The Vanishing Man

by R. Austin Freeman

  CHAPTER IX

  THE SPHINX OF LINCOLN'S INN

  At the age of twenty-six one cannot claim to have attained to theposition of a person of experience. Nevertheless, the knowledge of humannature accumulated in that brief period sufficed to make me feel prettyconfident that, at some time during the evening, I should receive avisit from Miss Oman. And circumstances justified my confidence; for theclock yet stood at two minutes to seven when a premonitory tap at thesurgery door heralded her arrival.

  "I happened to be passing," she explained, and I forbore to smile at thecoincidence, "so I thought I might as well drop in and hear what youwanted to ask me about."

  She seated herself in the patients' chair and, laying a bundle ofnewspapers on the table, glared at me expectantly.

  "Thank you, Miss Oman," I said. "It is very good of you to look in onme. I am ashamed to give you all this trouble about such a triflingmatter."

  She rapped her knuckles impatiently on the table.

  "Never mind about the trouble," she exclaimed tartly."What--is--it--that--you--want--to--_ask_--me about?"

  I stated my difficulties in respect of the supper-party, and, as Iproceeded, an expression of disgust and disappointment spread over hercountenance. "I don't see why you need have been so mysterious aboutit," she said glumly.

  "I didn't mean to be mysterious; I was only anxious not to make a messof the affair. It's all very fine to assume a lofty scorn of thepleasures of the table, but there is great virtue in a really good feed,especially when low-living and high-thinking have been the order of theday."

  "Coarsely put," said Miss Oman, "but perfectly true."

  "Very well. Now, if I leave the management to Mrs. Gummer, she willprobably provide a tepid Irish stew with flakes of congealed fat on it,and a plastic suet-pudding or something of that kind, and turn the houseupside-down in getting it ready. So I thought of having a cold spreadand getting the things in from outside. But I don't want it to look asif I had been making enormous preparations."

  "They won't think the things came down from heaven," said Miss Oman.

  "No, I suppose they won't. But you know what I mean. Now, where do youadvise me to go for the raw materials of conviviality?"

  Miss Oman reflected. "You'd better let me do your shopping and managethe whole business," was her final verdict.

  This was precisely what I had wanted, and I accepted thankfully,regardless of the feelings of Mrs. Gummer. I handed her two pounds, and,after some protests at my extravagance, she bestowed them in her purse;a process that occupied time, since that receptacle, besides andtime-stained bills, already bulged with a lading of draper's samples,ends of tape, a card of linen buttons, another of hooks and eyes, a lumpof beeswax, a rat-eaten stump of lead-pencil, and other trifles that Ihave forgotten. As she closed the purse at the imminent risk ofwrenching off its fastenings she looked at me severely and pursed up herlips.

  "You're a very plausible young man," she remarked.

  "What makes you say that?" I asked.

  "Philandering about museums," she continued, "with handsome young ladieson the pretence of work. Work, indeed! Oh, I heard her telling herfather about it. She thinks you were perfectly enthralled by the mummiesand dried cats and chunks of stone and all the other trash. She doesn'tknow what humbugs men are."

  "Really, Miss Oman--" I began.

  "Oh, don't talk to me!" she snapped. "I can see it all. You can't imposeon _me_. I can see you staring into those glass cases, egging her on totalk and listening open-mouthed and bulging-eyed and sitting at herfeet--now, didn't you?"

  "I don't know about sitting at her feet," I said, "though it mighteasily have come to that with those infernal slippery floors; but I hada very jolly time, and I mean to go again if I can. Miss Bellingham isthe cleverest and most accomplished woman I have ever spoken to."

  This was a poser for Miss Oman, whose admiration and loyalty, I knew,were only equalled by my own. She would have liked to contradict me, butthe thing was impossible. To cover her defeat she snatched up the bundleof newspapers and began to open them out.

  "What sort of stuff is 'hibernation'?" she demanded suddenly.

  "Hibernation!" I exclaimed.

  "Yes. They found a patch of it on a bone that was discovered in a pondat St. Mary Cray, and a similar patch on one that was found at someplace in Essex. Now, I want to know what 'hibernation' is."

  "You must mean 'eburnation,'" I said, after a moment's reflection.

  "The newspapers say 'hibernation,' and I suppose they know what they aretalking about. If you don't know what it is, don't be ashamed to sayso."

  "Well, then, I don't."

  "In that case you'd better read the papers and find out," she said, alittle illogically. And then: "Are you fond of murders? I am, awfully."

  "What a shocking little ghoul you must be!" I exclaimed.

  She stuck out her chin at me. "I'll trouble you," she said, "to be alittle more respectful in your language. Do you realise that I am oldenough to be your mother?"

  "Impossible!" I ejaculated.

  "Fact," said Miss Oman.

  "Well, anyhow," said I, "age is not the only qualification. And,besides, you are too late for the billet. The vacancy's filled."

  Miss Oman slapped the papers down on the table and rose abruptly.

  "You had better read the papers and see if you can learn a littlesense," she said severely as she turned to go. "Oh, and don't forget thefinger!" she added eagerly. "That is really thrilling."

  "The finger?" I repeated.

  "Yes. They found a hand with one finger missing. The police think it isa highly important clue. I don't know quite what they mean; but you readthe account and tell me what you think."

  With this parting injunction she bustled out through the surgery, and Ifollowed to bid her a ceremonious adieu on the doorstep. I watched herlittle figure tripping with quick, bird-like steps down Fetter Lane, andwas about to turn back into the surgery when my attention was attractedby the evolutions of an elderly gentleman on the opposite side of thestreet. He was a somewhat peculiar-looking man, tall, gaunt, and bony,and the way in which he carried his head suggested to the medical mind apronounced degree of near sight and a pair of "deep" spectacle glasses.Suddenly he espied me and crossed the road with his chin thrust forwardand a pair of keen blue eyes directed at me through the centres of hisspectacles.

  "I wonder if you can and will help me," said he, with a courteoussalute. "I wish to call on an acquaintance, and I have forgotten hisaddress. It is in some court, but the name of that court has escaped mefor the moment. My friend's name is Bellingham. I suppose you don'tchance to know it? Doctors know a great many people, as a rule."

  "Do you mean Mr. Godfrey Bellingham?"

  "Ah! Then you do know him. I have not consulted the oracle in vain. Heis a patient of yours, no doubt?"

  "A patient and a personal friend. His address is Forty-nine Nevill'sCourt."

  "Thank you, thank you. Oh, and as you are a friend, perhaps you caninform me as to the customs of the household. I am not expected, and Ido not wish to make an untimely visit. What are Mr. Bellingham's habitsas to his evening meal? Would this be a convenient time to call?"

  "I generally make my evening visits a little later than this--say abouthalf-past eight; they have finished their meal by then."

  "Ah! half-past eight, then? Then I suppose I had better take a walkuntil that time. I don't want to disturb them."

  "Would you care to come in and smoke a cigar until it is time to makeyour call? If you would, I could walk over with you and show you thehouse."

  "That is very kind of you," said my new acquaintance, with aninquisitive glance at me through his spectacles. "I think I should liketo sit down. It's a dull affair, mooning about the streets, and thereisn't time to go back to my chambers--in Lincoln's Inn."

  "I wonder," said I, as I ushered him into the room lately vacated byMiss Oman, "if you happen to be Mr. Jellicoe?"

  He turned his spectacles full on me wi
th a keen, suspicious glance."What makes you think I am Mr. Jellicoe?" he asked.

  "Oh, only that you live in Lincoln's Inn."

  "Ha! I see. I live in Lincoln's Inn; Mr. Jellicoe lives in Lincoln'sInn; therefore I am Mr. Jellicoe. Ha! ha! Bad logic, but a correctconclusion. Yes, I am Mr. Jellicoe. What do you know about me?"

  "Mighty little, excepting that you were the late John Bellingham's manof business."

  "The '_late_ John Bellingham,' hey! How do you know he is the late JohnBellingham?"

  "As a matter of fact, I don't; only I rather understood that that wasyour own belief."

  "You understood! Now, from whom did you 'understand' that? From GodfreyBellingham? H'm! And how did he know what I believe? I never told him.It is a very unsafe thing, my dear sir, to expound another man'sbeliefs."

  "Then you think that John Bellingham is alive?"

  "Do I? Who said so? I did not, you know."

  "But he must be either dead or alive."

  "There," said Mr. Jellicoe, "I am entirely with you. You have stated anundeniable truth."

  "It is not a very illuminating one, however," I replied, laughing.

  "Undeniable truths often are not," he retorted. "They are apt to beextremely general. In fact, I would affirm that the certainty of thetruth of a given proposition is directly proportional to itsgenerality."

  "I suppose that is so," said I.

  "Undoubtedly. Take an instance from your own profession. Given a millionnormal human beings under twenty, and you can say with certainty that amajority of them will die before reaching a certain age, that they willdie in certain circumstances and of certain diseases. Then take a singleunit from that million, and what can you predict concerning him?Nothing. He may die to-morrow; he may live to a couple of hundred. Hemay die of a cold in the head or a cut finger, or from falling off thecross of St. Paul's. In a particular case you can predict nothing."

  "That is perfectly true," said I. And then, realising that I had beenled away from the topic of John Bellingham, I ventured to return to it.

  "That was a very mysterious affair--the disappearance of JohnBellingham, I mean."

  "Why mysterious?" asked Mr. Jellicoe. "Men disappear from time to time,and when they reappear, the explanations that they give (when they giveany) seem to be more or less adequate."

  "But the circumstances were surely rather mysterious."

  "What circumstances?" asked Mr. Jellicoe.

  "I mean the way in which he vanished from Mr. Hurst's house."

  "In what way did he vanish from it?"

  "Well, of course, I don't know."

  "Precisely. Neither do I. Therefore I can't say whether that way was amysterious one or not."

  "It is not even certain that he did leave it," I remarked, ratherrecklessly.

  "Exactly," said Mr. Jellicoe. "And if he did not, he is there still. Andif he is there still, he has not disappeared--in the sense understood.And if he has not disappeared, there is no mystery."

  I laughed heartily, but Mr. Jellicoe preserved a wooden solemnity andcontinued to examine me through his spectacles (which I, in my turn,inspected and estimated at about minus five dioptres). There wassomething highly diverting about this grim lawyer, with his drycontentiousness and almost farcical caution. His ostentatious reserveencouraged me to ply him with fresh questions, the more indiscreet thebetter.

  "I suppose," said I, "that, under these circumstances, you would hardlyfavour Mr. Hurst's proposal to apply for permission to presume death?"

  "Under what circumstances?" he inquired.

  "I was referring to the doubt you have expressed as to whether JohnBellingham is, after all, really dead."

  "My dear sir," said he, "I fail to see your point. If it were certainthat the man was alive, it would be impossible to presume that he wasdead; and if it were certain that he was dead, presumption of deathwould still be impossible. You do not presume a certainty. Theuncertainty is of the essence of the transaction."

  "But," I persisted, "if you really believe that he may be alive, Ishould hardly have thought that you would take the responsibility ofpresuming his death and dispersing his property."

  "I don't," said Mr. Jellicoe. "I take no responsibility. I act inaccordance with the decision of the Court and have no choice in thematter."

  "But the Court may decide that he is dead and he may nevertheless bealive."

  "Not at all. If the Court decides that he is presumably dead, then he ispresumably dead. As a mere irrelevant, physical circumstance he may, itis true, be alive. But legally speaking, and for testamentary purposes,he is dead. You fail to perceive the distinction, no doubt?"

  "I am afraid I do," I admitted.

  "Yes; members of your profession usually do. That is what makes themsuch bad witnesses in a court of law. The scientific outlook isradically different from the legal. The man of science relies on his ownknowledge and observation and judgment, and disregards testimony. A mancomes to you and tells you he is blind in one eye. Do you accept hisstatement? Not in the least. You proceed to test his eyesight with someinfernal apparatus of coloured glasses, and you find that he can seeperfectly well with both eyes. Then you decide that he is not blind inone eye; that is to say, you reject his testimony in favour of facts ofyour own ascertaining."

  "But surely that is the rational method of coming to a conclusion?"

  "In science, no doubt. Not in law. A court of law must decide accordingto the evidence which is before it; and that evidence is of the natureof sworn testimony. If a witness is prepared to swear that black iswhite, and no evidence to the contrary is offered, the evidence beforethe Court is that black is white, and the Court must decide accordingly.The judge and the jury may think otherwise--they may even have privateknowledge to the contrary--but they have to decide according to theevidence."

  "Do you mean to say that a judge would be justified in giving a decisionwhich he knew privately to be contrary to the facts? Or that he mightsentence a man whom he knew to be innocent?"

  "Certainly. It has been done. There is a case of a judge who sentenced aman to death and allowed the execution to take place, notwithstandingthat he--the judge--had actually seen the murder committed by anotherman. But that was carrying correctness of procedure to the verge ofpedantry."

  "It was, with a vengeance," I agreed. "But to return to the case of JohnBellingham. Supposing that after the Court has decided that he is deadhe should turn up alive? What then?"

  "Ah! It would then be his turn to make an application, and the Court,having fresh evidence laid before it, would probably decide that he wasalive."

  "And meantime his property would have been dispersed?"

  "Probably. But you will observe that the presumption of death would havearisen out of his own proceedings. If a man acts in such a way as tocreate a belief that he is dead, he must put up with the consequences."

  "Yes, that is reasonable enough," said I. And then, after a pause, Iasked: "Is there any immediate likelihood of proceedings of the kindbeing commenced?"

  "I understood from what you said just now that Mr. Hurst wascontemplating some action of the kind. No doubt you had your informationfrom a reliable quarter." This answer Mr. Jellicoe delivered withoutmoving a muscle, regarding me with the fixity of a spectacledfigure-head.

  I smiled feebly. The operation of pumping Mr. Jellicoe was rather likethe sport of boxing with a porcupine, being chiefly remarkable as ademonstration of the power of passive resistance. I determined, however,to make one more effort, rather, I think, for the pleasure of witnessinghis defensive manoeuvres than with the expectation of getting anythingout of him. I accordingly "opened out" on the subject of the "remains."

  "Have you been following these remarkable discoveries of human bonesthat have been appearing in the papers?" I asked.

  He looked at me stonily for some moments, and then replied:

  "Human bones are rather more within your province than mine, but, nowthat you mention it, I think I recall having read of some suchdiscover
ies. They were disconnected bones, I believe?"

  "Yes; evidently parts of a dismembered body."

  "So I should suppose. No, I have not followed the accounts. As we get onin life our interests tend to settle into grooves, and my groove ischiefly connected with conveyancing. These discoveries would be of moreinterest to a criminal lawyer."

  "I thought that you might, perhaps, have connected them with thedisappearance of your client."

  "Why should I? What could be the nature of the connection?"

  "Well," I said, "these are the bones of a man--"

  "Yes; and my client was a man with bones. That is a connection,certainly, though not a very specific or distinctive one. But perhapsyou had something more particular in your mind."

  "I had," I replied. "The fact that some of the bones were actually foundon land belonging to your client seemed to me rather significant."

  "Did it, indeed?" said Mr. Jellicoe. He reflected for a few moments,gazing steadily at me the while, and then continued: "In that I amunable to follow you. It would have seemed to me that the finding ofhuman remains upon a certain piece of land might conceivably throw a_prima facie_ suspicion upon the owner or occupant of that land as beingthe person who deposited them. But the case that you suggest is the onecase in which this would be impossible. A man cannot deposit his owndismembered remains."

  "No, of course not. I was not suggesting that he deposited themhimself, but merely that the fact of their being deposited on his land,in a way, connected these remains with him."

  "Again," said Mr. Jellicoe, "I fail to follow you, unless you aresuggesting that it is customary for murderers who mutilate bodies to bepunctilious in depositing the dismembered remains upon land belonging totheir victims. In which case I am sceptical as to your facts. I am notaware of the existence of any such custom. Moreover, it appears thatonly a portion of the body was deposited on Mr. Bellingham's land, theremaining portions having been scattered broadcast over a wide area. Howdoes that agree with your suggestion?"

  "It doesn't, of course," I admitted. "But there is another fact that Ithink you will admit to be more significant. The first remains that werediscovered were found at Sidcup. Now, Sidcup is close to Eltham; andEltham is the place where Mr. Bellingham was last seen alive."

  "And what is the significance of this? Why do you connect the remainswith one locality rather than the various other localities in whichother portions of the body have been found?"

  "Well," I replied, rather gravelled by this very pertinent question,"the appearances seem to suggest that the person who deposited theseremains started from the neighbourhood of Eltham, where the missing manwas last seen."

  Mr. Jellicoe shook his head. "You appear," said he, "to be confusing theorder of deposition with the order of discovery. What evidence is therethat the remains found at Sidcup were deposited before those foundelsewhere?"

  "I don't know that there is any," I admitted.

  "Then," said he, "I don't see how you support your suggestion that theperson started from the neighbourhood of Eltham."

  On consideration, I had to admit that I had nothing to offer in supportof my theory; and having thus shot my last arrow in this very unequalcontest, I thought it time to change the subject.

  "I called in at the British Museum the other day," said I, "and had alook at Mr. Bellingham's last gift to the nation. The things are verywell shown in that central case."

  "Yes. I was very pleased with the position they have given to theexhibit, and so would my poor old friend have been. I wished, as Ilooked at the case, that he could have seen it. But perhaps he may,after all."

  "I am sure I hope he will," said I, with more sincerity, perhaps, thanthe lawyer gave me credit for. For the return of John Bellingham wouldmost effectually have cut the Gordian knot of my friend Godfrey'sdifficulties. "You are a good deal interested in Egyptology yourself,aren't you?" I added.

  "Greatly interested," replied Mr. Jellicoe, with more animation than Ihad thought possible in his wooden face. "It is a fascinating subject,the study of this venerable civilisation, extending back to thechildhood of the human race, preserved for ever for our instruction inits own unchanging monuments like a fly in a block of amber. Everythingconnected with Egypt is full of an impressive solemnity. A feeling ofpermanence, of stability, defying time and change, pervades it. Theplace, the people, and the monuments alike breathe of eternity."

  I was mightily surprised at this rhetorical outburst on the part of thisdry and taciturn lawyer. But I liked him the better for the touch ofenthusiasm that made him human, and determined to keep him astride ofhis hobby.

  "Yet," said I, "the people must have changed in the course ofcenturies."

  "Yes, that is so. The people who fought against Cambyses were not therace that marched into Egypt five thousand years before--the dynasticpeople whose portraits we see on the early monuments. In those fiftycenturies the blood of Hyksos and Syrians and Ethiopians and Hittites,and who can say how many more races, must have mingled with that of theold Egyptians. But still the national life went on without a break; theold culture leavened the new peoples, and the immigrant strangers endedby becoming Egyptians. It is a wonderful phenomenon. Looking back on itfrom our own time, it seems more like a geological period than thelife-history of a single nation. Are you at all interested in thesubject?"

  "Yes, decidedly, though I am completely ignorant of it. The fact is thatmy interest is of quite recent growth. It is only of late that I havebeen sensible of the glamour of things Egyptian."

  "Since you made Miss Bellingham's acquaintance, perhaps?" suggested Mr.Jellicoe, himself as unchanging in aspect as an Egyptian effigy.

  I suppose I must have reddened--I certainly resented the remark--for hecontinued in the same even tone: "I made the suggestion because I knowthat she takes an intelligent interest in the subject and is, in fact,quite well informed on it."

  "Yes; she seems to know a great deal about the antiquities of Egypt, andI may as well admit that your surmise was correct. It was she who showedme her uncle's collection."

  "So I had supposed," said Mr. Jellicoe. "And a very instructivecollection it is, in a popular sense; very suitable for exhibition in apublic museum, though there is nothing in it of unusual interest to theexpert. The tomb furniture is excellent of its kind and the cartonnagecase of the mummy is well made and rather finely decorated."

  "Yes, I thought it quite handsome. But can you explain to me why, aftertaking all that trouble to decorate it, they should have disfigured itwith those great smears of bitumen?"

  "Ah!" said Mr. Jellicoe, "that is quite an interesting question. It isnot unusual to find mummy-cases smeared with bitumen; there is a mummyof a priestess in the next gallery which is completely coated withbitumen excepting the gilded face. Now, this bitumen was put on for apurpose--for the purpose of obliterating the inscriptions and thusconcealing the identity of the deceased from the robbers and desecratorsof tombs. And there is the oddity of this mummy of Sebek-hotep.Evidently there was an intention of obliterating the inscriptions. Thewhole of the back is covered thickly with bitumen, and so are the feet.Then the workers seem to have changed their minds and left theinscriptions and decoration untouched. Why they intended to cover it,and why, having commenced, they left it partially covered only, is amystery. The mummy was found in its original tomb and quiteundisturbed, so far as tomb-robbers are concerned. Poor Bellingham wasgreatly puzzled as to what the explanation could be."

  "Speaking of bitumen," said I, "reminds me of a question that hasoccurred to me. You know that this substance has been used a good dealby modern painters and that it has a very dangerous peculiarity; I meanits tendency to liquefy, without any very obvious reason, long after ithas dried."

  "Yes, I know. Isn't there some story about a picture of Reynolds' inwhich bitumen had been used? A portrait of a lady, I think. The bitumensoftened, and one of the lady's eyes slipped down on to her cheek; andthey had to hang the portrait upside down and keep it warm until the eyeslipped back
into its place. But what was your question?"

  "I was wondering whether the bitumen used by the Egyptian artists hasever been known to soften after this great lapse of time."

  "Yes, I think it has. I have heard of instances in which the bitumencoatings of mummy cases have softened under certain circumstances andbecome quite 'tacky.' But, bless my soul! here am I gossiping with youand wasting your time, and it is nearly a quarter to nine!"

  My guest rose hastily, and I, with many apologies for having detainedhim, proceeded to fulfil my promise to guide him to his destination. Aswe sallied forth together the glamour of Egypt faded by degrees, andwhen he shook my hand stiffly at the gate of the Bellinghams' house, allhis vivacity and enthusiasm had vanished, leaving the taciturn lawyer,dry, uncommunicative, and not a little suspicious.