeteverything but the patient with whose condition he is occupied at themoment.
My first morning's work on the Blackmore case showed me that the samefaculty is demanded in legal practice; and it also showed me that I hadyet to acquire it. For, as I looked over the depositions and the copy ofthe will, memories of the mysterious house in Kennington Lanecontinually intruded into my reflections, and the figure of Mrs.Schallibaum, white-faced, terrified, expectant, haunted me continually.
In truth, my interest in the Blackmore case was little more thanacademic, whereas in the Kennington case I was one of the parties andwas personally concerned. To me, John Blackmore was but a name, Jeffreybut a shadowy figure to which I could assign no definite personality,and Stephen himself but a casual stranger. Mr. Graves, on the otherhand, was a real person. I had seen him amidst the tragic circumstancesthat had probably heralded his death, and had brought away with me, notonly a lively recollection of him, but a feeling of profound pity andconcern as to his fate. The villain Weiss, too, and the terrible womanwho aided, abetted and, perhaps, even directed him, lived in my memoryas vivid and dreadful realities. Although I had uttered no hint toThorndyke, I lamented inwardly that I had not been given some work--ifthere was any to do--connected with this case, in which I was so deeplyinterested, rather than with the dry, purely legal and utterlybewildering case of Jeffrey Blackmore's will.
Nevertheless, I stuck loyally to my task. I read through the depositionsand the will--without getting a single glimmer of fresh light on thecase--and I made a careful digest of all the facts. I compared mydigest with Thorndyke's notes--of which I also made a copy--and foundthat, brief as they were, they contained several matters that I hadoverlooked. I also drew up a brief account of our visit to New Inn, witha list of the objects that we had observed or collected. And then Iaddressed myself to the second part of my task, the statement of myconclusions from the facts set forth.
It was only when I came to make the attempt that I realized howcompletely I was at sea. In spite of Thorndyke's recommendation to studyMarchmont's statement as it was summarized in those notes which I hadcopied, and of his hint that I should find in that statement somethinghighly significant, I was borne irresistibly to one conclusion, and oneonly--and the wrong one at that, as I suspected: that JeffreyBlackmore's will was a perfectly regular, sound and valid document.
I tried to attack the validity of the will from various directions, andfailed every time. As to its genuineness, that was obviously not inquestion. There seemed to me only two conceivable respects in which anyobjection could be raised, viz. the competency of Jeffrey to execute awill and the possibility of undue influence having been brought to bearon him.
With reference to the first, there was the undoubted fact that Jeffreywas addicted to the opium habit, and this might, under somecircumstances, interfere with a testator's competency to make a will.But had any such circumstances existed in this case? Had the drug habitproduced such mental changes in the deceased as would destroy or weakenhis judgment? There was not a particle of evidence in favour of any suchbelief. Up to the very end he had managed his own affairs, and, if hishabits of life had undergone a change, they were still the habits of aperfectly sane and responsible man.
The question of undue influence was more difficult. If it applied to anyperson in particular, that person could be none other than JohnBlackmore. Now it was an undoubted fact that, of all Jeffrey'sacquaintance, his brother John was the only one who knew that he was inresidence at New Inn. Moreover John had visited him there more thanonce. It was therefore possible that influence might have been broughtto bear on the deceased. But there was no evidence that it had. The factthat the deceased man's only brother should be the one person who knewwhere he was living was not a remarkable one, and it had beensatisfactorily explained by the necessity of Jeffrey's finding areference on applying for the chambers. And against the theory of undueinfluence was the fact that the testator had voluntarily brought hiswill to the lodge and executed it in the presence of entirelydisinterested witnesses.
In the end I had to give up the problem in despair, and, abandoning thedocuments, turned my attention to the facts elicited by our visit to NewInn.
What had we learned from our exploration? It was clear that Thorndykehad picked up some facts that had appeared to him important. Butimportant in what respect? The only possible issue that could be raisedwas the validity or otherwise of Jeffrey Blackmore's will; and since thevalidity of that will was supported by positive evidence of the mostincontestable kind, it seemed that nothing that we had observed couldhave any real bearing on the case at all.
But this, of course, could not be. Thorndyke was no dreamer nor was headdicted to wild speculation. If the facts observed by us seemed to himto be relevant to the case, I was prepared to assume that they wererelevant, although I could not see their connection with it. And, onthis assumption, I proceeded to examine them afresh.
Now, whatever Thorndyke might have observed on his own account, I hadbrought away from the dead man's chambers only a single fact; and a veryextraordinary fact it was. The cuneiform inscription was upside down.That was the sum of the evidence that I had collected; and the questionwas, What did it prove? To Thorndyke it conveyed some deep significance.What could that significance be?
The inverted position was not a mere temporary accident, as it mighthave been if the frame had been stood on a shelf or support. It was hungon the wall, and the plates screwed on the frame showed that itsposition was permanent and that it had never hung in any other. That itcould have been hung up by Jeffrey himself was clearly inconceivable.But allowing that it had been fixed in its present position by someworkman when the new tenant moved in, the fact remained that there ithad hung, presumably for months, and that Jeffrey Blackmore, with hisexpert knowledge of the cuneiform character, had never noticed that itwas upside down; or, if he had noticed it, that he had never taken thetrouble to have it altered.
What could this mean? If he had noticed the error but had not troubledto correct it, that would point to a very singular state of mind, aninertness and indifference remarkable even in an opium-smoker. Butassuming such a state of mind, I could not see that it had any bearingon the will, excepting that it was rather inconsistent with the tendencyto make fussy and needless alterations which the testator had actuallyshown. On the other hand, if he had not noticed the inverted position ofthe photograph he must have been nearly blind or quite idiotic; for thephotograph was over two feet long and the characters large enough to beread easily by a person of ordinary eyesight at a distance of forty orfifty feet. Now he obviously was not in a state of dementia, whereas hiseyesight was admittedly bad; and it seemed to me that the onlyconclusion deducible from the photograph was that it furnished a measureof the badness of the deceased man's vision--that it proved him to havebeen verging on total blindness.
But there was nothing startling new in this. He had, himself, declaredthat he was fast losing his sight. And again, what was the bearing ofhis partial blindness on the will? A totally blind man cannot draw uphis will at all. But if he has eyesight sufficient to enable him towrite out and sign a will, mere defective vision will not lead him tomuddle the provisions. Yet something of this kind seemed to be inThorndyke's mind, for now I recalle
d the question that he had put to theporter: "When you read the will over in Mr. Blackmore's presence, didyou read it aloud?" That question could have but one significance. Itimplied a doubt as to whether the testator was fully aware of the exactnature of the document that he was signing. Yet, if he was able to writeand sign it, surely he was able also to read it through, to say nothingof the fact that, unless he was demented, he must have remembered whathe had written.
Thus, once more, my reasoning only led me into a blind alley at the endof which was the will, regular and valid and fulfilling all therequirements that the law imposed. Once again I had to confess myselfbeaten and in full agreement with Mr. Marchmont that "there was nocase"; that "there was nothing in dispute." Nevertheless, I carefullyfixed in the pocket file that Thorndyke had given me the copy that I hadmade of his notes, together with the notes on our visit to New Inn, andthe few and unsatisfactory conclusions at which I had arrived; and thisbrought me to the end of my first morning in my new capacity.
"And how," Thorndyke asked as we sat at lunch, "has my learned friendprogressed? Does he propose that we advise Mr. Marchmont to enter acaveat?"
"I've read all the documents and boiled all the evidence down to a stiffjelly; and I am in a worse fog than ever."
"There seems to be a slight mixture of metaphors in my learned friend'sremarks. But never mind the fog, Jervis. There is a certain virtue infog. It serves, like a picture frame, to surround the essential with aneutral zone that separates it from the irrelevant."
"That is a very profound observation, Thorndyke," I remarked ironically.
"I was just thinking so myself," he rejoined.
"And if you could contrive to explain what it means--"
"Oh, but that is unreasonable. When one throws off a subtly philosophicobiter dictum one looks to the discerning critic to supply the meaning.By the way, I am going to introduce you to the gentle art of photographythis afternoon. I am getting the loan of all the cheques that were drawnby Jeffrey Blackmore during his residence at New Inn--there are onlytwenty-three of them, all told--and I am going to photograph them."
"I shouldn't have thought the bank people would have let them go out oftheir possession."
"They are not going to. One of the partners, a Mr. Britton, is bringingthem here himself and will be present while the photographs are beingtaken; so they will not go out of his custody. But, all the same, it isa great concession, and I should not have obtained it but for the factthat I have done a good deal of work for the bank and that Mr. Brittonis more or less a personal friend."
"By the way, how comes it that the cheques are at the bank? Why werethey not returned to Jeffrey with the pass-book in the usual way?"
"I understand from Britton," replied Thorndyke, "that all Jeffrey'scheques were retained by the bank at his request. When he was travellinghe used to leave his investment securities and other valuable documentsin his bankers' custody, and, as he has never applied to have themreturned, the bankers still have them and are retaining them until thewill is proved, when they will, of course, hand over everything to theexecutors."
"What is the object of photographing these cheques?" I asked.
"There are several objects. First, since a good photograph ispractically as good as the original, when we have the photographs wepractically have the cheques for reference. Then, since a photograph canbe duplicated indefinitely, it is possible to perform experiments on itwhich involve its destruction; which would, of course, be impossible inthe case of original cheques."
"But the ultimate object, I mean. What are you going to prove?"
"You are incorrigible, Jervis," he exclaimed. "How should I know what Iam going to prove? This is an investigation. If I knew the resultbeforehand, I shouldn't want to perform the experiment."
He looked at his watch, and, as we rose from the table, he said:
"If we have finished, we had better go up to the laboratory and see thatthe apparatus is ready. Mr. Britton is a busy man, and, as he is doingus a great service, we mustn't keep him waiting when he comes."
We ascended to the laboratory, where Polton was already busy inspectingthe massively built copying camera which--with the long, steel guides onwhich the easel or copy-holder travelled--took up the whole length ofthe room on the side opposite to that occupied by the chemical bench. AsI was to be inducted into the photographic art, I looked at it with moreattention than I had ever done before.
"We've made some improvements since you were here last, sir," saidPolton, who was delicately lubricating the steel guides. "We've fittedthese steel runners instead of the blackleaded wooden ones that we usedto have. And we've made two scales instead of one. Hallo! That's thedownstairs bell. Shall I go sir?"
"Perhaps you'd better," said Thorndyke. "It may not be Mr. Britton, andI don't want to be caught and delayed just now."
However, it was Mr. Britton; a breezy alert-looking middle-aged man, whocame in escorted by Polton and shook our hands cordially, having beenpreviously warned of my presence. He carried a small but solid hand-bag,to which he clung tenaciously up to the very moment when its contentswere required for use.
"So that is the camera," said he, running an inquisitive eye over theinstrument. "Very fine one, too; I am a bit of a photographer myself.What is that graduation on the side-bar?"
"Those are the scales," replied Thorndyke, "that shows the degree ofmagnification or reduction. The pointer is fixed to the easel andtravels with it, of course, showing the exact size of the photograph.When the pointer is opposite 0 the photograph will be identical in sizewith the object photographed; when it points to, say, x 6, thephotograph will be six times as long as the object, or magnifiedthirty-six times superficially, whereas if the pointer is at / 6, thephotograph will be a sixth of the length of the object, or onethirty-sixth superficial."
"Why are there two scales?" Mr. Britton asked.
"There is a separate scale for each of the two lenses that weprincipally use. For great magnification or reduction a lens ofcomparatively short focus must be used, but, as a long-focus lens givesa more perfect image, we use one of very long focus--thirty-sixinches--for copying the same size or for slight magnification orreduction."
"Are you going to magnify these cheques?" Mr. Britton asked.
"Not in the first place," replied Thorndyke. "For convenience and speedI am going to photograph them half-size, so that six cheques will go onone whole plate. Afterwards we can enlarge from the negatives as much aswe like. But we should probably enlarge only the signatures in anycase."
The precious bag was now opened and the twenty-three cheques brought outand laid on the bench in a consecutive series in the order of theirdates. They were then fixed by tapes--to avoid making pin-holes inthem--in batches of six to small drawing boards, each batch being soarranged that the signatures were towards the middle. The first boardwas clamped to the easel, the latter was slid along its guides untilthe pointer stood at / 2 on the long-focus scale and Thorndyke proceededto focus the camera with the aid of a little microscope that Polton hadmade for the purpose. When Mr. Britton and I had inspected theexquisitely sharp image on the focusing-screen through the microscope,Polton introduced the plate and made the first exposure, carrying thedark-slide off to develop the plate while the next batch of cheques wasbeing fixed in position.
In his photographic technique, as in everything else, Polton followed asclosely as he could the methods of his principal and instructor; methodscharacterized by that unhurried precision that leads to perfectaccomplishment. When the first negative was brought forth, dripping,from the dark-room, it was without spot or stain, scratch or pin-hole;uniform in colour and of exactly the required density. The six chequesshown on it--ridiculously small in appearance, though only reduced tohalf-length--looked as clear and sharp as fine etchings; though, to besure, my opportunity for examining them was rather limited, for Poltonwas uncommonly careful to keep the wet plate out of reach and so safefrom injury.
"Well," said Mr. Britton, when, at the end of th
e seance, he returnedhis treasures to the bag, "you have now got twenty-three of our cheques,to all intents and purposes. I hope you are not going to make anyunlawful use of them--must tell our cashiers to keep a bright look-out;and"--here he lowered his voice impressively and addressed himself tome and Polton--"you understand that this is a private matter between Dr.Thorndyke and me. Of course, as Mr. Blackmore is dead, there is noreason why his cheques should not be photographed for legal purposes;but we don't want it talked about; nor, I think, does Dr. Thorndyke."
"Certainly not," Thorndyke agreed emphatically; "but you need not beuneasy, Mr. Britton. We are very uncommunicative people in thisestablishment."
As my colleague and I escorted our visitor down the stairs, he returnedto the subject of the cheques.
"I don't understand what you want them for," he remarked. "There is noquestion turning on signatures in the case of Blackmore deceased, isthere?"
"I should say not," Thorndyke replied rather evasively.
"I should say very decidedly not," said Mr. Britton, "if I understoodMarchmont aright. And, even if there were, let me tell you, thesesignatures that you have got wouldn't help you. I have looked them oververy closely--and I have seen a few signatures in my time, you know.Marchmont asked me to glance over them as a matter of form, but I don'tbelieve in matters of form; I examined them very carefully. There is anappreciable amount of variation; a very appreciable amount. But underthe variation one can trace the personal character (which is whatmatters); the subtle, indescribable quality that makes it recognizableto the expert eye as Jeffrey Blackmore's writing. You understand me.There is such a quality, which remains when the coarser characteristicsvary; just as a man may grow old, or fat, or bald, or may take to drink,and become quite changed; and yet, through it all, he preserves acertain something which makes him recognizable as a member of aparticular family. Well, I find that quality in all those signatures,and so will you, if you have had enough experience of handwriting. Ithought it best to mention it in case you might be giving yourselfunnecessary trouble."
"It is very good of you," said Thorndyke, "and I need not say that theinformation is of great value, coming from such a highly expert source.As a matter of fact, your hint will be of great value to me."
He shook hands with Mr. Britton, and, as the latter disappeared down thestairs, he turned into the sitting-room and remarked:
"There is a very weighty and significant observation, Jervis. I adviseyou to consider it attentively in all its bearings."
"You mean the fact that these signatures are undoubtedly genuine?"
"I meant, rather, the very interesting general truth that is containedin Britton's statement; that physiognomy is not a mere matter of facialcharacter. A man carries his personal trademark, not in his face only,but in his nervous system and muscles--giving rise to characteristicmovements and gait; in his larynx--producing an individual voice; andeven in his mouth, as shown by individual peculiarities of speech andaccent. And the individual nervous system, by means of thesecharacteristic movements, transfers its peculiarities to inanimateobjects that are the products of such movements; as we see in pictures,in carving, in musical execution and in handwriting. No one has everpainted quite like Reynolds or Romney; no one has ever played exactlylike Liszt or Paganini; the pictures or the sounds produced by them,were, so to speak, an extension of the physiognomy of the artist. And sowith handwriting. A particular specimen is the product of a particularset of motor centres in an individual brain."
"These are very interesting considerations, Thorndyke," I remarked; "butI don't quite see their present application. Do you mean them to bear inany special way on the Blackmore case?"
"I think they do bear on it very directly. I thought so while Mr.Britton was making his very illuminating remarks."
"I don't see how. In fact I cannot see why you are going into thequestion of the signatures at all. The signature on the will isadmittedly genuine, and that seems to me to dispose of the wholeaffair."
"My dear Jervis," said he, "you and Marchmont are allowing yourselves tobe obsessed by a particular fact--a very striking and weighty fact, Iwill admit, but still, only an isolated fact. Jeffrey Blackmore executedhis will in a regular manner, complying with all the necessaryformalities and conditions. In the face of that single circumstance youand Marchmont would 'chuck up the sponge,' as the old pugilistsexpressed it. Now that is a great mistake. You should never allowyourself to be bullied and browbeaten by a single fact."
"But, my dear Thorndyke!" I protested, "this fact seems to be final. Itcovers all possibilities---unless you can suggest any other that wouldcancel it."
"I could suggest a dozen," he replied. "Let us take an instance.Supposing Jeffrey executed this will for a wager; that he immediatelyrevoked it and made a fresh will, that he placed the latter in thecustody of some person and that that person has suppressed it."
"Surely you do not make this suggestion seriously!" I exclaimed.
"Certainly I do not," he replied with a smile. "I merely give it as aninstance to show that your final and absolute fact is really onlyconditional on there being no other fact that cancels it."
"Do you think he might have made a third will?"
"It is obviously possible. A man who makes two wills may make three ormore; but I may say that I see no present reason for assuming theexistence of another will. What I want to impress on you is thenecessity of considering all the facts instead of bumping heavilyagainst the most conspicuous one and forgetting all the rest. By theway, here is a little problem for you. What was the object of whichthese are the parts?"
He pushed across the table a little cardboard box, having first removedthe lid. In it were a number of very small pieces of broken glass, someof which had been cemented together by their edges.
"These, I suppose," said I, looking with considerable curiosity at thelittle collection, "are the pieces of glass that we picked up in poorBlackmore's bedroom?"
"Yes. You see that Polton has been endeavouring to reconstitute theobject, whatever it was; but he has not been very successful, for thefragments were too small and irregular and the collection tooincomplete. However, here is a specimen, built up of six small pieces,which exhibits the general character of the object fairly well."
He picked out the little irregularly shaped object and handed it to me;and I could not but admire the neatness with which Polton had joined thetiny fragments together.
I took the little "restoration," and, holding it up before my eyes,moved it to and fro as I looked through it at the window.
"It was not a lens," I pronounced eventually.
"No," Thorndyke agreed, "it was not a lens."
"And so cannot have been a spectacle-glass. But the surface wascurved--one side convex and the other concave--and the little piece thatremains of the original edge seems to have been ground to fit a bezel orframe. I should say that these are portions of a watch-glass."
"That is Polton's opinion," said Thorndyke, "and I think you are bothwrong."
"What do you say to the glass of a miniature or locket?"
"That is rather more probable, but it is not my view."
"What do you think it is?" I asked. But Thorndyke was not to be drawn.
"I am submitting the problem for solution by my learned friend," hereplied with an exasperating smile, and then added: "I don't say thatyou and Polton are wrong; only that I don't agree with you. Perhaps youhad better make a note of the properties of this object, and consider itat your leisure when you are ruminating on the other data referring tothe Blackmore case."
"My ruminations," I said, "always lead me back to the same point."
"But you mustn't let them," he replied. "Shuffle your data about. Inventhypotheses. Never mind if they seem rather wild. Don't put them aside onthat account. Take the first hypothesis that you can invent and test itthoroughly with your facts. You will probably have to reject it, but youwill be certain to have learned something new. Then try again with afresh one. You remember what I t
old you of my methods when I began thisbranch of practice and had plenty of time on my hands?"
"I am not sure that I do."
"Well, I used to occupy my leisure in constructing imaginary cases,mostly criminal, for the purpose of study and for the acquirement ofexperience. For instance, I would devise an ingenious fraud and wouldplan it in detail, taking every precaution that I could think of againstfailure or detection, considering, and elaborately providing for, everyimaginable contingency. For the time being, my entire attention wasconcentrated on it, making it as perfect and secure and undetectable asI could with the knowledge and ingenuity at my command. I behavedexactly as if I were proposing actually to carry it out, and my life orliberty depended on its success--excepting that I made full notes ofevery detail of the scheme. Then when my plans were as complete as Icould make them, and I could think of no way in which to improve them, Ichanged sides and considered the case from the standpoint of detection.I analysed the case, I picked out its inherent and unavoidableweaknesses, and, especially, I noted the respects in which a fraudulentproceeding of a particular kind differed from the bona fide proceedingthat it simulated. The exercise was invaluable to me. I acquired as muchexperience from those imaginary cases as I should from real ones, and inaddition, I learned a method which is the one that I practise to thisday."
"Do you mean that you still invent imaginary cases as mental exercises?"
"No; I mean that, when I have a problem of any intricacy, I invent acase which fits the facts and the assumed motives of one of the parties.Then I work at that case until I find whether it leads to elucidation orto some fundamental disagreement. In the latter case I reject it andbegin the process over again."
"Doesn't that method sometimes involve a good deal of wasted time andenergy?" I asked.
"No; because each time that you fail to establish a given case, youexclude a particular explanation of the facts and narrow down the fieldof inquiry. By repeating the process, you are bound, in the end, toarrive at an imaginary case which fits all the facts. Then yourimaginary case is the real case and the problem is solved. Let merecommend you to give the method a trial."
I promised to do so, though with no very lively expectations as to theresult, and with this, the subject was allowed, for the present, todrop.
The Mystery of 31 New Inn Page 11
