“Did you go into the question of identity?” asked Thorndyke.
“Oh, yes. I called on one of the doctors, a man named Batson, and ascertained that it was all correct. Batson’s eyesight seemed to be none of the best, but he made it quite clear to me that his late patient was certainly our friend Isaac, or Maddock. So that’s the end of the case. And if you want to go into it any further you’ve got to deal with a little pile of bone ash, for our friend is not only dead; he’s cremated. That’s enough for us. We don’t follow our clients to the next world. We are not so thorough as you seem to be.”
“You are flattering me unduly,” said Thorndyke. “I’m not so thorough as that; but our clients, when they betake themselves to the happy hunting-ground, usually leave a few of their friends behind to continue their activities. Do you happen to know what Maddock’s original occupation was? Had he any profession?”
“He was originally an engraver, and a very skilful engraver, too, I understand. That was what made him so handy in working the flash note racket. Then he went on the stage for a time, and didn’t do badly at that; but I fancy he was more clever at making-up and mimicry than at acting in the dramatic sense. For the last ten years or so he was practising as a painter—chiefly of landscape, though he could do a figure subject or a portrait at a pinch. I don’t fancy he sold much, or made any great efforts to sell his work. He liked painting and the art covered his real industries, for he used to tour about in search of subjects and so open up fresh ground for the little operations that actually produced his income.”
“Was his work of any considerable merit?” Thorndyke asked.
“Well, in a way, yes. It was rather in the American taste, though Maddock was really an Englishman. Our taste, as you know, runs to technical smartness and novelty of handling; and Maddock’s work was very peculiar and remarkably smart and slick in handling. He used the knife more than the brush, and he used it uncommonly cleverly. In fact, he was unusually skilful in many ways; and that’s the really surprising thing about him, when one considers his extraordinary-looking paws.”
“What was there peculiar about his hands?” asked Thorndyke. “Were they noticeably clumsy in appearance?”
“Clumsy!” exclaimed O’Donnell. “They were more than that. They were positively deformed. A monkey’s hands would be delicate compared with Maddock’s, They were short and thick like the paws of an animal. There’s some jaw-twisting name for the deformity that he suffered from; bronchodaotilious, or something like that.”
“Brachydactylous.” suggested Thorndyke.
“That’s the word; and I daresay you know the sort of paw I mean. It didn’t look a very likely hand for a first-class penman and engraver of flash notes, but you can’t always judge by appearances. And now as to your other questions: You ask what Maddock was like in appearance. I can only give you the description which I gave to Batson and which he recognized at once.”
“Had he noticed the peculiarity of the hands?” enquired Thorndyke.
“Yes. I asked him about it and he remembered having observed it when he was attending Maddock. Well, then, our friend was about five feet nine in height, fairly broad and decidedly strong, of a medium complexion with grey eyes and darkish brown hair. That’s all I can tell you about him.”
“You haven’t got his fingerprints, I suppose?”
“No. He was never in prison, so we had no chance of getting them.”
“Was he married?”
“He had been; but some years ago his wife divorced him, or he divorced her. Latterly he has lived as a bachelor.”
“There is nothing else that you can think of as throwing light on his personality or explaining his actions?”
“Nothing at all, doctor. I’ve told you all I know about him, and I only hope the information may be more useful than it looks to me.”
“Thank you,” said Thorndyke;” your information is not only useful; I expect to find it quite valuable. Reasoning, you know, Mr. O’Donnell,” he continued, “is somewhat like building an arch. On a supporting mould, the builder lays a number of shaped stones, or voussoirs; but until all the voussoirs are there, it is a mere collection of stones, incapable of bearing its own weight. Then you drop the last voussoir—the keystone—into its place, and the arch is complete; and now you may take away the supports, for it will not only bear its own weight, but carry a heavy superstructure.”
“That’s so, doctor,” said O’Donnell. “But, if I may ask, is this all gratuitous wisdom or has any particular bearing?”
“It has this bearing,” replied Thorndyke. “I have myself been, for some time past, engaged, metaphorically, in the building of an arch. When you came here tonight, it was but a collection of shaped and adjusted stones, supported from without. With your kind aid, I have just dropped the keystone into its place. That is what I mean.”
The American thoughtfully arranged the papers in his case, casting an occasional speculative glance at Thorndyke. “I’d like to know,” he said presently, “what it was that I told you. It doesn’t seem to me that I have produced any startling novelties. However, I know it’s no use trying to squeeze you, so I’ll get back to my hotel and have a chew at what you’ve told me.”
He shook hands with us all round, and, when Thorndyke had let him out, we heard him bustling downstairs and away up King’s Bench Walk towards Mitre Court.
For a minute or more after his departure none of us spoke. Thorndyke was apparently ruminating on his newly-acquired information, and Jervis and I on the statement that had so naturally aroused the detective’s curiosity.
At length Jervis opened the inevitable debate. “I begin to see a glimmer of daylight through the case of Septimus Maddock, deceased,” said he; “but it is only a glimmer. Whereas, from what you said to O’Donnell, I gather that you have the case quite complete.”
“Hardly that, Jervis,” was the reply. “I spoke metaphorically, and metaphors are sometimes misleading. Perhaps I overstated the case; so we will drop metaphor and state the position literally in terms of good, plain, schoolboy logic. It is this: we had certain facts presented to us in connection with Maddock’s death. For instance, we observed that the cause of death was obscure, that the body was utterly destroyed by cremation and that Jardine, who was an unofficial witness to some of the formalities, was subsequently pursued by some unknown person with the unmistakable purpose of murdering him. Those were some of the observed facts; and the explanation of those facts was the problem submitted to us; that is to say, we had to connect those facts and supply others by deduction and research, so that they should form a coherent and intelligible sequence, of which the motive for murdering Jardine should form a part.
“Having observed and examined our facts, we next propose a hypothesis which shall explain them. In this case it would naturally take the form of a hypothetical reconstruction of the circumstances of Maddock’s death. That hypothesis must, of course, be in complete agreement with all the facts known to us, including the attempts to murder Jardine. Then, having invented a hypothesis which fits our facts completely, the next stage is to verify it. If the circumstances of Maddock’s death were such as we have assumed, certain antecedent events must have occurred and certain conditions must have existed. We make the necessary inquiries and investigations, and we find that those events had actually occurred and those conditions had actually existed. Then it is probable that our hypothesis is correct, particularly if our researches have brought to light nothing that disagrees with it.
“With our new facts we can probably amplify our hypothesis; reconstruct it in greater detail; and then we have to test and verify it afresh in its amplified and detailed form. And if such new tests still yield an affirmative result, the confirmation of the hypothesis becomes overwhelmingly strong. It is, however, still only hypothesis. But perhaps we light on some final test which is capable of yielding a definite answer, yes or no. If we apply that test—the ‘Crucial Experiment,’ of the logicians—and obtain an affirmative re
sult, our inquiry is at an end. It has passed out of the region of hypothesis into that of demonstrative proof.”
“And are we to understand,” asked Jervis, “that you have brought Maddock’s case to the stage of complete demonstration?”
“No,” answered Thorndyke. “I am still in the stage of hypothesis; and when O’Donnell came here tonight there were two points which I had been unable to verify. But with his aid I have been able to verify them both, and I now have a complete hypothesis of the case which has been tested exhaustively and has answered to every test. All that remains to be done is to apply the touchstone of the final experiment.”
“I suppose,” said Jervis,” you have obtained a good many new facts in the course of your investigations?”
“Not a great many,” replied Thorndyke; “and what new data I have obtained, I have, for the most part, communicated to you and Jardine. I assure you, Jervis, that if you would only concentrate your attention on the case, you have ample material for a most convincing and complete elucidation of it.”
Jervis looked at me with a wry smile. “Now Jardine-Howard.” said he; “why don’t you brush up your wits and tell us exactly what happened to the late Mr. Maddock and why some person unknown is so keen on your vile body. You have all the facts, you know.”
“So you tell me,” I retorted; “but this case of yours reminds me of those elaborate picture puzzles that used to weary my juvenile brain. You had a hatful of irregular-shaped pieces which, if you fitted them together, made a picture. Only the beggars wouldn’t fit together.”
“A very apt comparison,” said Thorndyke. “You put the pieces together, and, if they made no intelligible part of a picture, you knew you were wrong, no matter how well they seemed to fit. On the other hand, if they seemed to make parts of a picture you had to verify the result by finding pieces of the exact shape and size of the empty spaces. That is what I have been doing in this case; trying the data together and watching to see if they made the expected picture. As I have told you, O’Donnell’s visit found me with the picture entire save for two empty spaces of a particular shape and size; and from him I obtained two pieces that dropped neatly into those spaces and made the picture complete. All I have to do now is to see if the picture is a true representation or only a consistent work of imagination.”
“I take it that you have worked the case out in pretty full detail,” said Jervis.
“Yes. If the final verification is successful I shall be able to tell you exactly what happened in Maddock’s house, what was the cause of death—and I may say that it was not that given in the certificates—who the person is who has been pursuing Jardine and what is his motive, together with a number of other very curious items of information. And the mention of that person reminds me that our friend has been disporting himself in public, contrary to advice and to what I thought was a definite understanding.”
“But surely,” I said, “it doesn’t matter now. We have given that spy chappie the slip, and, even if he hasn’t given up the chase as hopeless, we know that he is quite harmless.”
“Harmless!” exclaimed Thorndyke. “Why, my dear fellow, he was your guardian angel. Didn’t you realize that from Father Humperdinck’s statement? He shadowed you so closely that no attack on you was possible; in fact, he actually caught a rap on the head that was apparently meant for you. You were infinitely safer with him at your heels than alone.”
“But we’ve given the other fellow the slip, too,” I urged.
“We mustn’t take that for granted,” said Thorndyke. “The French detective, you remember, came on the scene quite recently, whereas the other man has been with us from the beginning. He probably saw Jervis and me enter the mineral water works on the night of the fire, for he was certainly there; and he may even have followed us home to ascertain who we were. There are several ways in which he could have connected you with us and traced you here; so I must urge you most strongly not to venture out of the precincts of the Temple for the next few days, in fact, it would be much wiser to keep indoors altogether. It will be only a matter of days unless I get a quite unexpected set back, for I hope to have the case finally completed in less than a week; and when I do, I shall take such action as will give your friend some occupation other than shadowing you.”
“Very well,” I said. “I will promise not to attempt again to escape from custody. But, all the same, my little jaunt today has not been entirely without result. I have picked up a new fact, and a rather curious one, I think. What should you say if I suggested that Mrs. Samway was the wife of that eccentric artist who used to paint on the Heath? The man, I mean, who always worked in gloves?”
“I have assumed that she was in some such relation to him,” replied Thorndyke, “but I should like to hear the evidence.”
“Mrs. Samway,” Jervis said in a reflective tone; “isn’t that the handsome uncanny-looking lady with the mongoose eyes, who reminded me of Lucrezia Borgia?”
“That is the lady. Well, I met with a portrait of her today which was evidently the work of the man with the gloves,” and here I gave them a description of the portrait and an account of the odd way in which it had been disinterred from the landscape that had been painted over it, to which they both listened with close attention.
“It’s a queer incident,” said Thorndyke, “and quite dramatic. If one were inclined to be superstitious one might imagine some invisible agency uncovering the tracks that have been so carefully hidden and working unseen in the interests of justice. But haven’t you rather jumped to your conclusion? The existence of the portrait establishes a connection, but not necessarily that of husband and wife.”
“I only suggested the relationship; but it seemed a likely one as the portrait had been painted over and thrown into the rubbish box.”
Jervis laughed sardonically; and even Thorndyke’s impassive face relaxed into a smile. “Our young friend,” said the former, “doesn’t take as favourable a view of the married state as one might expect from a gay Lothario who breaks out of his cage to go a-philandering. But we’ll overlook that, in consideration of the very interesting information that he has brought back with him. Not that it conveys very much to me. It is obviously a new piece to fit into our puzzle, but I’m hanged if I see, at the moment, any suitable space to drop it into.”
“I think,” said Thorndyke, “that if you consider the picture as a whole, you will soon find a vacant space. And while you are considering it, I will just send off a letter, and then we had better adjourn this discussion. We have to catch the early train to Maidstone tomorrow, and that, I hope, will be the last time. Our case ought to be disposed of by the afternoon.”
He seated himself at the writing-table and wrote his letter, while Jervis stared into the fire with a cogitative frown. When the letter was sealed and addressed, Thorndyke laid it on the table while he went to the lobby to put on his hat and coat, and, glancing at it almost unconsciously, I noted that the envelope was of foolscap size and was addressed to the Home Office, Whitehall. The name of the addressee escaped me, for, suddenly realizing the impropriety of thus inspecting another man’s letter, I looked away hastily; but even then when Thorndyke had taken it away to the post, I found myself speculating vaguely on the nature of the communication and wondering if it had any relation to the mysterious and intricate case of Septimus Maddock.
CHAPTER XIX
TENEBRAE
The resigned composure with which I accepted Thorndyke’s sentence of confinement within doors was not entirely attributable to discretion or native virtue. My resolution to follow scrupulously my principal’s very pointed advice was somewhat like the ascetic resolutions formed by the gourmet as he rises replete from the banquet table; for, just as the latter is in a peculiarly favourable condition for the unmoved contemplation of a—temporary—abstinence from food, so I, having enjoyed my little dissipation, could now contemplate with fortitude a brief period of retirement. Moreover, the weather was in my favour, being—as Polton reported,
when he returned, blue-nosed and powdered with snow, with a fresh supply of tobacco for me—bitterly cold, with a threatening of smoky fog from the east.
Under these circumstances it was no great hardship to sit in a roomy armchair with my slippered feet on the kerb and read and meditate as I basked in the warmth of a glowing fire; though, to be sure, my reading was perfunctory enough, for the treatise of “The Surface Markings of the Human Body,” admirable as it was, competed on very unfavourable terms with other claimants to my attention. In truth, I had plenty to think about even if I went no farther for matter than to the events of the previous day. There was my visit to Sylvia, for instance. I had not said much to her, but what I had said had pledged me to a life-long companionship; which was a solemn thing to reflect upon even though I looked forward to the fulfilment of that pledge with nothing but hopeful pleasure. The dice were thrown. Of course they would turn up sixes, every one; but still—the dice were thrown.
From my own strictly personal affairs my thoughts rambled by an easy transition to the singular episode of the buried portrait, and thence to the subject of that strange palimpsest. Viewed by the light of Mr. O’Donnell’s revelations, Mrs. Samway’s position was not all that could have been desired. She and her husband had unquestionably been closely associated with Maddock; but Maddock was, it seemed, a habitual criminal. Could this fact have been known to the Samways? Or was it that the cunning forger and swindler had sheltered himself behind their respectability. It was impossible for me to say.
Then there was the strange and perplexing case of the man Maddock, himself. I could make nothing of that, had not, indeed, been aware that there had been a “case,” until Thorndyke’s investigations had put me in possession of the fact. And even now I could see nothing on which to base any suspicion, apart from the attempts on my life, which we were assuming to be in some way connected with events that had occurred in Maddock’s house. The cause of death was apparently not “Morbus Cordis”; which might easily enough be, seeing that the diagnosis of heart disease was a mere guess on Batson’s part. But if not Morbus Cordis, what was it? Thorndyke apparently knew, and seemed to hint that it was something other than ordinary disease. Could there have been foul play? And, if so, were the Samways involved in it in any way? It seemed incredible, for had not Maddock himself suspected that he was in a dangerous state of health. There was certainly one possibility which I considered with a good deal of distaste; namely, that Maddock had been in a hypochondriacal state and that the Samways had taken advantage of his gloomy views as to his health to administer poison. The thing was actually possible; but I did not entertain it; for, even if one assumed that poison had been administered, at any rate, the cremation of the body was not designed to hide the traces of the crime. The Samways had nothing to do with that; the cremation had been adopted in preference to burial by Maddock’s own wish.
The First R. Austin Freeman Megapack: 27 Mystery Tales of Dr. Thorndyke & Others Page 161
