“That may be,” said Miller; “but I am not taking that head so calmly as you are. It has been the bane of our lives at the Yard, with all the newspaper men shouting ‘unsolved mystery’ and ‘another undetected murder’ and asking perpetually what the police are doing. And it really was a mysterious affair. I have been surprised to notice how little interest you have taken in that head. I should have thought it would have been a problem exactly in your line. But you medical jurists are a cold-blooded lot. You were speaking just now of this man ‘having a human head on his hands’ as if it were a worn-out umbrella or an old pair of boots.”
Thorndyke smiled indulgently. “I am not disparaging the head, Miller,” said he. “It presented quite an interesting problem. But it was not my problem. I was a mere disinterested onlooker.”
“You don’t usually take that sordid view,” grumbled Miller. “I have generally found you ready to take an interest in a curious problem for its own sake.”
To this Thorndyke made no rejoinder, and for some time we walked on in silence. Suddenly, the Superintendent stopped short and stood gazing across the road.
“By the immortal Jingo!” he exclaimed. “Talk of the Devil—”
He broke off and started to run across the road; and, following his movements with my eyes, I saw, on the opposite pavement, a newspaper boy bearing a poster on which was printed in enormous type:
HORRIBLE DISCOVERY.
HEADLESS CORPSE BY ROADSIDE.
It was certainly curiously apropos of the subject of our conversation, and I so far shared the Superintendent’s excitement that I was about to follow him when I saw that he had secured three copies of the paper and was coming back to us with them in his hand. He distributed his gifts rapidly, and then, backing into the wide entry of a draper’s shop, proceeded eagerly to devour the paragraph indicated by the “scare” headlines. Following him into his retreat, I opened the paper and read:
Some months ago the public was horrified by the discovery in the cloak room at Fenchurch Street Station of a human head packed in a wooden case. No solution of the mystery surrounding this terrible relic was forthcoming at the inquest, nor were the police ever able to discover any clue to its origin or the identity of the murderer. The matter was allowed to lapse into oblivion, to be added to the long list of undiscovered murders. But questions relating to this tragedy have been revived by a strange and shocking discovery which was made this morning by the side of the arterial road known as the Watling Street, which passes from London through Dartford to Rochester. Between three and four miles on the Rochester side of Dartford, the road passes through a deep cutting, which was made to reduce the gradient of the hill, the sides of which are in two stages, there being, about half-way up, a shelf several feet wide. As this shelf is some thirty feet above the road, its surface is entirely invisible to anyone passing along the latter, though it is, of course, visible from above. But the hill through which the road is cut is covered with dense woodland, seldom trodden by the foot of man. Thus, for months at a time, this shelf remains unseen by any human eye.
But this morning Fate guided the footsteps of an observer to this spot, so remote and yet so near. A local archaeologist, a Mr. Elmhurst of Gravesend, happened to be making a sketch-map of the features of the wood when his wanderings took him to the edge of the cutting. Looking down the cliff-like descent, he was horrified to observe, lying on the shelf immediately below him, the headless and perfectly nude body of a man. Its huddled attitude suggested that it had rolled down the steep slope and been arrested by the shelf; and, even from the distance at which he stood, it was evident that it had been lying exposed for a considerable time.
Mr. Elmhurst did not stay to make any further observations, but, taking the shortest way to the road, hailed an approaching motorist, who very obligingly conveyed him to Gravesend, where he notified the police of his discovery. An ambulance was at once procured, and, guided by the discoverer, proceeded to the spot, whence—after a careful examination by the police—the body was conveyed to Dartford, where it now lies in the mortuary awaiting an inquest.
The body appears to be that of a youngish man, rather short and exceptionally muscular; and the condition of the strong and well-shaped hands suggests that the deceased was a skilled workman of some kind. The inquest will be opened tomorrow.
As I reached the end of the account, I glanced at the Superintendent and remarked:
“A very creditable piece of journalism. The reporter hasn’t wasted much time. What do you think of it, Miller?”
“Well, I’m very relieved,” he replied. “I’ve been waiting for this for months. I’m fairly sick of all the talk about the unsolved mystery, and the undiscovered murder. Now, we may be able to get a move on, though I must admit that it doesn’t look like a very promising case. It’s a long time since the man was murdered, and there doesn’t seem much to go on. Still, it’s better than a head in a box with no clue to the owner. What do you think of it, Doctor? I suppose you’ve been expecting it, too?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘expecting,’” Thorndyke replied. “The possibility of something of this kind had occurred to me. But you must bear in mind that the head, being preserved and packed in a case, offered no suggestions as to the time or place of death. As this body was apparently not preserved, it will be possible to arrive at an approximate date of death; and, as it was found in a particular place, some idea of locality may be formed. But any conclusions as to the locality in which the murder took place will have to be very cautiously considered, having regard to the ease with which, in these days, bodies can be carried away long distances from the scene of the crime. And, again, the body is nude, so that there will be no help from the clothing towards identification; and, as it appears to have been exposed in the open for months, its own condition will make identification difficult. I agree with you, Miller. It does not look a very promising case.”
The Superintendent nodded and growled an inarticulate assent. But, in spite of Thorndyke’s rather cold comfort, he still seemed disposed to be optimistic; and when we parted at the Inner Temple gate, he walked away with a springy step and an almost jaunty air.
CHAPTER XII
Thorndyke Becomes Interested
Miller’s intense interest in the “horrible discovery” did not surprise me at all. But Thorndyke’s did. For what the Superintendent had said was perfectly true. The mysterious “head in a box” had aroused in him only the most languid curiosity. Which, again to quote Miller, was entirely unlike him. It is true that he liked, if possible, to be officially appointed to investigate an interesting case. But, appointment or no appointment, from sheer professional enthusiasm, he always kept himself informed on, and followed with the closest interest, any criminal case that presented unusual or obscure features.
Now, the “head in the box” case had appeared to me eminently unusual and obscure. It had seemed to imply an atrocious crime which combined with its atrocity a remarkable degree of callous ingenuity. And the mystery surrounding it was undeniable. Excepting some vague connexion with the great platinum robbery (itself an unsolved mystery) it offered not a single clue. Yet Thorndyke had seemed to dismiss it as a mere oddity. He could not have been less moved if it had been a wax-work head—which it certainly was not.
His own explanation did not seem to me to be entirely satisfactory. It was true, as he had said, that there was a total lack of data; and “a mere mystery, without a single leading fact is not, to a medical jurist, worth powder and shot.” The fact that the head was preserved and practically imperishable excluded any inferences as to time or place. It might, for any evidence to the contrary, have been the head of a person who had died in Australia twenty years ago.
So he had dismissed it into the region of the unknowable; at least, so I had understood; though I had never felt quite sure that he had not, in his queer, secret fashion, just docketed it and packed it away in some pigeon-hole of his inexhaustible memory, there to repose until such time as the “leading f
act” should come into view, unrecognized by anyone but himself.
This faint suspicion now tended to revive. For though the headless body looked as hopeless a mystery as the bodyless head, there was clearly no question of dismissing it as “not worth powder and shot.” That powder and shot were already being expended, I ascertained that very evening, when, returning to our chambers after a lengthy consultation, I found on the table a six-inch Ordnance map, a boxwood scale, a pair of dividers and a motor road-map.
The purpose of the latter was obvious on inspection. The Ordnance map was dated 1910 and did not show the arterial road. The motor map showed the new road—and mighty little else; but as much, no doubt, as interested the average motorist. From the road-map, the new road had been transferred in pencil to the Ordnance map, which was thus brought up to date while retaining all the original topographical features; and the locality shown left no doubt as to the nature of the investigation.
I was still looking at the maps and reflecting as above when the door opened and my colleague entered.
“I thought you were out, Thorndyke,” said I.
“No,” he replied; “I have been up in the laboratory, having a chat with Polton about a job that I want him to do. I see you have been inspecting what the reporters will call ‘the scene of the tragedy.’”
“I see that you have,” I retorted, “and have been speculating on your change of front. The ‘head in the box’ apparently left you cold, but you seem to be developing quite a keen interest in this problem. Why this inconsistency?”
“My dear fellow,” he replied, “there is no inconsistency. The case is entirely altered. We have now a number of facts from which to start an inquiry. From the state of the body, we can form an approximate judgment as to the date about which death occurred. Perhaps the cause of death many transpire at the inquest. We knew where the body was found; and even if it may have been conveyed thither from a distance, the selection of the place where it was deposited suggests some local knowledge. The spot was extremely well-chosen, as events have proved.”
“Yes; but it was a queer idea to dump it there. A sort of ghastly practical joke. Just think of it, Thorndyke. Think of that great procession of traffic of all kinds—cars, motor coaches, lorries, cyclists—streaming along that road by the thousand, day after day, month after month; and all the time, within a biscuit-toss of them, that gruesome thing lying there open to the sky.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “there is certainly an element of the macabre in the setting of this crime, though I don’t suppose it was intentional.”
“Neither do I. Nor do I suppose that the horrible picturesqueness of the setting is what is attracting you. I wonder what is.”
Thorndyke did not reply immediately but sat regarding me with a sort of appraising expression (which I recognized, and had come by experience, to associate with some special exhibition of thick-headedness on my part). At length he replied:
“I don’t see why you should. The problem of this headless body abounds in elements of interest. All sorts of questions arise out of it. There is that embalmed head for instance. That seems to have an obvious connexion with this body.”
“Very obvious indeed,” said I, with a grin; “and the connexion was still closer when the head was on the body.”
He smiled indulgently and continued: “Disregarding the suggested anatomical connexion, there is the connexion of action and motive. What, for instance, is the connexion of the man who deposited the head in the cloak-room with this body? We don’t know how he came by that head. The fact that he had it in his possession is an incriminating fact, but it is not evidence of murder. It is not even certain that he knew what was in the case. But whether he did or not, he is obviously involved in a complex of circumstances which includes this body. However, it is premature to discuss the case until we have the additional facts that will probably transpire at the inquest. Meanwhile,” he concluded, with an exasperating smile, “I recommend my learned friend to go carefully over all the facts in his possession, relating both to the embalmed head and the headless body. Let him consider those facts critically as to their separate value and in relation to one another. If he does this, I think he will find that some extremely interesting conclusions will emerge.”
It is unnecessary to say his opinion was not justified by results. I did, indeed, chew the cud of the few, unilluminating facts that were known to me. But the only conclusion that emerged was that, in some obscure way of which I could make nothing, this headless corpse was connected with the mystery of the stolen platinum. But this, I felt sure, was not the conclusion that was in Thorndyke’s mind. And at that, I had to leave it.
On the following morning, Thorndyke went forth to attend at the inquest. I was not able to go with him, nor did I particularly wish to, as I knew that I should get full information from him as to the facts elicited. He started, as I thought, unnecessarily early and he came back unexpectedly late. But this latter circumstance was presently explained by the appearance on the Ordnance map of a pencilled cross at the roadside, indicating the spot on which the body had been lying when it was first seen. Later in the evening, when giving me particulars of the inquest, he mentioned that he had visited the site of the discovery and “gone over the ground, roughly,” having taken his bicycle down by train for that purpose.
“Did you pick up anything of interest at the inquest?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied, “it was quite a good inquest. The coroner was a careful man who knew his business and kept to it, and the medical witness had made a thorough examination and gave his evidence clearly and concisely. As to the facts, they were simple enough, though important. The body was, of course, a good deal the worse for exposure to the weather. As to the date of death, the doctor wisely declined to make a definite statement, but he estimated it at not less than three months ago. The body appeared to be that of a man between thirty and forty years of age, five feet, six inches in height, broad-shouldered and muscular, with rather small, well-shaped hands, which showed a definite, but not considerable, thickening of the skin on the palms; from which, and from the dirty and ill-kept fingernails, the doctor inferred that deceased was a workman of some kind, but not a labourer.
“The head had been separated from the spinal column with a knife, leaving the atlas intact, and, to this extent, the separation had been effected skilfully.”
“Yes,” said I. “That point was made, I remember, at the inquest on the head. It would require some skill and the knowledge as to where the joint was to be found. By the way, was the question of the head raised?”
“Yes. Naturally a juryman wanted to question the doctor on the subject, but the witness very properly replied that his evidence dealt only with facts observed by himself, and the coroner supported him. Then the question was raised whether the head should not be produced for comparison with the body; but the doctor refused to go into the matter, and the coroner pointed out that the head had already been examined medically and that all the facts were available in the depositions of the witnesses. He did, however, read out some of the depositions from the previous inquest and asked the doctor whether the facts set forth in them were consistent with the belief that the head and the headless body were parts of one and the same person; to which the doctor replied that the mode of separation was the same in both and that the parts which were missing in the one were present in the other, but beyond that he would give no opinion.”
“Did he give any opinion as to the cause of death?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” replied Thorndyke. “There was no mystery about that. There was a knife-wound in the back, near the angle of the left scapula, penetrating deeply and transfixing the heart. It appeared to have been inflicted with a large, single-edged knife of the ‘Green River’ type, and obviously with great force. The witness stated, confidently, that it could not have been self-inflicted.”
“That seems to be pretty obvious, too,” said I. “At any rate, the man could not have cut his own head
off.”
“A very capable detective sergeant gave evidence,” Thorndyke resumed, dismissing—to my secret amusement—the trivial and uninteresting detail of the manner in which this unfortunate creature had been done to death. “He stated that the wood had been searched for the dead man’s clothing. But I suspect that it was a very perfunctory search, as he was evidently convinced that it was not there; remarking, plausibly enough, that, since the clothing must have been stripped off to prevent identification, it would not be reasonable to expect to find it in the vicinity. He was of opinion that the body had been brought from a distance in a car or van, and that, probably, two or more persons were concerned in the affair.”
“It seems likely,” I said, “having regard to the remoteness of the place. But it is only a guess.”
“Exactly,” Thorndyke agreed. “There was a good deal of guessing and not many facts; and the few facts that were really significant do not seem to have been understood.”
“What are the facts that you regard as really significant?” I asked. Not that I had the slightest expectation that he would tell me. And he did not. His inevitable reply was:
“You know what the known facts are, Jervis, and you will see for yourself, if you consider them critically, which are the significant ones. But, to return to the inquest. The coroner’s summing-up was excellent, having regard to the evidence that had been given. I took shorthand notes of some of it, and I will read them to you. With reference to the embalmed head he remarked:
“It has been suggested that the head which was found at Fenchurch Street Station ought to have been brought here for comparison. But to what purpose? What kind of comparison is possible? If the head is broken off a china figure and the two parts are lost and subsequently found in different places, the question as to whether they are parts of the same figure can be settled by putting them together and seeing whether the fractured surfaces fit each other. But with a detached human head—especially after the lapse of months—this is not possible. If the preserved head had been exhumed and brought here, we could have learned nothing more from it than we can learn from the depositions of the medical witness, which I have read to you. Accordingly, we must fall back on our common sense; and I think we shall find that enough for our purpose.
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 149
