“Why, I can try. Let me see. To begin with, Uncle had on a shooting-jacket—that was pretty well burnt, as you know. Why, in fact, we all had our shooting-jackets on. The ladies were in white.”
Craig pondered a little, but did not seem disposed to pursue the subject further, until Tom volunteered the information that since the tragedy none of them had been wearing their shooting jackets.
“We’ve all been wearing city clothes,” he remarked.
“Could you get your Uncle James and your Cousin Junior to go with you for an hour or two this morning on the lake, or on a tramp in the woods?” asked Craig after a moment’s thought.
“Really, Craig,” responded Tom doubtfully, “I ought to go to Saranac to complete the arrangements for taking Uncle Lewis’s body to New York.”
“Very well, persuade them to go with you. Anything, so long as you keep me from interruption for an hour or two.”
They agreed on doing that, and as by that time most of the family were up, we went in to breakfast, another silent and suspicious meal.
After breakfast Kennedy tactfully withdrew from the family, and I did the same. We wandered off in the direction of the stables and there fell to admiring some of the horses. The groom, who seemed to be a sensible and pleasant sort of fellow, was quite ready to talk, and soon he and Craig were deep in discussing the game of the north country.
“Many rabbits about here?” asked Kennedy at length, when they had exhausted the larger game.
“Oh, yes. I saw one this morning, sir,” replied the groom.
“Indeed?” said Kennedy. “Do you suppose you could catch a couple for me?”
“Guess I could, sir—alive, you mean?”
“Oh, yes, alive—I don’t want you to violate the game laws. This is the closed season, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, but then it’s all right, sir, here on the estate.”
“Bring them to me this afternoon, or—no, keep them here in the stable in a cage and let me know when you have them. If anybody asks you about them, say they belong to Mr. Tom.”
Craig handed a small treasury note to the groom, who took it with a grin and touched his hat.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll let you know when I have the bunnies.”
As we walked slowly back from the stables we caught sight of Tom down at the boat-house just putting off in the motor-boat with his uncle and cousin. Craig waved to him, and he walked up to meet us.
“While you’re in Saranac,” said Craig, “buy me a dozen or so test-tubes. Only, don’t let anyone here at the house know you are buying them. They might ask questions.”
While they were gone Kennedy stole into James Langley’s room and after a few minutes returned to our room with the hunting-jacket. He carefully examined it with his pocket lens. Then he filled a drinking-glass with warm boiled water and added a few pinches of table salt. With a piece of sterilised gauze from Doctor Putnam’s medicine-chest, he carefully washed off a few portions of the coat and set the glass and the gauze soaking in it aside. Then he returned the coat to the closet where he had found it. Next, as silently, he stole into Junior’s room and repeated the process with his hunting-jacket, using another glass and piece of gauze.
“While I am out of the room, Walter,” he said, “I want you to take these two glasses, cover them, and number them and on a slip of paper which you must retain, place the names of the owners of the respective coats. I don’t like this part of it—I hate to play spy and would much rather come out in the open, but there is nothing else to do, and it is much better for all concerned that I should play the game secretly just now. There may be no cause for suspicion at all. In that case I’d never forgive myself for starting a family row. And then again but we shall see.”
After I had numbered and recorded the glasses, Kennedy returned, and we went down-stairs again.
“Curious about the will, isn’t it?” I remarked as we stood on the wide verandah a moment.
“Yes,” he replied. “It may be necessary to go back to New York to delve into that part of it before we get through, but I hope not. We’ll wait.”
At this point the groom interrupted us to say that he had caught the rabbits. Kennedy at once hurried to the stable. There he rolled up his sleeves, pricked a vein in his arm, and injected a small quantity of his own blood into one of the rabbits. The other he did not touch.
It was late in the afternoon when Tom returned from town with his uncle and cousin. He seemed even more agitated than usual. Without a word he hurried up from the landing and sought us out.
“What do you think of that?” he cried, opening a copy of the Record, and laying it flat on the library table.
There on the front page was Lewis Langley’s picture with a huge scare-head:
MYSTERIOUS CASE OF SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION
“It’s all out,” groaned Tom, as we bent over to read the account. “And such a story!”
Under the date of the day previous, a Saranac despatch ran:
Lewis Langley, well known as sporting man and club member in New York, and eldest son of the late Lewis Langley, the banker, was discovered dead under the most mysterious circumstances this morning at Camp Hang-out, twelve miles from this town.
The Death of “Old Krook” in Dickens’s “Bleak House” or of the victim in one of Marryat’s most thrilling tales was not more gruesome than this actual fact. It is without doubt a case of spontaneous human combustion, such as is recorded beyond dispute in medical and medico-legal text-books of the past two centuries. Scientists in this city consulted for the Record agree that, while rare, spontaneous human combustion is an established fact and that everything in this curious case goes to show that another has been added to the already well-authenticated list of cases recorded in America and Europe. The family refuse to be interviewed, which seems to indicate that the rumours in medical circles in Saranac have a solid basis of fact.
Then followed a circumstantial account of the life of Langley and the events leading up to the discovery of the body—fairly accurate in itself, but highly coloured.
“The Record man must have made good use of his time here,” I commented as I finished reading the despatch. “And—well, they must have done some hard work in New York to get this story up so completely—see, after the despatch follow a lot of interviews, and here is a short article on spontaneous combustion itself.”
Harrington and the rest of the family had just come in.
“What’s this we hear about the Record having an article?” Harrington asked. “Read it aloud, Professor, so we can all hear it.”
“‘Spontaneous human combustion, or catacausis ebriosus,’” began Craig, “‘is one of the baffling human scientific mysteries. Indeed, there can be no doubt but that individuals have in some strange and inexplicable manner caught fire and been partially or almost wholly consumed.
“‘Some have attributed it to gases in the body, such as carbureted hydrogen. Once it was noted at the Hotel Dieu in Paris that a body on being dissected gave forth a gas which was inflammable and burned with a bluish flame. Others have attributed the combustion to alcohol. A topper several years ago in Brooklyn, New York, used to make money by blowing his breath through a wire gauze and lighting it. Whatever the cause, medical literature records seventy-six cases of catacausis in two hundred years.
“‘The combustion seems to be sudden and is apparently confined to the cavities, the abdomen, chest, and head. Victims of ordinary fire accidents rush hither and thither frantically, succumb from exhaustion, their limbs are burned, and their clothing is all destroyed. But in catacausis they are stricken down without warning, the limbs are rarely burned, and only the clothing in contact with the head and chest is consumed. The residue is like a distillation of animal tissue, grey and dark, with an overpoweringly fetid odour. They are said to burn with a flickering stifled blue flame, and water, far from arresting the combustion, seems to add to it. Gin is particularly rich in inflammable, empyreumatic oils, as they are calle
d, and in most cases it is recorded that the catacausis took place among gin-drinkers, old and obese.
“‘Within the past few years cases are on record which seem to establish catacausis beyond doubt. In one case the heat was so great as to explode a pistol in the pocket of the victim. In another, a woman, the victim’s husband was asphyxiated by the smoke. The woman weighed one hundred and eighty pounds in life, but the ashes weighed only twelve pounds: In all these cases the proof of spontaneous combustion seems conclusive.’”
As Craig finished reading, we looked blankly, horrified, at one another. It was too dreadful to realise.
“What do you think of it, Professor?” asked James Langley, at length. “I’ve read somewhere of such cases, but to think of its actually happening—and to my own brother. Do you really think Lewis could have met his death in this terrible manner?”
Kennedy made no reply. Harrington seemed absorbed in thought. A shudder passed over us as we thought about it. But, gruesome as it was, it was evident that the publication of the story in the Record had relieved the feelings of the family group in one respect—it at least seemed to offer an explanation. It was noticeable that the suspicious air with which everyone had regarded everyone else was considerably dispelled.
Tom said nothing until the others had withdrawn. “Kennedy,” he burst out, then, “do you believe that such combustion is absolutely spontaneous? Don’t you believe that something else is necessary to start it?”
“I’d rather not express an opinion just yet, Tom,” answered Craig carefully. “Now, if you can get Harrington and Doctor Putnam away from the house for a short time, as you did with your uncle and cousin this morning, I may be able to tell you something about this case soon.”
Again Kennedy stole into another bedroom, and returned to our room with a hunting-jacket. Just as he had done before, he carefully washed it off with the gauze soaked in the salt solution and quickly returned the coat, repeating the process with Doctor Putnam’s coat and, last, that of Tom himself. Finally he turned his back while I sealed the glasses and marked and recorded them on my slip.
The next day was spent mainly in preparations for the journey to New York with the body of Lewis Langley. Kennedy was very busy on what seemed to me to be preparations for some mysterious chemical experiments. I found myself fully occupied in keeping special correspondents from all over the country at bay.
That evening after dinner we were all sitting in the open summer house over the boat-house. Smudges of green pine were burning and smoking on little artificial islands of stone near the lake shore, lighting up the trees on every side with a red glare. Tom and his sister were seated with Kennedy and myself on one side, while some distance from us Harrington was engaged in earnest conversation with Isabelle. The other members of the family were further removed. That seemed typical to me of the way the family group split up.
“Mr. Kennedy,” remarked Grace in a thoughtful, low tone, “what do you make of that Record article?”
“Very clever, no doubt,” replied Craig.
“But don’t you think it strange about the will?”
“Hush,” whispered Tom, for Isabelle and Harrington had ceased talking and might perhaps be listening.
Just then one of the servants came up with a telegram.
Tom hastily opened it and read the message eagerly in the corner of the summer house nearest one of the glowing smudges. I felt instinctively that it was from his lawyer. He turned and beckoned to Kennedy and myself.
“What do you think of that?” he whispered hoarsely.
We bent over and in the flickering light read the message:
New York papers full of spontaneous combustion story. Record had exclusive story yesterday, but all papers to-day feature even more. Is it true? Please wire additional details at once. Also immediate instructions regarding loss of will. Has been abstracted from safe. Could Lewis Langley have taken it himself? Unless new facts soon must make loss public or issue statement Lewis Langley intestate.
DANIEL CLARK
Tom looked blankly at Kennedy, and then at his sister, who was sitting alone. I thought I could read what was passing in his mind. With all his faults Lewis Langley had been a good foster-parent to his adopted children. But it was all over now if the will was lost.
“What can I do?” asked Tom hopelessly. “I have nothing to reply to him.”
“But I have,” quietly returned Kennedy, deliberately folding up the message and handing it back. “Tell them all to be in the library in fifteen minutes. This message hurries me a bit, but I am prepared. You will have something to wire Mr. Clark after that.” Then he strode off toward the house, leaving us to gather the group together in considerable bewilderment.
A quarter of an hour later we had all assembled in the library, across the hall from the room in which Lewis Langley had been found. As usual Kennedy began by leaping straight into the middle of his subject.
“Early in the eighteenth century,” he commenced slowly, “a woman was found burned to death. There were no clues, and the scientists of that time suggested spontaneous combustion. This explanation was accepted. The theory always has been that the process of respiration by which the tissues of the body are used up and got rid of gives the body a temperature, and it has seemed that it may be possible, by preventing the escape of this heat, to set fire to the body.”
We were leaning forward expectantly, horrified by the thought that perhaps, after all, the Record was correct.
“Now,” resumed Kennedy, his tone changing, “suppose we try a little experiment—one that was tried very convincingly by the immortal Liebig. Here is a sponge. I am going to soak it in gin from this bottle, the same that Mr. Langley was drinking from on the night of the—er—the tragedy.”
Kennedy took the saturated sponge and placed it in an agate-iron pan from the kitchen. Then he lighted it. The bluish flame shot upward, and in tense silence we watched it burn lower and lower, till all the alcohol was consumed. Then he picked up the sponge and passed it around. It was dry, but the sponge itself had not been singed.
“We now know,” he continued, “that from the nature of combustion it is impossible for the human body to undergo spontaneous ignition or combustion in the way the scientific experts of the past century believed. Swathe the body in the thickest of non-conductors of heat, and what happens? A profuse perspiration exudes, and before such an ignition could possibly take place all the moisture of the body would have to be evaporated. As seventy-five per cent or more of the body is water, it is evident that enormous heat would be necessary—moisture is the great safeguard. The experiment which I have shown you could be duplicated with specimens of human organs preserved for years in alcohol in museums. They would burn just as this sponge—the specimen itself would be very nearly uninjured by the burning of the alcohol.”
“Then, Professor Kennedy, you maintain that my brother did not meet his death by such an accident?” asked James Langley.
“Exactly that, sir,” replied Craig. “One of the most important aspects of the historic faith in this phenomenon is that of its skilful employment in explaining away what would otherwise appear to be convincing circumstantial evidence in cases of accusations of murder.”
“Then how do you explain Mr. Langley’s death?” demanded Harrington. “My theory of a spark from a cigar may be true, after all.”
“I am coming to that in a moment,” answered Kennedy quietly. “My first suspicion was aroused by what not even Doctor Putnam seems to have noticed. The skull of Mr. Langley, charred and consumed as it was, seemed to show marks of violence. It might have been from a fracture of the skull or it might have been an accident to his remains as they were being removed to the anteroom. Again, his tongue seemed as though it was protruding. That might have been natural suffocation, or it might have been from forcible strangulation. So far I had nothing but conjecture to work on. But in looking over the living-room I found near the table, on the hardwood floor, a spot—just one little roun
d spot. Now, deductions from spots, even if we know them to be blood, must be made very carefully. I did not know this to be a blood-spot, and so was very careful at first.
“Let us assume it was a blood-spot, however. What did it show? It was just a little regular round spot, quite thick. Now, drops of blood falling only a few inches usually make a round spot with a smooth border. Still the surface on which the drop falls is quite as much a factor as the height from which it falls. If the surface is rough the border may be irregular. But this was a smooth surface and not absorbent. The thickness of a dried blood-spot on a non-absorbent surface is less the greater the height from which it has fallen. This was a thick spot. Now if it had fallen, say, six feet, the height of Mr. Langley, the spot would have been thin—some secondary spatters might have been seen, or at least an irregular edge around the spot. Therefore, if it was a blood-spot, it had fallen only one or two feet. I ascertained next that the lower part of the body showed no wounds or bruises whatever.
“Tracks of blood such as are left by dragging a bleeding body differ very greatly from tracks of arterial blood which are left when the victim has strength to move himself. Continuing my speculations, supposing it to be a blood-spot, what did it indicate? Clearly that Mr. Langley was struck by somebody on the head with a heavy instrument, perhaps in another part of the room, that he was choked, that as the drops of blood oozed from the wound on his head, he was dragged across the floor, in the direction of the fireplace—”
“But, Professor Kennedy,” interrupted Doctor Putnam, “have you proved that the spot was a blood-spot? Might it not have been a paint-spot or something of that sort?”
Kennedy had apparently been waiting for just such a question.
“Ordinarily, water has no effect on paint,” he answered. “I found that the spot could be washed off with water. That is not all. I have a test for blood that is so delicately sensitive that the blood of an Egyptian mummy thousands of years old will respond to it. It was discovered by a German scientist, Doctor Uhlenhuth, and was no longer ago than last winter applied in England in connection with the Clapham murder. The suspected murderer declared that stains on his clothes were only spatters of paint, but the test proved them to be spatters of blood. Walter, bring in the cage with the rabbits.”
Toward the Golden Age Page 13
