Brodribb acquiesced with a faint groan and the Superintendent then reverted to the contents of the drawer. “Do you recognise any of these articles?” he asked.
Brodribb looked them over once again before replying. They comprised the watch, a pair of wash-leather gloves, a shabby leather cigar-case—empty—a small silver matchbox, an old and well-worn pigskin purse, containing, as the officer demonstrated, three sovereigns, a handkerchief marked E. H., a lead pencil, a fountain-pen, a small pocket-knife, some loose silver and coppers and a letter-case, containing two five-pound notes and one or two letters in envelopes, addressed to “Sir Edward Hardcastle, Bart., Bradstow, Kent.”
“No,” Brodribb replied, at length. “I don’t recognise any of these things. The handkerchief is marked with Sir Edward’s initials, as you can see; and the envelopes bear his name and address, as you can also see. That is all. Would you like me to look through the letters?”
“There is no need,” the officer replied. “The coroner will read them and he will ask you anything that he wants to know about them. And now you would like to step across to the mortuary? I will tell the sergeant to take you over.”
He rose, and, having replaced the drawer in its nest, passed through into an adjoining office and returned almost immediately accompanied by his subordinate, who bore in his hand a small blue paper.
“Here,” said the Superintendent, “is your summons, Mr. Brodribb. Is there anything else that I can do for you?”
“There is one little matter, Superintendent,” said Thorndyke. “I should like, if possible, to have an opportunity to inspect the house in which the body was found. I presume there is no objection?”
“None whatever,” was the reply. “But you are not thinking of going there tonight? Better go tomorrow morning by daylight, before you attend at the post mortem. I’ll see that there is someone to show you the place and let you in, and then we can tell you what time to turn up at the mortuary. But you’ll waste your time at the house, for there is nothing to see but the end of a cut rope and an overturned chair.”
“Well,” said Thorndyke, “we will inspect them. It is a mere formality, but it is a good rule to see everything.”
“So it is, sir,” the Superintendent agreed; and with this he glanced at the sergeant, who forthwith opened the door and launched us into the street, the gathering darkness of which was tempered by the light of the lamp over the doorway.
“A pleasant night, gentlemen,” he remarked as he led us across the road; “a trifle warm, perhaps, but that is seasonable, though for my part, I prefer rather cooler weather for mortuary jobs.”
At this, Mr. Brodribb shuddered audibly, and, as I observed that he had taken Thorndyke’s arm, I suddenly realised that what was for me and my colleague a matter of mere daily routine was to our poor old friend a really distressing and horrible experience. Evidently, Thorndyke had realised it too, for when the sergeant had unlocked a door at the bottom of a narrow alley and entered before us to light the gas, I heard him say in a low tone: “I’ll go in first, Brodribb. You had better wait here till I call you.”
The light from the large, shaded gas-lamps shone down brightly on the shrouded figure that lay on the central table and lit more dimly and fitfully the side benches, the great porcelain sink and the white washed walls. Thorndyke and I, with the sergeant, advanced to the table and the latter drew back the sheet, exposing the head and shoulders of the corpse. It was not a pleasant spectacle, but, still, immeasurably less repulsive than I had expected from my experiences of the “found drowned” corpses that I had seen in riverside mortuaries; and what was more to the point, it appeared to be quite recognisable. For a few seconds we stood looking down at the shrunken, discoloured face. Then Thorndyke drew up the sheet and having arranged it so that the face alone was visible, called out to Brodribb; who thereupon entered, walking quickly and a little unsteadily, and stepped up to the table by Thorndyke’s side.
A single horrified glance apparently disposed of any doubts or hopes that he may have entertained, for he turned away quickly, muttering, “Dear Lord! What an end!” and began to walk towards the door.
“Can you identify the body, sir?” the sergeant asked in matter-of-fact tones.
“I can,” replied Brodribb, relapsing, despite his agitation, into legal precision. “The body is that of Sir Edward Hardcastle of Bradstow in Kent,” and having made his statement, he walked out into the dark alley.
We followed almost immediately, for there was nothing to see that would not be better seen by daylight on the morrow. At the top of the alley we wished the sergeant “good night” and while he hurried away in the direction of the office, we turned our steps towards the station.
During the short walk, hardly a word was spoken. Brodribb strode forward with his chin on his breast and his gaze bent on the ground, absorbed in gloomy reflections, while Thorndyke and I silently turned over in our minds the significance of what we had seen and heard. It was not until we were seated in a first-class carriage—of which we were the only occupants—that our friend came out of his “brown study.” Then, as the train moved out of the station, he turned to my colleague and asked abruptly: “Well, Thorndyke; what do you think of it?”
Thorndyke considered a few moments before replying. “It is early,” he said, at length, “to express, or even to form an opinion. At present, we have no technical data. All that we can do is to form a provisional opinion based on the facts now known to us. That you can do as well as Jervis and I can.”
“Perhaps,” said Brodribb. “All the same, I should like to hear what the facts convey to you.”
“Then I may say,” Thorndyke responded, “that they convey to me principally the urgent necessity of getting more facts. At present we are confronted by two sets of conflicting probabilities, and we await further facts to throw greater weight on the one or the other. For instance, the mode of death is markedly characteristic of suicide. When a man is found hanging, the probability is that he has hanged himself. The possible alternatives are accident and homicide. Accidental hanging is rare and is usually obvious on inspection. Homicidal hanging is extremely rare. So that the mode of death, in the absence of any elucidatory evidence, establishes a strong presumption of suicide. Evidence of motive or intention would turn that presumption into something approaching certainty. Absence of such motive would reduce the probability; but the presumption would remain. At present we have no evidence of motive or intention.”
“You are not forgetting that he emptied his pockets of all valuables?” Brodribb objected.
“No, I am not. The exact significance of that proceeding is not obvious but it does not appear to me to indicate an intention to commit suicide.”
“Does it not? Do you not find a certain congruity between that action and the place and circumstances in which the body was found?”
“Undoubtedly I do,” replied Thorndyke. “But the place and circumstances have no natural connection with suicide. That is what I mean by conflicting probabilities. If Sir Edward had been found hanging from a peg in his bedroom the ordinary presumption of suicide would have existed, because suicides commonly act in that way. But here we have a man making preparations (as it appears to me) to go into some place where property on the person is not safe and being later found dead in a remote part of the town which we should suppose to be quite unknown to him. The circumstances are so abnormal and the conduct so strikingly unlike the usual conduct of suicides that the ordinary presumption based on the mode of death cannot be accepted.”
“Then,” said Brodribb, “what is it that you are suggesting?”
“At present, I am suggesting nothing excepting that I am not prepared to accept the Superintendent’s account at its face value. Beyond that it is useless to go until we have heard what transpires at the inquest.”
Brodribb nodded gravely. “Yes,” he agreed. “Discussion at this stage is merely academic. But probably the evidence at the inquest will clear matters up. I suppose the post
-mortem will settle the question of suicide?”
“It may,” Thorndyke replied, guardedly, “in a negative sense, by showing the absence of any alternative suggestion. But the conditions are not favourable for forming positive and definite opinions as to the exact circumstances in which death occurred.”
“Well, you will be there, so, if it is possible to establish the fact of suicide—or to exclude it—by an examination of the body, we may say that the question will be decided tomorrow.”
To this statement Thorndyke made no rejoinder; and as Brodribb relapsed into silent meditation and my colleague showed no inclination for further discussion, I followed their example, and, as I smoked my pipe, turned the situation over in my mind.
In the colloquy to which I had listened, two things had impressed me rather forcibly. For the first time in my experience of him, Brodribb had appeared unprepared to defer to Thorndyke’s judgement. It was evident that in his opinion the suicide of Sir Edward was virtually an established fact, and that in his view Thorndyke’s scepticism was merely a manifestation of the specialist’s tendency to see things through the medium of his own specialty. On the other hand it had struck me that Thorndyke had made little effort to influence his opinion. He had, it is true, fairly answered Brodribb’s questions; but it was quite obvious to me that he had not put the case against suicide with nearly the force that was possible even with the few facts that we had. This might have been due to his habit of avoiding anything like premature conclusions, but I had the feeling that he was not unwilling that Brodribb should continue to take the case, as he had expressed it, at its face value.
At the terminus we separated, Brodribb setting forth alone in a hansom while Thorndyke and I decided to restore our circulations by a brisk walk homewards through the city streets on which the quiet and repose of evening had now descended. Having seen Brodribb fairly launched, we turned out of the station, and, crossing Liverpool Street, started at a swinging pace up New Broad Street. For a minute or two we walked on in silence while I debated inwardly whether or not I should propound my views to Thorndyke. Finally deciding in the affirmative, I began, cautiously: “Brodribb appears to me to have made up his mind definitely on this case. He seems quite convinced that Sir Edward hanged himself.”
“Yes, that was what I gathered from his remarks on the case.”
“I wonder why. He is a lawyer, and a pretty shrewd one, too.”
“Yes; but not a criminal lawyer. His experience is all on the civil side and principally in relation to property. Still, he may have reasons for his views of the affair which he has not disclosed. He knew Sir Edward pretty intimately and he knows all about the family. There may be some highly pertinent facts connected with the dead man’s personality and the family history which we know nothing about. I take it that you don’t agree with Brodribb?”
“I do not; and neither, I suspect, do you.”
“You are quite right, Jervis. I do not. But we must not allow ourselves to come to any sort of conclusion before we have seen and heard the evidence. We must try to approach tomorrow’s investigation with a perfectly open mind, and I am not sure that we ought to be discussing it now.”
“There is no harm,” said I, “in just going over the ground—without prejudice.”
“Perhaps not,” he agreed; “and since my learned friend seems to have arrived at certain provisional conclusions, it would be interesting to hear his exposition of the case as it presents itself to him.”
I reflected for a few moments, trying to arrange my ideas in an orderly sequence. At length I began: “Taking the points for and against the theory of suicide in this case, I know of only one in favour of it; the one that you mentioned—that unofficial hanging is usually suicidal. On the other hand, there are several reasons against it.
“First, there is the fact that he came to London. Why should he, if he had been intending to commit suicide? The natural thing, according to precedent, would have been to hang himself in his own bedroom or in a garret.”
“There are precedents of the opposite kind, though,” objected Thorndyke. “I recall a case of a lady who poisoned herself in a very secluded wood on a common or in a park near London and whose body was not discovered for some months. Still, I agree that the probabilities are with you. What is the next point?”
“It is the fact that he unloaded his pockets of all valuables before he set out from the club. Why did he do that? If it is suggested that it was to provide against the chance that his body might be robbed, the obvious answer is that he could have avoided that possibility by committing suicide on his own premises. And the way in which the things were hidden under his shirts strongly suggests an intention to return and recover them. By Brodribb this incident seems to have been accepted as proof of an intention to commit suicide; but to me it has quite the opposite significance. Your own suggestion, made at the time, that he was expecting to go to some place and among some people where he might expect to be robbed, seems to meet the case perfectly; and Brodribb’s suggestion that where property on the person is not safe, the person is probably also in some danger seems to receive corroboration. You and Brodribb suggest in advance the possibility of his being exposed to danger of personal violence, and the next thing that happens is that he is found dead, having admittedly died a violent death.”
Thorndyke nodded approvingly. “Yes,” he admitted, “I think that is quite fairly argued.”
“The next point,” I continued, “is the place in which the body was found. It is an empty house in an obscure and remote part of a region which is quite unknown to the immense majority of Londoners and almost certainly unknown to the deceased. How on earth did he get there and what could have been his object in going there? He could hardly have strayed thither by chance, for the place is difficult of access and right off the track to any more likely locality. On the other hand, the choice of this particular house suggests some local knowledge—knowledge of the existence of that desolate row of houses and of the fact that they were all uninhabited and likely to be left undisturbed and unexamined for months. The whole set of circumstances seems to me profoundly suspicious.”
“There I am entirely with you,” said Thorndyke. “That empty house on the edge of no-man’s-land wants a deal of explaining.”
“Then,” I resumed, “there is that new, cheap watch, evidently bought as a substitute for the watch that he had left at the club. The purchase of that watch seems to me utterly to exclude the state of mind of a man intending immediately to commit suicide. Then, finally, there is a point which, strangely enough, seems to have been overlooked by Brodribb—the seal. That seems to me the most suspicious of all the elements in the case. The sealed letter was posted on the Saturday, but we have evidence that the hanging could not have occurred before Sunday night at the earliest. Now, it is fair to assume that the letter was not sealed by Sir Edward.”
“It is extremely unlikely,” Thorndyke interposed, “but we can’t say that it is impossible. And if we accept the hypothesis of suicide, it is not even very improbable. It might be suggested that Sir Edward adopted that method of announcing his death. But I may say that I agree with you in assuming that the letter was almost certainly sealed and posted by some other person.”
“Then, in that case, Sir Edward’s signet ring must have been in the possession of some other person at least twenty-four hours before the earliest moment at which he could have hanged himself in the empty house. That is a very remarkable and significant fact.”
“Has it occurred to you, Jervis,” Thorndyke asked, “that Sir Edward might have been wearing his ring that day, or some other day after he left the club, and that it might have slipped off his finger and been picked up by some chance stranger? We have been told that it was a very loose fit.”
“That did occur to me,” I replied, “but I think we must reject that explanation. You remember that Sir Edward usually carried the ring in a little leather case or bag in his pocket. Now, if he had lost the ring off his fing
er, the empty case would have been in his pocket. But apparently it was not. I looked for it carefully among the things in the drawer that the Superintendent showed us and it was not there. And it could hardly have been overlooked in a careful search of the pockets.”
“No,” Thorndyke agreed, “I think we may take it that the case was not there, though we shall have to verify its absence, since, as you say, the point is an important one and opens up some very curious possibilities. But here we are at our journey’s end. Your masterly summing-up of the evidence has made the miles slip by unnoticed. I must compliment you on the completeness of your survey. And we shall be none the worse for having gone over the ground in advance, provided that we approach the actual investigation tomorrow without prejudice or any expectation as to what we are likely to discover.”
As he concluded, we turned in at our entry and mounted the stairs to our landing. The door of our chambers was open, giving us a view of the lighted room, in which Polton was adding a few final touches to the supper table.
CHAPTER VII
NUMBER FIVE PIPER’S ROW
(Dr. Jervis’s Narrative)
From my long association with Thorndyke, I was often able to deduce something of his state of mind and his intentions from observation of his actions. Particularly interesting was it to me to watch him (as unobtrusively as possible) packing his green canvas “research case” in preparation for some investigation, for, by noting carefully the appliances and materials with which he provided himself, I could form a pretty clear idea as to the points that he thought it necessary to elucidate.
Thus, on the morning on which we were to set forth for our second visit to Stratford, I stood by with an attentive eye on his proceedings as he put into the case the various articles which he thought might be needed. I was specially interested on this occasion because, while I viewed the case with the deepest suspicion, I could think of no method of attack on the undoubtedly plausible prima facie appearances. Possibly Thorndyke was in the same position; but one thing became clear to me as I watched him. He was taking nothing for granted. As I observed him putting into the case the chemically clean bottles with stoppers prepared for sealing, I realised that he was prepared for signs that might call for an analysis. The little portable microscope and the box of blank-labelled slides, the insufflator, or powder-spray, the miniature camera and telescopic tripod, the surveyor’s tape and small electric lamp, each indicated certain points which were to be subjected to exact tests and measurements, and the rubber gloves and case of post-mortem instruments showed that he contemplated taking an active part in the actual necropsy if the opportunity should present itself. The whole outfit suggested his habitual state of mind. Nothing was to be taken on trust. The one undoubted fact was that Sir Edward Hardcastle was dead. Beyond that Thorndyke would accept no suggestion. He was going to begin at the beginning as if no cause of death had been hinted at.
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