“For instance, if we could prove directly that Shemrofsky’s cab was actually at Piper’s Row on that Sunday night, we should link up all the other facts. Or again, if we could establish the fact of personal contact between Sir Edward and any of these suspected persons, that would connect the other facts with the murder. Or again, if we could prove by direct evidence that the remainder of that rope was or had been in the possession of Gomorrah or Trout or Shemrofsky, the other facts, and our inferences from them, would immediately become of high evidential value.
“And that is what we have got to do. We have to obtain at least one undeniable fact which will establish incontestably the actual connection of one or more of these persons with Sir Edward or with Number Five Piper’s Row.”
“Yes,” I admitted, “I suppose you are right. It is an obscure case, after all. And there is one curious feature in it that puzzles me. I can’t understand what object these men could have had in murdering Sir Edward. Nor can I imagine how he came to be in any way mixed up with a parcel of ragamuffins like these.”
“Exactly, Jervis,” said he. “You have struck the heart of the mystery. How came Sir Edward to be in this neighbourhood at all? We infer that he came voluntarily in Shemrofsky’s cab to Pentecost Grove, probably with some other person. But why? And who was that other person? When we ask ourselves those questions, we cannot but feel that there is something behind this murder that we have not yet got a glimpse of.”
“This seems to have been a conspiracy carried out by a gang of East End criminals of the lowest class. Legally speaking, they are no doubt the principals in the crime. But I have the feeling—the very strong feeling—that behind them was some person—or some persons—of a very different social class, who were pulling the strings. The motive of this crime has not yet come into sight. Probably if we can secure the actual murderer or murderers, the motive will be revealed. But until it is, our work will not be completed. To lay hands on the criminal puppets will not be enough. We have to secure the master criminal who has furnished at once the directing and the driving force.”
CHAPTER XIII
MR. BRODRIBB’S DISCOVERY
(Dr. Jervis’s Narrative)
I am not quite clear how the matter arose. We had, I remember, been discussing with Mr. Brodribb some of the cases in which a contact occurs between legal and scientific theory, and eventually the conversation drifted towards the subject of personal identity in connection with blood relationship and heredity. Mr. Brodribb quoted a novel, the title of which has escaped me, and asked for an opinion on the problem in heredity that the story presented.
“I have rather forgotten the book,” he said, “but, so far as my memory serves me, the story turns upon the appearance in a certain noble or royal family of a man who is completely identical in appearance and outward characteristics with a more or less remote ancestor—so completely identical that he can be passed off as a survival or re-incarnation of that very person. Now, I should like to know whether such a thing can be, in a scientific sense, admitted as possible.”
“So should I, and so would a good many other people,” I interposed. “But I don’t think you will get Thorndyke to commit himself to a statement as to the possibility or impossibility of any particular form of inheritance.”
“No,” Thorndyke agreed. “A scientist is chary of declaring anything to be absolutely impossible. It is better to express it in terms or probability. Evidently a probability of one to a thousand millions is in practice equivalent to impossibility. The probability is negligible. But the statement keeps within the limits of what is known and can be proved.”
“Hm,” grunted Brodribb. “Seems rather a hair splitting distinction. But what is the answer to my question in terms of probability?”
“It is not at all simple,” replied Thorndyke. “There are quite a number of different lines of probability to follow. First there is the multiplication of ancestors. A man has two parents, to both of whom he is equally related; four grandparents, eight great-grandparents, and so on by a geometrical progression. The eighth ancestral generation contains two hundred and fifty-six ancestors, to all of whom he is equally related. Then the first question is, what is the probability of his completely resembling one of these two hundred and fifty-six and bearing no resemblance to the other two hundred and fifty-five?”
“Of course,” said Brodribb, “the probability is negligible. And since de minimis non curat lex we may say that it doesn’t exist.”
“So it would seem,” Thorndyke agreed. “But it is not quite so simple as that. Have you given any attention to the subject of Mendelism?
“Mendelism?” repeated Brodribb, suspiciously. “What’s that? Sounds like some sort of political claptrap.”
“It is a mode of inheritance,” Thorndyke explained, “by which certain definite characteristics are transmitted unchanged and undiminished from generation to generation. Let us take the case of one such characteristic—colour-blindness, for instance. If a colour-blind man marries a normal woman, his children will be apparently normal. His sons will be really normal but of his daughters some will be carriers of colour-blindness. A proportion of their sons will be colour-blind. If these sons marry, the process will be repeated; normal sons, daughters who are carriers and whose sons may be colour-blind. Tracing the condition down the generations, we find, first a generation of colour-blind men, followed by a generation of normal men, followed by a generation of colour-blind men, and so on for ever. The defect doesn’t die out, but it appears only in alternate generations. Now see how this affects your question. Supposing that, of my two hundred and fifty-six ancestors of the eighth generation, one had been colour-blind. That could not affect me, because I am of the odd generation. But my father—who would have been of the even generation—might have been colour-blind; and if I had had married sisters, I might have had colour-blind nephews.”
“Yes, I see,” said Brodribb, in a slightly depressed tone.
“And you will also see,” pursued Thorndyke, “that this instance will not fit your imaginary case. The inheritance is masked by continued change of family name. Colour-blind Jones has normal sons, and colour blind grandsons. But those grandsons are not named Jones. They are his daughter’s sons. Suppose his daughter has married a Smith. Then the defect has apparently moved out of the Jones family into the Smith family. And so on at each reappearance. It always appears associated with a new family name. But this will not do for the novelist. For his purpose inheritance must usually be in tail male to agree with the devolution of property and titles.
“But even now we have not opened up the whole problem. We have to consider what characteristics go to the making of a visibly distinguishable personality and how those characteristics are transmitted from generation to generation.”
“Yes,” Brodribb admitted, wearily, “it is damned complicated. But there is another question, which I was discussing the other day with Middlewick. How far is a so-called family likeness to be considered as evidence of actual relationship? What do you say to that?”
“If the likeness were real and would bear detailed comparison,” replied Thorndyke, “I should attach great importance to it.”
“What do you mean by a real likeness?” asked Brodribb.
“I mean, first, that subtle resemblance of facial character that one finds in families. Then special resemblance in particular features, as the nose and ears—especially the ears—the hands and particularly the fingernails. The nails are nearly as distinctive as the ears. If, added to these resemblances, there were similarities of voice and intonation and of gait and characteristic bodily movements, I should think that these agreements as a whole established a strong probability of blood relationship.”
“That was Middlewick’s view, though he did not present it in so much detail. I have always had rather strong doubts as to the significance of apparent personal likeness and I have recently met with a very striking case that serves to justify my rather sceptical attitude. I told Middle
wick about it, but, of course he was not convinced, as I could not produce my example for his inspection.”
“We aren’t as unbelieving as Middlewick,” said I. “Tell us about your case.”
Brodribb fortified himself with a sip from his glass and smiled reminiscently. “It was an odd experience,” said he, “and quite romantic in a small way. You remember my telling you about a visit that I paid with Sir Giles Farnaby to the studio of my friend and client, Miss Vernet?
“I remember. It was in connection with the adventure of the disappearing pickpocket in the convict suit.”
“Yes, that was the occasion. Well, while Miss Vernet was assisting the police to search the premises, Sir Giles and I examined the picture that she was at work on. It was a large subject picture, called ‘An Aristocrat at Bay,’ showing a French noblewoman of the Revolution period standing in a doorway at the top of a flight of steps around which a hostile mob had gathered. Miss Vernet was apparently then working at the principal figure, for she had a model posed on the studio throne in the correct costume.
“Now, as soon as Sir Giles clapped eyes on the picture, he uttered an exclamation of surprise, and then he drew my attention to what he declared to be a most extraordinary coincidence. It seemed that the picture of the French lady was an exact counterpart of a portrait by Romney that hangs in the small drawing-room at Bradstow, the architrave of the doorway representing the frame of the portrait. It was not only that the costume was similar and the pose nearly the same—there would have been nothing very astonishing in that; but he declared that the facial resemblance was so perfect that the figure in the picture might have been copied from the portrait. I wasn’t able to confirm this statement at the time, for, although I remembered the portrait and recognised the general resemblance, I hadn’t his expert eye or his memory for faces. But what I could see was that the figure that Miss Vernet was painting was a most excellent likeness of the very handsome young lady who was posing on the throne.
“A few days later, however, I had to go down to Bradstow to see the bailiff and I then took the opportunity to have a good look at the portrait—which represented a Miss Isabel Hardcastle; and I assure you that Sir Giles’s statement was absolutely correct. The figure in Miss Vernet’s picture might have been a portrait of Isabel Hardcastle. But that figure, as I have said, was a perfectly admirable portrait of the young lady who was acting as the model.”
“That is very interesting, Brodribb,” said I. “Quite a picturesque incident as you say. But what is it supposed to prove?”
Brodribb looked at me fiercely. “The testimony of a reputable eye-witness,” said he, “is good enough for a court of law. But apparently you won’t accept anything short of the production in evidence of the actual things; the portrait, the picture and the model. Must see them with your own eyes.”
“Not at all,” I protested. “I am not contesting your facts. It is your logic that I object to, unless I have misunderstood you. I ask again, what is your instance supposed to prove?”
“It proves,” Brodribb replied severely, “that your theory—and Thorndyke’s and Middlewick’s—that personal resemblance is evidence of blood-relationship, is not supported by observed facts. Here is a portrait of Isabel Hardcastle, by a famous painter and presumably like her; and here is a young lady, the model, a perfect stranger, who is exactly like that portrait, and therefore, presumably, exactly like Isabel Hardcastle.”
“But,” I objected, “you have only proved half of your case. What evidence have you that this young lady—Miss Vernet’s model—is not a blood-relation of Isabel Hardcastle?”
Brodribb turned as red as a lobster (boiled) and began to gobble like a turkey. Then, suddenly, he stopped and gazed at me with his mouth slightly open.
“Yes,” he said, “I suppose you are right, Jervis. Of course I was taking that for granted.”
With this he let the argument drop and seemed to lose interest in the subject for he sat sipping his wine with a profoundly reflective air but speaking no word. After sitting thus for some time, he roused himself by a visible effort, and, having emptied his glass, rose to take his leave. But even as he shook our hands and moved towards the door, I had the impression that he was still deep in thought, and I seemed to detect in his bearing a certain something suggestive of a settled purpose.
“I am afraid, Jervis,” said Thorndyke, as our friend’s footsteps died away on the stairs, “you have given Brodribb a sleepless night and perhaps sent him off to explore a mare’s nest. I hope he has not taken you too seriously.”
“If you come to that,” I retorted, “you are the real offender. It was you who tried to prove that ancestral characteristics might reappear after several generations—and you didn’t do it.”
“No,” he admitted, “the argument came to a premature end. Mendelian factors were too much for Brodribb. But it is an interesting problem; I mean the question as to the number of factors that go to the making of a recognisable personality and the possibilities of their transmission. The idea of a more or less complete re-incarnation is attractive and romantic, though I am afraid that the laws of chance don’t offer much encouragement. But to return to Brodribb; I deeply suspect that you have sent him off in search of a re-incarnated Isabel Hardcastle. I only hope that he won’t be too seriously disappointed.”
“I hope so, too. When I saw how he took my objection, I was sorry I had spoken. For poor old Brodribb would give his eyes to discover some hitherto unknown Hardcastle whose claim he could set up against that of the present heir presumptive, though I don’t see that a young lady would help him, seeing that the settlement is in tail male.”
“No; but he is probably looking farther afield. We may safely assume the existence of at least one male relative, alive or dead.”
“Yes, she certainly must have, or have had, a father. But there again one doesn’t see any loophole for Brodribb. There can’t be any unknown members of the family nearer to Sir Edward than David Hardcastle, unless he is thinking of the elusive Gervase. Perhaps he is.”
“I have no doubt that he is,” said Thorndyke, “and I wish him luck though it doesn’t look like a very hopeful quest. But time will show.”
In effect, time did show and the time was not very long. Our suspicions as to Brodribb’s activities were fully justified. He had ‘gone a-angling.’ But the fish that he landed was as great a surprise to himself as to us.
The news reached us four days after the conversation which I have recorded. It was brought by him in person, and even before he spoke, we knew by the way in which he danced into the room, fairly effervescing with excitement, that something of more than common import had happened.
“Congratulate me, gentlemen,” he exclaimed. “I have made a discovery, thanks to Jervis’s confounded leg-pulling.”
He flopped down in a chair, and, when we had made suitable demonstrations of curiosity, he continued: “I have been making enquiries about the young lady who was posing as the Aristocrat for Miss Vernet.”
“Ah!” I exclaimed. “And who is she?”
“That I can’t say exactly at the moment. But, to begin with, she is a he. The young lady turns out to be a boy.”
“Ha!” said I, “we smell a mystery.”
“You smell the solution of a mystery,” he corrected. “The young lady is not only a boy. She is the boy.”
“The boy?” Thorndyke repeated enquiringly.
“Yes, the boy. The disappearing pickpocket. The gentleman in the convict suit. The police were quite right, after all. He had popped in through the open studio window. But I had better begin the story at the beginning.
“It appears that this lad—Jasper Gray by name—is employed by a firm of wholesale stationers, Sturt and Wopsalls, to deliver parcels. He seems to be a highly respectable youth—”
“With a secret pocket in the back of his waistcoat,” I murmured.
“Yes, that is a queer feature, I must admit,” said Brodribb. “But both the ladies seem to have the h
ighest opinion of his character.”
“Plausible young rascal, I expect,” I said. “Naturally, he would be able to bamboozle a pair of innocent spinsters.”
“That is quite possible,” Brodribb admitted, “and he is certainly most unusually good-looking. I saw that, for myself, though the wig and the costume may have helped. But to continue; he came to the studio to deliver a roll of paper, and Miss Vernet was so struck with his appearance that she persuaded him to pose for the principal figure in her picture. It was a regular arrangement. He came and took up the pose every morning before going to work.
“Now you see how the escape was managed: When he found himself in the Tottenham Court Road in a prison suit, he simply made a bee-line for the studio. He knew about the open window and made straight for it and sprang in. Then the two women bundled him into the dressing-room where he made a quick change into his costume. They hid the prison clothes and he took up his pose on the throne. By the time the police arrived he had become transformed into a lady of the old noblesse. It was a delightful comedy. Now I can appreciate the solemn way in which Miss Vernet conducted the two unsuspecting constables over the premises to search for the missing convict.”
“Can you?” said I, with mock severity. “I am surprised at you, Brodribb, a respectable solicitor, chortling over a manifest conspiracy to defeat the ends of justice. You are not forgetting that secret pocket or the fact that Sir Edward Hardcastle’s seal was found in it?”
“Of course I am not,” he replied. “That is the importance of the discovery. I expect he picked the seal up, though as you say, there is the secret pocket to be accounted for. But we shall soon know all about it. Miss Vernet has arranged for him to meet me at the studio the day after tomorrow. He was quite willing and he is prepared to tell me anything I want to know. I suggested that you might come with me and there was no objection to that, so I hope you will be able to come. It ought to be quite interesting to us all. What do you say?”
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