by Unknown
Romance lurks in unsuspected places. We walk abroad amidst scenes made dull by familiarity, and let our thoughts ramble far away beyond the commonplace. In fancy we thread the ghostly aisles of some tropical forest; we linger on the white beach of some lonely coral island, where the cocoa-nut palms, shivering in the sea-breeze, patter a refrain to the song of the surf; we wander by moonlight through the narrow streets of some southern city, and hear the thrum of the guitar rise to the shrouded balcony; and behold! all the time Romance is at our very doors.
It was on a bright afternoon early in March, that I sat beside my friend Thorndyke on one of the lower benches of the lecture theatre of the Royal College of Surgeons. Not a likely place this to encounter Romance, and yet there it was, if we had only known it, lying unnoticed at present on the green baize cover of the lecturer’s table. But, for the moment, we were thinking of nothing but the lecture.
The theatre was nearly full. It usually was when Professor D’Arcy lectured; for that genial savant had the magnetic gift of infusing his own enthusiasm into the lecture, and so into his audience, even when, as on this occasion, his subject lay on the outside edge of medical science. To-day he was lecturing on marine worms, standing before the great blackboard with a bunch of coloured chalks in either hand, talking with easy eloquence—mostly over his shoulder—while he covered the black surface with those delightful drawings that added so much to the charm of his lectures.
I watched his flying fingers with fascination, dividing my attention between him and a young man on the bench below me, who was frantically copying the diagrams in a large note-book, assisted by an older friend, who sat by him and handed him the coloured pencils as he needed them.
The latter part of the lecture dealt with those beautiful sea-worms that build themselves tubes to live in; worms like the Serpula, that make their shelly or stony tubes by secretion from their own bodies; or, like the Sabella or Terbella, build them up with sand-grains, little stones, or fragments of shell.
When the lecture came to an end, we trooped down into the arena to look at the exhibits and exchange a few words with the genial professor. Thorndyke knew him very well, and was welcomed with a warm handshake and a facetious question.
“What are you doing here, Thorndyke?” asked Professor D’Arcy. “Is it possible that there are medico-legal possibilities even in a marine worm?”
“Oh, come!” protested Thorndyke, “don’t make me such a hidebound specialist. May I have no rational interest in life? Must I live for ever in the witness-box, like a marine worm in its tube?”
“I suspect you don’t get very far out of your tube,” said the professor, with a smile at my colleague. “And that reminds me that I have something in your line. What do you make of this? Let us hear you extract its history.”
Here, with a mischievous twinkle, he handed Thorndyke a small, round object, which my friend inspected curiously as it lay in the palm of his hand.
“In the first place,” said he, “it is a cork; the cork of a small jar.”
“Right,” said the professor—“full marks. What else?”
“The cork has been saturated with paraffin wax.”
“Right again.”
“Then some Robinson Crusoe seems to have used it as a button, judging by the two holes in it, and an end of what looks like cat-gut.”
“Yes.”
“Finally, a marine worm of some kind—a Terebella, I think—has built a tube on it.”
“Quite right. And now tell us the history of the cork or button.”
“I should like to know something more about the worm first,” said Thorndyke.
“The worm,” said Professor D’Arcy, “is Terebella Rufescens. It lives, unlike most other species, on a rocky bottom, and in a depth of water of not less than ten fathoms.”
It was at this point that Romance stepped in. The young man whom I had noticed working so strenuously at his notes had edged up alongside, and was staring at the object in Thorndyke’s hand, not with mere interest or curiosity, but with the utmost amazement and horror. His expression was so remarkable that we all, with one accord, dropped our conversation to look at him.
“Might I be allowed to examine that specimen?” he asked; and when Thorndyke handed it to him, he held it close to his eyes, scrutinising it with frowning astonishment, turned it over and over, and felt the frayed ends of cat-gut between his fingers. Finally, he beckoned to his friend, and the two whispered together for a while, and watching them I saw the second man’s eyebrows lift, and the same expression of horrified surprise appear on his face. Then the younger man addressed the professor.
“Would you mind telling me where you got this specimen, sir?”
The professor was quite interested. “It was sent to me,” he said, “by a friend, who picked it up on the beach at Morte Hoe, on the coast of North Cornwall.”
The two young men looked significantly at one another, and, after a brief pause, the older one asked: “Is this specimen of much value, sir?”
“No,” replied the professor; “it is only a curiosity. There are several specimens of the worm in our collection. But why do you ask?”
“Because I should like to acquire it. I can’t give you particulars—I am a lawyer, I may explain—but, from what my brother tells me it appears that this object has a bearing on—er—on a case in which we are both interested. A very important bearing, I may add, on a very important case.”
The professor was delighted. “There, now, Thorndyke,” he chuckled. “What did I tell you? The medico-legal worm has arrived. I told you in was something in your line, and now you’ve been forestalled. Of course,” he added, turning to the lawyer, “you are very welcome to this specimen. I’ll give you a box to carry it in, with some cotton wool.”
The specimen was duly packed in its box, and the latter deposited in the lawyer’s pocket; but the two brothers did not immediately leave the theatre. They stood apart, talking earnestly together, until Thorndyke and I had taken our leave of the professor, when the lawyer advanced and addressed my colleague.
“I don’t suppose you remember me, Dr. Thorndyke,” he began; but my friend interrupted him.
“Yes, I do. You are Mr. Rodney. You were junior to Brooke in Jelks v. Partington. Can I be of any assistance to you?”
“If you would be so kind,” replied Rodney. “My brother and I have been talking this over, and we think we should like to have your opinion on the case. The fact is, we both jumped to a conclusion at once, and now we’ve got what the Yankees call ‘cold feet.’ We think that we may have jumped too soon. Let me introduce my brother, Dr. Philip Rodney.”
We shook hands, and, making our way out of the theatre, presently emerged from the big portico into Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
“If you will come and take a cup of tea at my chambers in Old Buildings,” said Rodney, “we can give you the necessary particulars. There isn’t so very much to tell, after all. My brother identifies the cork or button, and that seems to be the only plain fact that we have. Tell Dr. Thorndyke how you identified it, Phil.”
“It is a simple matter,” said Philip Rodney. “I went out in a boat to do some dredging with a friend named Purcell. We both wore our oilskins as the sea was choppy and there was a good deal of spray blowing about; but Purcell had lost the top button of his, so that the collar kept blowing open and letting the spray down his neck. We had no spare buttons or needles or thread on board, but it occurred to me that I could rig up a jury button with a cork from one of my little collecting jars; so I took one out, bored a couple of holes through it with a pipe-cleaner, and threaded a piece of cat-gut through the holes.”
“Why cat-gut?” asked Thorndyke.
“Because I happened to have it. I play the fiddle, and I generally have a bit of a broken string in my pocket; usually an E string—the E strings are always breaking, you know. Well, I had the end of an E string in my pocket then, so I fastened the button on with it. I bored two holes in the coat, passed the ends o
f the string through, and tied a reef-knot. It was as strong as a house.”
“You have no doubt that it is the same cork?”
“None at all. First there is the size, which I know from having ordered the corks separately from the jars. Then I paraffined them myself after sticking on the blank labels. The label is there still, protected by the wax. And lastly there is the cat-gut; the bit that is left is obviously part of an E string.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “the identification seems to be unimpeachable. Now let us have the story.”
“We’ll have some tea first,” said Rodney. “This is my burrow.” As he spoke, he dived into the dark entry of one of the ancient buildings on the south side of the little square, and we followed him up the crabbed, time-worn stairs, so different from our own lordly staircase in King’s Bench Walk. He let us into his chambers, and, having offered us each an armchair, said: “My brother will spin you the yarn while I make the tea. When you have heard him you can begin the examination-in-chief. You understand that this is a confidential matter and that we are dealing with it professionally?”
“Certainly,” replied Thorndyke, “we quite understand that.” And thereupon Philip Rodney began his story.
“One morning last June two men started from Sennen Cove, on the west coast of Cornwall, to sail to Penzance in a little yacht that belongs to my brother and me. One of them was Purcell, of whom I spoke just now, and the other was a man named Varney. When they started, Purcell was wearing the oilskin coat with this button on it. The yacht arrived at Penzance at about four in the afternoon. Purcell went ashore alone to take the train to London or Falmouth, and was never seen again dead or alive. The following day Purcell’s solicitor, a Mr. Penfield, received a letter from him bearing the Penzance postmark and the hour 8.45 p.m. The letter was evidently sent by mistake—put into the wrong envelope—and it appears to have been a highly compromising document. Penfield refuses to give any particulars, but thinks that the letter fully accounts for Purcell’s disappearance—thinks, in fact, that Purcell has bolted.
“It was understood that Purcell was going to London from Penzance, but he seems to have told Varney that he intended to call in at Falmouth. Whether or not he went to Falmouth we don’t know. Varney saw him go up the ladder on to the pier, and there all traces of him vanished. Varney thinks he may have discovered the mistake about the letter and got on board some outward-bound ship at Falmouth; but that is only surmise. Still, it is highly probable; and when my brother and I saw that button at the museum, we remembered the suggestion and instantly jumped to the conclusion that poor Purcell had gone overboard.”
“And then,” said Rodney, handing us our tea-cups, “when we came to talk it over we rather tended to revise our conclusion.”
“Why?” asked Thorndyke.
“Well, there are several other possibilities. Purcell may have found a proper button on the yacht and cut off the cork and thrown it overboard—we must ask Varney if he did—or the coat itself may have gone over or been lost or given away, and so on.”
On this Thorndyke made no comment, stirring his tea slowly with an air of deep preoccupation. Presently he looked up and asked, “Who saw the yacht start?”
“I did,” said Philip. “I and Mrs. Purcell and her sister and some fishermen on the beach. Purcell was steering, and he took the yacht right out to sea, outside the Longships. A sea fog came down soon after, and we were rather anxious, because the Wolf Rock lay right to leeward of the yacht.”
“Did anyone besides Varney see Purcell at Penzance?”
“Apparently not. But we haven’t asked. Varney’s statement seemed to settle that question. He couldn’t very well have been mistaken, you know,” Philip added with a smile.
“Besides,” said Rodney, “if there were any doubt, there is the letter. It was posted in Penzance after eight o’clock at night. Now I met Varney on the pier at a quarter-past four, and we sailed out of Penzance a few minutes later to return to Sennen.”
“Had Varney been ashore?” asked Thorndyke.
“Yes, he had been up to the town buying some provisions.”
“But you said Purcell went ashore alone.”
“Yes, but there’s nothing in that. Purcell was not a genial man. It was the sort of thing he would do.”
“And that is all that you know of the matter?” Thorndyke asked, after a few moments’ reflection.
“Yes. But we might see if Varney can remember anything more, and we might try if we can squeeze any more information out of old Penfield.”
“You won’t,” said Thorndyke. “I know Penfield and I never trouble to ask him questions. Besides, there is nothing to ask at present. We have an item of evidence that we have not fully examined. I suggest that we exhaust that, and meanwhile keep our own counsel most completely.”
Rodney looked dissatisfied. “If,” said he, “the item of evidence that you refer to is the button, it seems to me that we have got all that we are likely to get out of it. We have identified it, and we know that it has been thrown up on the beach at Morte Hoe. What more can we learn from it?”
“That remains to be seen,” replied Thorndyke. “We may learn nothing, but, on the other hand, we may be able to trace the course of its travels and learn its recent history. It may give us a hint as to where to start a fresh inquiry.”
Rodney laughed sceptically. “You talk like a clairvoyant, as if you had the power to make this bit of cork break out into fluent discourse. Of course, you can look at the thing and speculate and guess, but surely the common sense of the matter is to ask a plain question of the man who probably knows. If it turns out that Varney saw Purcell throw the button overboard, or can tell us how it got into the sea, all your speculations will have been useless. I say, let us ask Varney first, and if he knows nothing, it will be time to start guessing.”
But Thorndyke was calmly obdurate. “We are not going to guess, Rodney; we are going to investigate. Let me have the button for a couple of days. If I learn nothing from it, I will return it to you, and you can then refresh your legal soul with verbal testimony. But give scientific methods a chance first.”
With evident reluctance Rodney handed him the little box. “I have asked your advice,” he said rather ungraciously, “so I suppose I must take it; but your methods appeal more to the sporting than the business instincts.”
“We shall see,” said Thorndyke, rising with a satisfied air. “But, meanwhile, I stipulate that you make no communication to anybody.”
“Very well,” said Rodney; and we took leave of the two brothers.
“As walked down Chancery Lane, I looked at Thorndyke, and detected in him an air of purpose for which I could not quite account. Clearly, he had something in view.
“It seems to me,” I said tentatively, “that there was something in what Rodney said. Why shouldn’t the button just have been thrown overboard?”
He stopped and looked at me with humorous reproach. “Jervis!” he exclaimed, “I am ashamed of you. You are as bad as Rodney. You have utterly lost sight of the main fact, which is a most impressive one. Here is a cork button. Now an ordinary cork, if immersed long enough, will soak up water until it is water-logged, and then sink to the bottom. But this one is impregnated with paraffin wax. It can’t get water-logged, and it can’t sink. It would float for ever.”
“Well?”
“But it has sunk. It has been lying at the bottom of the sea for months, long enough for a Terebella to build a tube on it. And we have D’Arcy’s statement that it has been lying in not less than ten fathoms of water. Then, at last, it has broken loose and risen to the surface and drifted ashore. Now, I ask you, what has held it down at the bottom of the sea? Of course, it may have been only the coat, weighted by something in the pocket; but there is a much more probable suggestion.”
“Yes, I see,” said I.
“I suspect you don’t—altogether,” he rejoined, with a malicious smile. And in the end it turned out that he was right.
&nb
sp; The air of purpose that I noted was not deceptive. No sooner had we reached our chambers, then he fell to work as if with a definite object. Standing by the window, he scrutinised the button, first with the naked eye, and then with a lens, and finally laying it on the stage of the microscope, examined the worm-tube by the light of a condenser with a two-inch objective. And the result seemed to please him amazingly.
His next proceeding was to detach, with a fine pair of forceps, the largest of the tiny fragments of stone of which the worm-tube was built. This fragment he cemented on a slide with Canada balsam; and, fetching form the laboratory a slip of Turkey stone, he proceeded to grind the little fragment to a flat surface. Then he melted the balsam, turned the fragment over, and repeated the grinding process until the little fragment was ground down to a thin film or plate, when he applied fresh balsam and a cover-glass. The specimen was now ready for examination; and it was at this point that I suddenly remembered I had an appointment at six o’clock.
It had struck half-past seven when I returned, and a glance round the room told me that the battle was over—and won. The table was littered with trays of mineralogical sections and open books of reference relating to geology and petrology, and one end was occupied by an outspread geological chart of the British Isles. Thorndyke sat in his armchair, smiling with a bland contentment, and smoking a Trichinopoly cheroot.
“Well,” I said cheerfully, “what’s the news?”
“He removed the cheroot, blew out a cloud of smoke, and replied in a single word:
“Phonolite.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Brevity is the soul of wit. But would you mind amplifying the joke to the dimensions of intelligibility?”
“Certainly,” he replied gravely. “I will endeavour to temper the wind to the shorn lamb. You noticed, I suppose, that the fragments of rock of which that worm-tube was built are all alike?”
“All the same kind of rock? No, I did not.”
“Well, they are, and I have spent a strenuous hour identifying that rock. It is the peculiar, resonant, volcanic rock known as phonolite or clink-stone.”
