The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  “I remember that she was wearing a rather conspicuous dress with sleeves a different colour from the bodice and skirt.”

  Here Thorndyke produced Pedley’s sketch and passed it across to the witness.

  “I want you,” said he, “to look carefully at that picture and tell me whether it recalls anything to your memory.”

  The witness looked at the painting attentively for a few moments, and then replied:

  “The woman in the picture reminds me strongly of Louisa Saunders. She is like her in figure and in the colour of her hair, and the dress is exactly like the one that Saunders was wearing when she came to the prison and when she left it. Of course, I can’t identify her as Saunders because the face is not recognizable, but otherwise the resemblance seems to be complete.”

  This concluded the examination-in-chief, and, as Thorndyke sat down, Lorimer rose to cross-examine.

  “Is it not rather remarkable,” he asked, “that you should have so clear a recollection of this prisoner after the lapse of so long a time?”

  “I don’t think so,” she replied. “A prison officer is expected to be able to remember and recognize persons, and Saunders was a rather unusual prisoner. Most of the women who come in at receptions are of the lowest class; and then the dress that she was wearing was a distinctly striking one. And,” the witness added with a deprecating smile, “a female prison officer, like any other woman, is apt to have a good memory for an unusual dress.”

  “This one,” his Lordship remarked, “certainly seems to have made a deep impression on the ladies who had seen it, judging by the evidence, as they all remembered it clearly. But the photographs give a very misleading rendering of it, though one can see that the sleeves and collar are of a different colour from the bodice. The painter has still some advantage over the photographer.”

  “In the matter of colour, my Lord,” said Lorimer. “Not in respect of personal identity. I do not admit that the figure in the painting has been identified.”

  “No, no, no!” exclaimed the judge. “I was referring only to the colour of the dress. No one has suggested that there has been actual identification of the person.”

  With this, Lorimer opened a new subject. “You have said that you were present at the police court proceedings. Was any evidence produced to show that the accused had any guilty knowledge of the character of the notes?”

  “None except the fact that she had the notes in her possession and had passed one of them.”

  “Was there any evidence that her explanation of the way she came by those notes could not be true?”

  “No. But the trouble was that she refused to say where she got the notes or who gave them to her.”

  On receiving this answer Lorimer discreetly closed his cross-examination, having apparently made his point, which seemed to be that the accused might quite possibly have been innocent, the conviction notwithstanding. Why he should stress this point I could not quite see, unless he was beginning to entertain the same suspicion as that which was creeping into my own mind.

  I had listened to Miss Rendell’s evidence with intense interest; indeed, I had been considerably startled, not only by the identification but by the curious coincidence of dates. But my interest was feeble compared to his Lordship’s. The new identification had evidently astonished him, and, when the date of the prisoner’s arrest was mentioned he hurriedly turned over his notes and made some comparisons; and when the photographs were handed up to him, he spread them out in a row and rapidly compared them. There was no need for a prolonged examination, as I realized when they reached me, for the two pairs appeared to be from the same negatives. The only difference was that the “originals” showed a black batten with the prisoner’s name chalked on it fixed across the chair and occupying the foot of the portrait, whereas, in the “incomplete copies” the batten had been masked out.

  But there were other interested listeners besides the judge and me. Mr. Schiller, although he still made a show of keeping his eyes closed, was evidently wide awake. Inspector Blandy followed the evidence with close attention; and Superintendent Miller, who had slipped quietly into the court some time previously with my friend, Dr. Oldfield, was listening and watching attentively, though he must have known all about Miss Rendell’s evidence.

  As the latter lady made her dignified exit from the box, the judge cast a quick, expectant glance at Thorndyke; then the name of the next witness was called, and Dr. James Oldfield came forward and presented himself to be sworn and to give evidence.

  In his case, as in that of the previous witness, the examination began with the passing across of the two “incomplete copies.”

  “Will you look at those two photographs, Dr. Oldfield,” said Thorndyke, “and tell us whether they seem to be portraits of any person whom you have ever seen?”

  Oldfield examined the photographs closely for nearly a minute; and as he looked at them, there stole gradually over his face an expression of surprised recognition. At length he replied cautiously:

  “These photographs appear to me to be portraits of Emma Robey, the woman who was murdered about two years ago at 39 Jacob Street, Hampstead Road.”

  “Can you say definitely that they are portraits of Emma Robey?”

  “I don’t like to swear, positively, that they are. The woman had been dead about three weeks when I examined her body, and some changes had occurred. But I feel a strong conviction that these are portraits of her. Would it be permissible for me to refer to my notes?”

  “When did you take the notes?” the judge asked.

  “I made them in the mortuary in the presence of the body, and I compared and verified them, point by point, after I had written them.”

  “Then you may certainly refer to them,” said the judge.

  On this, Oldfield produced from his pocket a small book, and, opening it at a marked place, made a systematic comparison of the notes and the photographs. When he had finished, he announced:

  “I have compared the description in the notes, detail by detail, with the photographs, and I find that they agree in every respect except one. That is that the hair in the photograph is considerably shorter than the hair of the corpse when I examined it.”

  “Did you note the exact length of the hair?”

  “I did not measure it, but I noted it in the description as just down to the shoulders.”

  “With that exception, you find complete agreement between your description and the photographs?”

  “Yes; the agreement is complete in every detail.”

  “And, apart from the written description, do you recognize the portraits as being like Emma Robey?”

  “Yes. As soon as I saw the photographs I felt that they were portraits of somebody whom I had seen; and when I tried to recall who that somebody was, I suddenly realized that she was Emma Robey. I may say that I have now no doubt that these are really portraits of her.”

  At this point my attention was attracted by Mr. Schiller; who had suddenly awakened, and now, puffing out his watch and glancing at it with a startled air, stood up abruptly, and, with a little bow to the judge, began to make his way slowly and silently towards the door. As he rose, so also did Inspector Blandy and Superintendent Miller, both of whom moved off unobtrusively in the same direction. I followed the three figures eagerly with my eyes as they converged on the exit, Schiller leading and slightly quickening his pace. One by one they passed out, and as the door swung to noisily, after the last of them, the judge (who had also been observing the exodus) took the photographs in his hand and remarked:

  “This is a most extraordinary affair. These portraits have now been confidently identified as three different persons.”

  “My submission is, my Lord,” said Thorndyke, “that those three are one and the same person.”

  “That would seem,” the judge began; but at this moment a heavy thump on the swing door sent it flying inwards, and, through the opening came a sound as of several persons scuffling, mingled with low but e
xcited voices. Then, in the midst of the confused noises, a pistol shot rang out. And as the door swung to, the sounds became more muffled and distant. After a short interval, at a sign from the judge, the usher hurried towards the door, and, having peered out cautiously, disappeared, and the door swung to after him. There was a brief silence during which we all waited expectantly. Then the usher reappeared, in company with Superintendent Miller, and announced:

  “This officer, my Lord, has a communication to make to your Lordship.”

  The judge made no comment but looked inquiringly at Miller, who stepped up to the bench and made his “communication.”

  “I have to inform your Lordship,” said he, “that Mr. Carl Schiller has just been arrested on a charge of having murdered his wife.”

  “Is it permissible,” asked the judge, who seemed more interested than surprised, “for you to give any particulars of the charge?”

  “It is quite permissible, my Lord,” replied Miller, “as the prisoner will be brought before a magistrate immediately. The arrest was made on an information sworn by Dr. Thorndyke, and the charge is that the accused did, on the 12th of December 1930, at Number 39 Jacob Street, Hampstead Road, murder his wife, Lotta Schiller, by forcibly administering poison to her.”

  “Ah,” said the judge, “thirty-nine, Jacob Street. Then the Epping Forest tragedy, if there ever was one, is irrelevant to the case of this poor woman?”

  “Quite irrelevant, my Lord,” Miller agreed.

  The judge reflected for a few moments; then, addressing the court, that is to say the counsel and solicitors, he said:

  “You have heard this officer’s remarkable announcement. Obviously this new information involves at least the suspension of these proceedings. If there is evidence that Lotta Schiller was murdered, there must be evidence that she is dead; and if her death can be proved, that proof excludes the idea of presuming it. The hearing will therefore be adjourned sine die.”

  On this, we all rose. The witnesses—there were no spectators—faded out of the court, and we were preparing to depart also. But the judge made no sign of retiring Instead, he craned out of his seat towards Thorndyke, and, in a low voice, suggested his desire for a little further enlightenment. Accordingly Thorndyke stepped over to the bench, and Lorimer and I had no false delicacy about following him.

  “Well, Doctor,” said the judge, “as you seem to have been making use of the Probate Court for your own purposes, I think that the least you can do is to satisfy our legitimate curiosity. Now, what I want to know is, what has happened to the woman who personated Lotta Schiller at 39 Jacob Street, and what part did she take in the crime?”

  “There was no woman, my Lord,” replied Thorndyke. “The person who was known at Jacob Street as Lotta Schiller was Carl Schiller, dressed and made up as a woman.”

  “God bless me!” exclaimed the judge, “it sounds incredible. I suppose you have clear evidence as to the identity?”

  “Yes,” Thorndyke replied. “The two persons are identical in their physical characteristics; in size, eye-colour, form of features, and in the exact shape of the ears.”

  “That won’t carry you very far in support of a capital charge,” the judge commented.

  “No,” Thorndyke agreed. “It would be of no use excepting for corroboration. But there is one piece of evidence that is quite conclusive. Providence has been kinder to us than to the criminal. It happens that Carl Schiller has a most unusual type of hair.”

  “Ha!” the judge exclaimed. “There is something queer about the hair, is there? I thought, when I looked at the locket, that it was odd-looking hair. Very unusual, is it?”

  “It is more than that, my Lord. It presents one of the rarest of anomalies. This ringed hair, as it is called, each hair being marked by alternate light and dark bands, is of such extreme rarity that, in the whole of my professional experience, I have never before met with a case. Only a very few examples exist in museums.”

  “That is fairly impressive,” said the judge. “But the specimen in the locket, which, I suppose, is what you rely on, appertains to the lady. Do you know as a fact that Carl Schiller has hair of this character?”

  “I do,” replied Thorndyke. “There, again, Providence has been kind to us. During the last hearing, a very curious accident happened in court. Mr. Schiller’s head became in some way stuck to the back of the bench, and it was necessary for a person who was sitting in the bench behind him to cut the hair in order to liberate him. The piece of hair which was cut off came into my possession, and, of course, as soon as it was examined with the microscope, the murder was, literally, out.”

  The judge’s eyes twinkled. “Ha!” said he. “Now I wonder how that gentleman’s head became stuck to the bench? Do you happen to know?”

  “I don’t actually know,” Thorndyke replied, “but I have certain suspicions.”

  “So have I,” said his Lordship.

  CHAPTER XVII

  Observations on the Art of Disguise

  It might perhaps be of interest, if space permitted, to describe in detail the trial of Carl Schiller for the murder of his wife, Lotta. But space does not permit, nor is there any need for such description, since all the facts brought forward in evidence against him are known to the reader of this narrative. It is, however, one thing to know the facts, but quite another to perceive their application or the inferences deducible from them. I had known all the facts that were known to Thorndyke; but it was not until I had heard him reconstruct the course of the investigation that I perceived their exact connections and understood how, by piecing them together, he had evolved his startling conclusion.

  The trial had run its course to its inevitable end. The jury, without leaving the box, had brought in their verdict of “Guilty,” the judge had pronounced sentence of death; and the prisoner had descended the stairs from the dock, vanishing for ever from the sight of men; and the spectators, having thus witnessed the fall of the curtain, rose and began to surge out through the open doors. I followed them as soon as I could, and, presently, in the great hail, encountered Polton, Pedley, and Vanderpuye, whom I joined to wait for Thorndyke.

  For my part, I had looked on at the unfolding of the drama, at the piling up of the deadly evidence, with no single twinge of pity or compunction, even when the judge had assumed the black cap and pronounced the final words of doom. But it was otherwise with our two friends. For them it had been impossible, as they looked on the white-faced brute in the dock, facing his accusers like a caged wild beast, to forget the ties of friendship and even of affection that had once bound them to him. Looking at their pale and troubled faces, I realized that it had been a painful ordeal which had left them shocked and saddened. So, too, Thorndyke, when he came out and joined us, was instantly aware of their distressed state of mind, and, with his invariable sympathy and kindliness, sought for some means of distracting their thoughts from their late painful experience.

  “I am wondering, Polton,” said he, “whether the resources of 5A King’s Bench Walk are equal to an impromptu dinner for five?”

  “The resources of Number 5A, sir, are unlimited,” was the confident reply, in a tone of persuasive eagerness.

  “Then,” said Thorndyke, “I am in a position to ask our two friends to give us the very great pleasure of their society this evening.”

  He glanced inquiringly at Pedley and Vanderpuye, both of whom accepted the invitation with almost pathetic promptitude; whereupon Polton excused him self and darted off like a lamplighter, while we, since it was still some time short of any reasonable dinner hour, meandered down the Old Bailey to Ludgate Hill in search of a much-needed cup of tea. When we had disposed of this, with as much lively conversation as Thorndyke and I could produce for the occasion, we set forth at a leisurely pace for the Temple by way of the Embankment.

  Polton’s estimate of the resources of 5A King’s Bench Walk was justified by the result, though I suspected that the Rainbow or some other excellent Fleet Street tavern had been
pressed into service. But however that may have been, the dinner to which we sat down in due course did credit to the establishment, handsomely supported as it was by the products of our own cellar, which Polton had raided to some purpose (though his own place at the table was marked ingloriously by a bottle of lemonade). The unobtrusive service was conducted by William, Polton’s domestic understudy, aided by a mysterious stranger of waiter-like aspect, who lurked in the background performing curious feats of legerdemain with dishes and covers but never intruding into William’s domain.

  The opening stages of a good dinner “when beards wag all” are not adapted for sustained conversation. So, for a time, what talk there was concerned itself for the most part with cheerful trivialities. But at the back of all our minds was the drama which we had seen played out to its tragic end a few hours before, and inevitably it had to come to the surface sooner or later. But it was not until the manducatory pace had slowed down and the wine had circulated that the subject, hitherto taboo, was broached, and even then only indirectly.

  “Before I forget,” said Thorndyke, “let me make restitution.” He produced from his pocket Pedley’s notebook and Vanderpuye’s locket, and, pushing them across the table towards their respective owners, added:

  “There is no need for me to tell you how much I am indebted to you both for the loan and the use of these things. You have heard the evidence and you know what invaluable light they threw on the mystery.”

  Pedley took up the book and pocketed it without remark; but Vanderpuye hesitated, looking at the little bauble as it lay on the table with intense disfavour. Eventually, however, he picked it up and dropped it into his pocket with something of a gesture of disgust.

  “Your property, Polton,” said Thorndyke, “is, as you see, on the mantelpiece, and is now at your disposal, with many thanks for the loan.”