In due course we were seated comfortably in the study—bottles, glasses and a siphon on the table, and a splendid fire roaring in the grate. It was understood by the family that we desired to be left to ourselves.
“Now,” said Ellingham, “it is rather a long story, but I will try to be as concise as possible.”
Having filled his pipe and lighted it, he began:
“You will scarcely have divined the astounding revelation which I am about to make, but you have probably guessed that I am going to talk about Reisby. That is quite correct. You know, there are points of similarity between Reisby and myself: we are both men of science, and yet we have time for various minor activities. But there is a difference. My own minor activities take the form of social or scientific investigation; whereas the minor activities of Reisby are criminal.”
“Criminal!” A whole crowd of inhibited fears and of dark suspicions rose up in my suddenly excited mind.
“That is the word. For many years Reisby has been carrying on a large and lucrative business in the sale of prohibited drugs.”
“But, Ellingham—if you knew this—”
The implications were too appalling.
“I knew it before the War, before I met Reisby. And yet I considered, rightly or wrongly, that the immense value of his scientific work overbalanced the offences of which he was guilty. I decided to hold my tongue. But I gave you some pretty broad hints. And I did not imagine that your cousin was likely to come to any harm—not of that sort, at any rate—”
He paused for a few moments, staring moodily at the fire, and then he continued:
“Of course I did not properly understand the psychological abnormalities of Reisby. Let me admit it without reserve. But, Farringdale,—before God I do not think you can blame me.”
“My dear man, I certainly don’t blame you.”
I had never seen him in such a mood, and I did not clearly understand his meaning; I had no inkling of the terrible fact he was about to reveal.
“Let me recall a few circumstances. You remember the scene in the sailor’s eating-house at Poplar? A box of chessmen, you will remember, was exchanged. What you did not observe, probably, was that Reisby’s opponent was quite ignorant of the game and was merely pushing his pieces in a random and senseless manner. The important part of the transaction was the exchange of the box. It contained, I should imagine, a few hundred pounds’ worth of drugs. Occasionally the chessmen themselves are hollow, with screwed-on bases, and they are filled, very ingeniously, with cocaine and other things—”
“Ellingham,—it is incredible!”
“It is true, my friend. But let us now consider the Professor’s life at home in the north. You are struck at once by the grim isolation of Scarweather. You are impressed by the Professor’s great skill in handling a boat, and you are puzzled by his solitary marine excursions at night, or in the early hours of the morning. Then you notice (I did, at any rate) a coincidence between these marine activities and the appearance of a barque from Hamburg, the Emil Guntershausen. Eh? A very high percentage of the drugs which are smuggled to England are sent over from Hamburg. It is also known to the police that large quantities of these drugs are imported at various points on our northern seaboard. Navigation within half a mile of the Yeaverlow Bank is a simple matter if the weather is calm and clear; at the same time, it is a long way out of the ordinary course of vessels proceeding to Northport. I dare say it is not so easy for the Professor at present because, apart from his age, he has been deprived (or has deprived himself) of the services of Joe Lloyd—one of the most infamous of unhung scoundrels—”
“I expected something of the sort.”
“I did more than suspect. I made certain. I photographed Mr. Lloyd when he was not observing me, and I caused his image to be sent to various parts of the world. There is little doubt that he was convicted of murder at Pernambuco in 1898, and again at Mexico City in 1902. Lloyd, of course, received a share of the profits. He could have betrayed Reisby; but then, he was getting a lot of money out of the job, and I expect Reisby knew a thing or two about Mr. Lloyd. I expect he met him down at the Docks, and got him up to Aberleven as soon as he knew that a suitable cottage was vacant. Eventually, as we shall see, he got rid of Lloyd—at least I have reasons for believing that to be the case.”
It was a horrible story; and yet I could tell, from the rapid and concise delivery of Ellingham, that the greatest horror was not yet revealed, not even foreshadowed.
“Then you have the mysterious visitors at Scarweather; they are called pupils or something of the kind, but they are not pupils at all—they are customers or dealers. It is all quite clear, and surprisingly simple, is it not? Now let us move on to the study of Reisby himself.”
Ellingham quickly reviewed the official biographical data, and then he began to speak with an increase of gravity and of deliberation.
“Eccentricity of behaviour is to be looked for when the intellect is lively and original, and above all when it is explorative and creative. Eccentricity, indeed, is invariably present in men of real distinction, and invariably absent in the mere money-grubber. A casual eye, even now, might regard Reisby as an amiable and harmless eccentric, showing, perhaps, a slight decay of mental power. He is between sixty-six and sixty-seven. But examine him more closely.
“Since you know that he engaged in the drug traffic, and is probably still engaged in it, you ask yourself if he shows any signs of the drug habit. It is quite evident that he does. Even the doctors have guessed it. Apart from the subtle pathological symptoms, you have pronounced and unreasonable alternations of a frenzied hilarity and a suicidal gloom. But that is a crude piece of deduction, not beyond the capacity of a mere medical practitioner. I have less evident, but more convincing and interesting, reasons for believing that Reisby is mentally disordered, if I am not justified in calling him literally mad.
“Consider this passionate investigation of tombs, this persistent unearthing and this ecstatic display of burials. Is the impulse purely archaeological? Decidedly not! As you know, I have dabbled sufficiently in this make-believe of a science to understand the procedure of those who consider themselves expert, and who are indeed expert in the handling of unimportant trifles. Goy is a good example, an exceptionally favourable example. Now Reisby is admittedly an archaeological expert; but when it comes to this burial-business, he plunges into something fierce and primitive, something which is not science at all. Have you ever heard of necromania?”
“I have not heard of it, but I can see what you mean.”
“It is probably a perversion of cult. It is a horrible passion for the dead, and for things pertaining to burial. The whole of life, in fact, is contemplated as a sort of macabre fantasy. George Selwyn is a classic example of the necromaniac; Boswell, though in a much lesser degree, is another; Horace Walpole is tainted. Byron had a touch of it, for he was fond of collecting human bones and of looking at dead bodies. I am careful to choose remote examples. But necromania is prevalent, at the present day, among writers of the baser breed, and horribly prevalent among surgeons. Perhaps it is a part of the archaic residue which is to be found in every man, however outwardly civilised. Now, every mania, if it is carried too far, is dangerous, tending to produce actions which are criminal or insane.”
“I have suspected it. And that is why I am so anxious about Hilda—about Mrs. Reisby—and the girl.”
“Farringdale, you are a man of sense and experience, even if you lack the imaginative faculties. I am going to tell you something which is bound to shock you profoundly. Please prepare yourself.”
Already I was beginning to guess.
“It is about Eric.”
“Precisely.”
He paused to fill his pipe again, and I mixed myself a whisky and soda.
“I shall tell you what I have to say in the briefest manner. We can review the details at a later stag
e. I shall only say this, by way of preparing you. At one time you had certain suspicions about Reisby and your cousin; your suspicions, though you were unaware of it, rested upon a foundation of solid fact. Listen.
“When your cousin went up to Scarweather in 1914 Professor Reisby was madly jealous. He had discovered, perhaps through the interception of some indiscreet letter, that Eric and Mrs. Reisby were in love with each other. He invited Eric to Scarweather at a time when he knew that Mrs. Reisby and Frances would be absent. It is probable, indeed, that he wrote immediately after his discovery, when he at once decided upon a terrible revenge. I need not remind you that he had shown signs of jealousy before—you will remember the scene at Caer Carrws, for example. Eric went to Scarweather on the 24th of July. Soon after ten o’clock in the evening Reisby killed him.”
“Yes—I understand.”
I felt a tingling dryness on my tongue and I could hear the blood drum in my ears. “I always thought so.”
“Very probably he drugged him. The rest was easy. Lloyd had been out fishing, and some time before eleven o’clock he ran his boat ashore in Scarweather creek. There was nothing unusual in that, for he was in the habit of doing so. It was a dark night with a clouded sky. The moon was new on the 23rd. Reisby had prepared everything. Lloyd came up to the drive; the car was quietly pushed out of the garage and along the drive to the road; your cousin’s body, probably stripped and wrapped in sacking, was placed in the car. By 11.30—perhaps much earlier—the car was in the plantation above the Devil’s Hump. The tumulus was extremely well known, both to Lloyd and to Reisby, for they had used it as a cache for certain boxes, at a time when they anticipated a raid by the police. Here also, everything had been carefully prepared, carefully thought out in every detail. You see, my dear John, the skeleton we took out of the tumulus, the skeleton which is now so handsomely enshrined in Northport Museum, is the skeleton of your cousin Eric.”
“No, no, Ellingham, that’s impossible! My God, it’s impossible! It’s a crazy notion!”
I drew back, as if something hard and cold had struck me full in the face. It was too preposterous! Reisby could never have done a thing so abominable. I thought of all the scenes at the excavation and after—the bones on the table, the presentation, the lecture. Only a madman could have executed a scheme so diabolical, a fantasy of revenge, a ghastly piece of bravado, so cruel, so outrageous… I did not believe it. I remembered how Reisby had shown the bones to his wife. Besides, the risk would have been too great. Only a madman would have taken such a risk. Only a madman…
Then I tried to control myself. I nodded my head, and Ellingham resumed:
“No doubt they finished their grim work at the barrow soon after two o’clock. Reisby had taken with him the beaker and the other objects to place with the burial, for he had then foreseen, either the excavation of the tumulus at some future date by some unknown person, or the frightful macabre comedy in which so many worthy people unwittingly played their parts. (No such beaker, by the way, was ever in Sir Hugh Cnocsalter’s collection.) Two immensely powerful men such as Reisby and Lloyd would have had no difficulty in opening the chamber from above, and in replacing the disturbed earth about it: they may have completed their job on the following night. However that may be, your cousin’s clothes and the towel were placed in Reisby’s boat, and I should imagine that the boat was towed out to the Bank by Lloyd just before dawn. I am not clear as to this business of the boats; it might have been done in more ways than one, and the actual procedure is not of much importance. Tide was high at 11.45, and the ebb ran to about 5.30. What happened afterwards you know.
“When I took all those apparently silly photographs of the Devil’s Hump, I did so because I saw the evidence of movement and of deliberate mechanical displacement at various times. I guessed that Reisby had something to do with it, but I did not immediately suspect the truth. Then, during the years after the War, I formed the opinion that Reisby was a lunatic; I took up the study of archaeology, and my opinion was confirmed.
“And then I took note of Reisby’s very singular attitude towards the Devil’s Hump. Many years before I believed the tumulus was associated with your cousin’s death, I believed it concealed a piece of vital evidence. You see, I never believed in the bathing-accident theory, and I had many reasons for rejecting it: some of them will occur to you, and I think they did occur to you at the time.
“Obviously, however, no one could open the tumulus in Reisby’s lifetime, except Reisby himself. When he actually decided to open it, I was taken aback—you may remember my ill-concealed surprise—and I wondered if I was mistaken. Then I considered the disorder of Reisby’s mind, the special and appalling form of his mania, and I saw that he might be contemplating a stroke of devilish irony—a thing almost outside the limits of belief, yet by no means outside the limits of the possible. I asked you for certain particulars about your cousin; you can see why. I remembered vaguely something about a football accident, but the tooth was pure guesswork.
“I need not trouble you with an account of my intermediate researches, and with my determined and ultimate successful efforts to win the good-will and to allay the suspicions of Reisby. I will come to the time of the dig, and I will then show you what I discovered afterwards.
“Even before the discovery of the skeleton—which was conclusive—there were scraps of evidence which tended to support my theory: the bit of Reisby’s pen-knife, the sixpenny-piece, and other less conspicuous things. My earlier photographs had, of course, proved the recent disturbance of the mound beyond all possible doubt.
“As for the skeleton, my procedure involved a startling dramatic exercise. The skeleton, as you know, was uncovered from the feet. I had to place myself in a position where I could watch closely the exposure of the knees. At the critical moment I thrust myself in front of the others, bending over the earth, so that I could see what was coming. I pushed my fingers over the knee-joint, and I felt, rather than saw, the wired patella!
“It was absolutely imperative that I should get hold of this without anyone seeing what I did. I therefore gave a theatrical display which was entirely successful, and while you were all staring down the hill I picked up the bone and the wire and put them in my pocket.
“Getting the tooth was not so easy. I had no chance at the barrow, and I had to steal it most adroitly in Reisby’s study afterwards. Perhaps you recall the scene. It is, of course, a composite molar, fitted into the socket by a most ingenious little device. It has now been identified by the dentist who supplied it to your cousin sixteen years ago.
“Fortunately I had no difficulty in tracing the specialist who wired the knee-cap. Never mind what I told him. The wire alone was sufficient evidence: it is bi-convex in section and is made of a phosphor-nickel alloy, plated with silver, which was only used by this particular surgeon. I proved this only two days ago.
“That is the main evidence—the damning, conclusive and appalling evidence. And it is appalling! You can imagine what I felt when I saw Mrs. Reisby touching the skull!
“From the archaeological point of view, the presence of a beaker-burial in a tumulus which appears to be of the post-beaker period, and which contains numerous cremation-burials of that period, is at least astonishing. But it would be unwise to attach undue importance to this point, for archaeology is hardly capable of proving anything conclusively. You have only to invoke theories of importation, intrusion, disturbance, accident, coincidence, survival of custom, pseudo-this or neo-that, and the whole thing is lost in a senseless medley of jargon, contradiction and blank ignorance.
“And now, I think, the disappearance of Joe Lloyd is also explained, though I do not pretend to know in what particular way he disappeared. Lloyd knew too much, and he may have turned nasty; he may have demanded higher profits, indulged in a threat of blackmail. At any rate, he disappears, and I cannot say that I feel any sympathy for him or any curiosity in regard to his fate.
Then there is another disappearance—that of the boy who worked at Scarweather before the War. That may be quite voluntary; but it’s odd, to say the least of it.”
2
It would be tedious and impertinent if I inflicted upon the reader an account of my own reactions and emotions; for this, as I have said, is not a personal history but the story of a crime.
I agreed with Ellingham that we had to move in the matter, and to move at once. Reisby was a lunatic with homicidal tendencies. Apart from the simple question of justice, there was the more urgent question of protecting his family and society at large.
We dismissed the idea of placing the matter in the hands of the police before confronting Reisby himself with the evidence of his crime. Ellingham had already made a tentative approach, and the police were incredulous and insisted upon extreme caution. It was possible that Reisby, if suddenly accused, would give himself away completely. “And after all,” said Ellingham, “he is a man of tremendous achievement, a man to whom respectable science and the public are both indebted, and it would be only fair to give him a chance.” He did not explain precisely what he meant, but I think I understood him. I thought of poor Hilda and her daughter and all the sordid horrors of a murder trial.
Finally we decided to go to Northport without loss of time, and thence to drive over to Aberleven.
I returned to London on the following day, Sunday, put my immediate affairs in order and made one or two necessary arrangements, and came back to Cambridge in the evening. On Monday, the 29th of October, we arrived at Northport and took rooms at the Blue Elephant Hotel. On Tuesday morning we drove to Scarweather, leaving our car at the end of the drive and telling the chauffeur to wait for us. It was about eleven o’clock when we knocked at the Professor’s door. The day was cold and overcast, with a faint though steely breeze from the south-east.
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