“Well,” I remarked, as we looked them over together, “Sir Edward’s fingerprints are clear enough, though they look a little odd, but the chair-back groups are a most unholy muddle. Most of the prints are just undecipherable smears.”
“Yes,” Thorndyke admitted regretfully, “they are a poor lot and too many superimposed and obliterating one another. But, still, I have some hopes. Our expert friends are wonderfully clever at sorting out imperfect prints; and some of these seem to me to have enough visible detail for identification. At any rate, one important negative fact can, I think, be established. I see no print that seems to resemble any of Sir Edward’s.”
“Neither do I; and, of course, if they were there, they would be more distinct than any of the others, being the most recent. But it would be a facer if the experts should find them there. That would fairly knock the bottom out of the entire case.”
“It would, certainly,” Thorndyke agreed. “But the probability is so negligibly remote that it is not worth considering. What is of much more interest is the chance of their being able to identify some of the prints as those of known criminals.”
“Supposing they can?” said I. “What then?”
“In that case,” he replied, “I think we should have to take Miller into our confidence. You see, Jervis, that our present difficulty is that we are dealing with a crime in the abstract, so to speak. The perpetrators are unknown to us. We have—at the moment—no clue whatever to their identity. But give us a name; turn our unknown criminals into actual, known persons, and I think we have enough evidence to secure a conviction. At any rate, a very little corroboration by police investigation would make the case complete.”
“The deuce it would!” I exclaimed, completely taken aback. “I had no idea that the case had advanced as far as that. I thought it was rather a matter of strong suspicion than of definite evidence. But evidently your examination of the material has brought some new facts to light. Is it not so?”
“We have elicited a few new facts; nothing very startling, however. But the evidence emerges when we put together, in their proper order, the facts that we already knew with the new ones added. Shall we go over the evidence together and see what we really know about the case?”
I assented with enthusiasm, and, having filled my pipe, disposed myself in the rather ascetic laboratory chair in a posture of attention and receptivity; and I noticed that Polton had unobtrusively drawn a stool up to the opposite bench, and, having stuck a watchmaker’s glass into his eye, was making a shameless pretence of exploring the ‘innards’ of an invalid carriage clock.
“Let us begin,” said Thorndyke, “by taking the evidence in order without going into much detail. In the first place we have established that Sir Edward Hardcastle was drowned in salt water in which considerable numbers of herring-scales were suspended.”
“You think there is no doubt about the drowning?”
“I think it is practically certain,” he replied. “The presence in the lungs of salt water and herring-scales, together with the presence of similar salt-water and herring-scales in the stomach is nearly conclusive. That the herring-scales were water-borne and not the remains of food eaten is proved by our finding them in the hair. Add to this the fairly definite signs of asphyxia and no signs of any other cause of death; and the fact that deceased’s head and neck had been immersed in salt water containing suspended herring-scales, as proved by the scales which you found in the hair, by the stains on the neck of his shirt and on his collar and by the salt which I extracted from that collar; and I think we have very complete and conclusive evidence of drowning.”
“I agree,” said I. “Excuse my interrupting.”
“Not at all,” he replied. “I want you to challenge the evidence if you do not find it convincing. To proceed; we find that, Sir Edward’s body, dead or alive, had been lying on, and apparently dragged along, the dirty floor of a room. Among the litter on that floor were short pieces of basting-cotton and button-hole twist and a fragment of beeswax. These materials suggest a room in which garments were being made; probably a tailor’s work-room, though other people besides tailors use these materials.
“Next we find that the body was conveyed in a two-wheeled vehicle, which may have been a cart or gig, or perhaps a hansom cab—”
“Surely not a hansom, Thorndyke,” I interrupted. It had iron tyres.”
“That doesn’t absolutely exclude it,” said he. “You occasionally meet with iron-tired hansoms even to this day. I saw one at Fenchurch Street Station only a few weeks ago—a shabby old crock with the old-fashioned, round-backed dickey, probably driven by the owner. The reason that I incline to the hansom is that the dimensions of this vehicle coincide exactly with those of a hansom. I looked them up in my notes on the dimensions of various vehicles. The wheels of a hansom are fifty-five and a half inches in diameter. The tyres, when of iron, are one and a half inches wide, on a rim which is slightly thicker and which widens inwards towards the spokes. The track, or distance between the wheels, measured at the ground level from the outer edge of one tyre to the outer edge of the other, is fifty-seven inches. Now, these are exactly the dimensions that we noted in our measurements of the track of the unknown vehicle. It isn’t by any means conclusive, but we are bound to take note of the coincidence.”
“Yes, indeed,” I assented. “It is a decidedly striking coincidence; a sort of Bertillon measurement, at least so it appears, though I don’t know to what extent the dimensions of vehicles are standardised.”
“At any rate,” said he, “we note the possibility that this vehicle may have been a hansom cab; and whatever it was, it served to convey the body of Sir Edward to Five Piper’s Row on Sunday, the twenty-first of June, at some time in the evening or night, but most probably between eleven and twelve. The body was carried into the house by at least two persons, one of whom appears to have been a waterside or sea-faring person.”
“Is it clearly established that there was more than one person?” I asked.
“Yes. There were at least two sets of muddy foot-marks—and apparently only two—on the floor leading from the front door to the kitchen. They were not Holker’s, for he arrived with dry feet; they were certainly not Sir Edward’s, as we know from the state of his shoes, apart from the ascertained fact that he was dead when he was taken into the house. There were undoubtedly two men; and we can take it that neither of them was the driver of the vehicle since that made merely a pause at the house and not a prolonged stay.
“The body, then, was carried into the house by these two persons, one of whom—probably the nautical person—had brought with him a piece of rope which had been cut off a longer complete rope and which bears visible evidence of having been stolen.”
“What do you mean by visible evidence?” I demanded. “Surely a rope which has been stolen is not visibly different from any other rope! The act of stealing a rope does not impress on it any new distinguishable properties.”
“That is true,” he admitted; “and yet it may be possible to recognise a stolen rope by its visible properties. Did you ever hear of a ‘rogue’s’ yarn?
“Not to my knowledge.”
“It is a device that used formerly to be employed in the Navy to check the stealing of cordage. Every rope that was made in the Royal Dockyards had one yarn in one of the strands which was different from all the others. It was twisted in reverse, and, if the rope was a white rope, the rogue’s yarn was tarred, while in a tarred rope the tell-tale yarn was left white. Later, the special yarn was replaced by a single coloured worsted thread, which was spun into the middle of a yarn and so was not visible externally, but only at the cut end. This was a better device, as each dockyard had its own colour, so that when a stolen rope was discovered it could be seen at once which dockyard it belonged to.
“But the plan of marking rope in this way is not confined to the Navy. Many public, and even private bodies which use rope, have it made up with some distinctive mark—usually a coloured
thread in one of the yarns. And that happens to be the case with this particular rope. It is a marked rope; evidently the property of some public or private body.” He took the washed ‘specimen’ from the bench, and, handing it to me, continued: “You see this is a four-strand rope, and in two of the strands is a yarn in which has been twisted a coloured cotton thread, a red thread in the one and a green thread in the other.”
I examined the little length of rope closely, and, now that I had been told, the coloured threads were easy enough to see, though only at the cut ends. Now, too, I understood Thorndyke’s intense interest in the rope. But there was another thing that I did not understand at all.
“I suppose,” said I, “that it was these coloured threads that made you give so much attention to this rope?”
“Undoubtedly,” he replied; “and you must admit that they were calculated to attract attention.”
“Certainly, I do. But what puzzles me is how you came to see them at all. They are extremely inconspicuous, and must have been still more so before the rope was cleaned.”
“There is no mystery about that,” said he. “I saw them because I looked for them. You remember that you—like the Superintendent—took this rope for a coir rope. So did I, at first. Then I saw that the texture did not agree with the colour; that it was really a hempen rope dyed to imitate coir. Then I asked myself the question that you asked just now: Why should anyone dye a hemp rope to imitate the less valuable coir? The natural suggestion was that the rope had been disguised to cover unlawful possession. It was probably a stolen rope. This idea suggested the possibility that it might be a marked rope. Accordingly I carefully examined the cut end, and behold! the two coloured threads; very inconspicuous, as you inferred, but visible enough when looked for.”
“But this is a very important fact, Thorndyke,” said I.
“It is,” he agreed. “It is by far the most valuable clue that we hold. In fact, if the fingerprints fail us, it is the only clue that leads away from generalities to a definite place and set of surroundings. We shall almost certainly be able to trace this rope to the place from which it was stolen, and that alone will tell us something of the person who stole it.”
“Mighty little,” said I.
“Probably. But if we are able to add only a little to what we know, that little may be very illuminating.”
“What do we know about these men?” I asked.
“Perhaps I should have said ‘infer’ rather than ‘know’; but our inferences are fairly safe. First, we find a person evidently accustomed to handling cordage, and probably a seaman or waterside character; a person, probably the same, who has a stolen rope in his possession; a person who is in some way connected with a tailor’s work-room or some similar establishment; and a person who uses, drives and probably owns some two-wheeled vehicle, either a gig, a light cart or possibly a hansom cab, and if the latter, an old cab, probably in poor condition and distinguished by the unusual character of iron tyres. Then there is the choice of Piper’s Row. The selection of this particular house could hardly have been made by a complete stranger. It suggests a person with some knowledge of the place and of its usually undisturbed condition. Assuming the object to be the disposal of the body in some place where it would not be discovered until all traces of the crime—of the actual method of the murder—had disappeared, the hiding-place was extraordinarily well chosen. But for the mere accident of Holker’s picking out this house for repairs, the body might have remained undiscovered for months and the plan have succeeded perfectly.”
“It has succeeded pretty perfectly as it is,” said I, “so far as the coroner and the police are concerned.”
“Yes. But in another month the cause of death would have been completely unascertainable. But you notice that however long the interval might have been, the body would still have been identifiable by the contents of the pockets and the marking of the clothes. That seems to be worth noting.”
“You mean that the intention was that the body should ultimately be identified?”
“I mean that there was no attempt to conceal the identity. The significance of that—such as it is—lies in the fact that in an ordinary murder the safety of the murderers is much greater if the identity of the murdered person is unknown, since, in that case, the police usually have nothing to indicate the identity of the murderer. But I doubt if there is much in it. The intention evidently was, in this case, that the death should not be recognised as a murder at all.”
“Yes, and they were very near to bringing it off. In fact, they have brought it off so far. They are still very decidedly birds in the bush. And the inquest was an absolute walk-over for them. All the evidence seemed to point to suicide, and that of Weeks and Brodribb must have been most convincing to people who already had a bias in that direction. By the way, did you pick up anything from the evidence besides that statement of Holker’s?
“Nothing very definite,” he replied. “There were certain hints and suggestions in the evidence of Weeks and in that of Joseph Wood, the waiter. Weeks, you remember, had evidently had the feeling that there was something unusual in the air when Sir Edward started from home that morning; and Wood seemed to me to have the impression that there was someone in the cab which drew up for Sir Edward to enter. He didn’t say so, in fact he said that he did not know, but he mentioned pointedly that he did not see Sir Edward hail the cab or give any directions to the driver. Taking what was implied rather than stated by these two witnesses, there seems to be a suggestion that one, at least, of the murderers was known to Sir Edward; and the fact that he went away in a hansom, whether alone or with some other person, is certainly significant as pointing to a definite destination. It is quite inconsistent with the Superintendent’s suggestion of aimless wandering.
“But we are straying away into a consideration of the general aspects of the case. To come back to the question that we were discussing, you see now what our position is at the moment. If Miller can give us the name of a person who has handled that chair at Piper’s Row, we can give him sufficient information to enable him to put that person on trial for murder. Of course he would not do so off-hand. Before he moved, he would fill in detail and seek corroborative evidence. But there would be very little doubt of the result.
“On the other hand, if Miller cannot produce a known person, we shall be left with a very complete case of murder against some persons unknown. Then it will be our task to convert those unknown persons into known persons; and to do that we shall need to acquire some further facts.”
There were some other points that I should have liked to raise. But Thorndyke’s very definite conclusion seemed to put an end to the discussion; so much so that Polton threw off all pretence, and, removing the eyeglass from his eye, deliberately carried the clock to a cupboard and there deposited it as a thing that had served its purpose.
CHAPTER XI
Ashdod Revisited
(Jasper Gray’s Narrative)
A good old proverb assures us that we may be sure our sins will find us out. I will not make the customary facetious commentary on this proposition. That joke has now worn rather thin. But the idiotic booby-trap that I set for poor old Ponty, rebounding on me again and again like a self-acting, perpetual motion boomerang, illustrated the proverb admirably, while the encounter on my very doorstep with a dry-faced, plain-clothes policeman, illustrated the joke. Most inopportunely, my sins had found me at home.
He must have had a description of me for he addressed me tentatively by name. I acknowledged my identity and he then explained his business.
“It’s about that counterfeit half-crown that your father passed by mistake. I want to know, as well as you can remember, how it came into your possession.”
Now, of course I ought to have told him all I knew. I realised that. But my recollections of Mr. Ebbstein’s establishment were so exceedingly unpleasant that I boggled at the idea of being any further mixed up with it. And then there was Miss Stella. I couldn’t endure the
thought of having her name dragged into a disreputable affair of this sort. Wherefore I temporised and evaded.
“The man who gave it to me was a complete stranger,” said I.
“Naturally,” said the officer. “You didn’t hear his name by any chance?”
“I heard another man call him ‘Jim’.”
“Well, that’s something, though it doesn’t carry us very far. But how came he to give it to you? Was it payment?”
I described the transaction with literal truth up to the point of the delivery of the coin but said nothing of the subsequent events. I think he must have been a rather inexperienced officer, for he assumed that the payment concluded the business and that I then came away. I didn’t say so.
“You took the case up in Mansell Street. Do you remember what number?”
“No, but I remember the house. It was on the right-hand side, going from the High Street, just past a tobacconist’s shop—next door, in fact. The shop had a figure of a Red Indian on a bracket outside.”
He entered this statement in a large, black-covered notebook and then asked: “You took the case to Byles’s Wharf, you say. Whereabouts is that? Isn’t it somewhere down Wapping way?”
“Yes, this end of Wapping.”
“And do you think you would know the man again?”
“I am sure I should.”
He noted this down and reflected awhile. But having missed all the really relevant questions, he didn’t seem able to think of any others. Accordingly, after a spell of profound thought, he put his notebook away and closed the proceedings.
I went on my way greatly relieved at having, as I hoped, at last shaken myself free of that accursed make-believe, but yet by no means satisfied with my conduct of the affair. I knew that, as a good citizen, I ought to have told him about ‘Chonas,’ and my default rankled in my bosom and again illustrated the proverb by haunting me in all my comings and goings. But the oddest effect of the working of my conscience was to develop in me a most inconsistent hankering to make my incriminating knowledge more complete. I became possessed by an unreasonable urge to revisit the scene of my adventure, to go down again into Ashdod, and turn my confused recollections into definite knowledge.
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 97
