by AnonYMous
“Suggestive!” he muttered to himself.
He parted the young fellow’s lips, and examined his gums. On each of them, where the teeth joined the gums, there was a well-marked blue line.
“This is most important,” he said. “You know, I suppose, the significance Of this blue line?”
Father Benn shook his head.
“What does it signify?” he said.
“It signifies,” said Sexton Blake, “that this young fellow has been suffering for some time from a disease known as lead poisoning. This blue line on the gums, this wasted condition of the muscles of the forearm, and this peculiar drooping of the wrist—which is known as ‘dropwrist’—are all well-recognised symptoms of that disease, which is caused by the constant and frequent introduction into the system of minute quantities of lead.
“The men who are most commonly afflicted with lead-poisoning,” he continued, “are lead-workers, painters, plumbers, and file-cutters. We may safely conclude, therefore, that this young man follows one of those occupations. From the absence of any paint stains on his hands, and from the absence of the burns and bruises which one usually finds on a plumber’s hands, I have little hesitation in saying that he is either a lead-worker or a file-cutter. If we can discover which of these trades he followed, we shall have obtained a valuable clue to his identity.”
“I don’t know if this will help you, sir,” said the nun, speaking for the first time, “but he has three peculiar spots on the upper part of his right arm. They were little more than scratches when first I saw him on Wednesday night, but during yesterday and today they have grown bigger and quite inflamed.”
The nun rolled up the man’s shirtsleeve; and the moment the detective’s eyes fell on the “three peculiar spots” an involuntary cry of satisfaction rose to his lips.
“Re-vaccination marks!” he exclaimed. “From their appearance, four days old. Splendid! This man was re-vaccinated four days ago, from which we may safely conclude that he is a file-cutter, and comes from Sheffield.”
The blank look of bewilderment which crossed Father Benn’s face was eloquent of hie mystification.
“How do you make that out?” he asked.
“Here is a young fellow, twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, who was I re-vaccinated four days ago,” said Sexton Blake. “How many such will you find in the North, of England at the present moment? Not many. But there is a town in the Midlands where young men, middle-aged men, and old men are being re-vaccinated at the present time by thousands. That town, of course, is Sheffield, where the prevailing epidemic of smallpox is driving the inhabitants to seek safety in re-vaccination.”
It should here be explained that these events took place in December, 1887, when the epidemic of smallpox in Sheffield was just at its height.
“We have already decided,” continued Sexton Blake, “that this young fellow is either a lead-worker or a file-cutter. We have discovered that he is suffering from lead-poisoning, and that he was re-vaccinated four days ago. There are practically no lead-workers in Sheffield, but there are thousands of file-cutters, amongst whom the disease of lead-poisoning is terribly prevalent. Putting two and two together, therefore, there is no doubt whatever in my mind that this young fellow is a file-cutter, and comes from Sheffield.”
“Assuming that your theory is correct,” said Father Benn, “what do you propose to do?”
“I propose, to go to Sheffield by the next train,” said Sexton Blake. “On reaching Sheffield I shall obtain a list of all the medical men in the town, and I shall then set to work to call on them. To each of the doctors I interview I shall describe this man, and to each of them I shall say, ‘Did you, last Monday, re-vaccinate a young file-cutter such as I have described, and who was suffering from lead-poisoning? If so, what is his name, and where does he live?’
“And when I have found a doctor who answers my question in the affirmative,” concluded Sexton Blake, “I shall have taken the first step towards solving the mystery of your unknown visitor’s identity.” Two hours later the detective left for Sheffield.
III.
“Yes,” said the seventeenth doctor whom Sexton Blake interviewed; “I re-vaccinated the man you describe last Monday afternoon. His name is Arthur Wilson, and he lives at No. 5, Court 37, Portland Street.”
A quarter of an hour later a hansom landed Sexton Blake at the entrance of the passage which led to Court 37, Portland Street. Bidding the driver wait for him, the detective strode up the passage to No. 5.
“Does Mr. Arthur Wilson live here?” he asked of the old woman who answered his knock.
“Yes; but ’e’s away from ’ome at present,” she replied. “Would you like to see ’is father?”
“Please,” said Sexton Blake. And she thereupon conducted him to a dirty, barely-furnished bedroom, in which lay an old man, apparently in the last stage of consumption.
“My name is Sexton Blake,” said the detective. “I’ve called to enquire about your son. He left here, I believe, last Wednesday, and went to Rocksby.”
The old man started, and regarded him with a glance of stupefied amazement.
“’Ow did you know!” he gasped.
By way of reply, the detective told him all that had happened.
Long before he had finished, the old man’s eyes blazed with fury.
“It was Julian Cole who shot ’im!” he cried. “Arthur must ’ave met ’im on ’is way to the ’All. Arthur must ’ave told ’im he was goin’ to see Sir Norman, an’ Cole must ’ave tried to murder ’im. But I’ll be even with the scoundrel! I’ll make a clean breast of everything!”
“The very best thing you can do,” said Sexton Blake. “Fire away!”
“Thirty years ago,” said Arthur Wilson’s father, “I was butler at Rocksby ’All. There was livin’ at the ’All at that time Sir Norman Verrill, who was a widower, ’is only son, Ralph Verrill, an’ Sir Norman’s nephew, Julian Cole. Julian’s parents ’ad died a year or two before, an’ Sir Norman ’ad adopted ’im.
“Ralph was a fine young feller, but Julian was a skunk, an’ was always tryin’ to supplant Ralph in Sir Norman’s favour. At last ’is chance came. A burglar broke into the ’All one night, an’ was riflin’ Sir Norman’s safe, when Ralph surprised ’im. The burglar stunned ’im with a life-preserver, an’ ’ad just climbed out of the library winder, when Julian an’ me arrived on the scone.
“We found Ralph lyin’ unconscious by the side of the open safe, an’ Julian sez to me, sez he, ‘I’ll give you five ’undred pounds if you’ll tell Sir Norman as me an’ you found Ralph riflin’ the safe, an’ knocked ’im down.’
“I accepted ’is offer; an’, though Ralph protested ’is innocence when he came round, Sir Norman believed our story, an’ he ordered Ralph to leave the ’ouse an’ never darken its doors again. Next day he made a new will, disinheriting Ralph an’ leavin’ all to Julian.
“Julian paid me my five ’undred pounds,” continued the old man, “an’ a, few months later I resigned my situation as butler at the ’All an’ came to Sheffield, which is my native town. I took a pub, and in 1801 I married. Arthur was born in 1862, an’ when he was eighteen years old my wife died. After ’er death everything went wrong, an’ two years ago I gave up the pub, an’ came to live ’ere with Arthur an’ a ’ousekeeper. ’Im an’ me got work as file-cutters, an’ for eighteen months we did fairly well. Then ’e took bad with lead poisonin’, an’ I fell ill with consumption, an’ last Tuesday the doctor told me I was goin’ to die.
“Up till then I’d never told a livin’ soul about the bargain between me an’ Julian Cole. When I knew I was goin’ to die, my conscience began to prick me; an’, in the end, to make a long story short, I determined to tell Sir Norman everything. So I first told Arthur all about it, an’ then I asked ’im to go to Rocksby an’ ask Sir Norman to come an’ see me.
“Arth
ur left ’ere on Wednesday afternoon,” he concluded. “He couldn’t book all the way to Rocksby, so he booked as far as Scarborough, which explains why he gave up a ticket from Scarborough when he arrived at Rocksby at 5.45 on Wednesday night. I expected ’im back, with Sir Norman, yesterday; an’ it was not till you came this mornin’, an’ told me wot ’ad ’appened, that I knew why ’e ’adn’t come.”
“So your theory is,” said Sexton Blake, “that your son arrived at Rocksby on Wednesday evening, that he met Cole on his way to the Hall, that he foolishly told him why he wished to see Sir Norman, that Cole attempted to shoot him, that your son fled and took refuge with Father Benn, and that Cole, who had followed him, shot him through the presbytery window?”
“Yes,” said the old man.
“And I’m very much inclined to agree with you,” said Sexton Blake. “Anyhow, I’ll now return to Rocksby and test your theory.”
IV.
In accordance with this programme, the detective left Sheffield by the first available train, and arrived at Rocksby at a quarter to six in the evening. At half-past six he presented himself at Rocksby Hall, where, on asking for Sir Norman Verrill, he was informed by the butler that Sir Norman was away from home, and had been away for the past three weeks, but was expected back on Monday. On enquiring for Julian Cole, he was informed that Cole had hurriedly left the Hall on Wednesday night, saying that he was going to visit some friend in the south.
“He’s lying low until he hears whether Wilson recovers or dies,” said Sexton Blake to Father Benn. “If he hears that Wilson has died without telling his secret, he’ll return to Rocksby. If he learns that the truth has been discovered, he’ll never be heard of again.”
The detective proved a true prophet. Nothing had been heard of Julian Cole up till Monday, when Sir Norman Verrill returned to Rocksby Hall, where Sexton Blake interviewed him.
* * * *
On Tuesday Arthur Wilson recovered consciousness, and confirmed his father’s theory in every particular. Nothing more was ever heard of Julian Cole, but Ralph Verrill was traced by means of an advertisement in the newspapers. Ralph is now Sir Norman’s acknowledged heir; and Arthur Wilson, whose father died a few weeks later, is at present in the enjoyment of a pension of three pounds a week from Ralph Verrill’s father.
THE AMATEUR BURGLAR
April 3, 1909
I.
He was “Marmaduke and Co.,” outside brokers, of Throgmorton Avenue. He was “Duncombe and Platts,” turf accountants and commission agents’, of tie Haymarket. He was “Cecil Howard,” money-lender and bill-discounter, of Oxford Street. He had several other aliases and business addresses; but his real name was Edward Sinclair, and his private residence was in Lordship Park, Stoke Newington, where his household consisted of himself, a cook, a housemaid, and an unmarried niece named Arnold, who acted as his housekeeper. One night he returned from the City at half-past six, dined with his niece, and retired to rest about a quarter to eleven. Miss Arnold and the servants followed his example shortly afterwards, and by half-past eleven everybody in the house was in bed and fast asleep.
A few minutes after three o’clock in the morning, Miss Arnold was awakened by a resounding crash, which appeared to proceed from her uncle’s bedroom. She sprang out of bed, hastily donned a dressing-gown, and ran towards it.
Presently she was joined by the housemaid and the cook, who had also been awakened by the crash; and when she and the two servants had exhausted their strength in vain attempts to burst the door open, she sent the housemaid in search of a policeman. Applying his shoulder to the door, the constable quickly burst it open; then, with the three frightened women at his heels, he strode into the room and turned on the electric light. And this is what they saw:
Mr. Sinclair, in his pyjamas, was lying face downwards on the floor, midway between the bed and the fireplace. He was quite unconscious, and was bleeding profusely from a wound in the centre of his forehead, which appeared to have been inflicted by some blunt instrument. Near him lay an overturned chair; whilst a little distance from the chair lay the bedroom poker, which was wet with blood.
A writing-desk which stood in one corner of the room had been broken open, apparently with the aid of the poker. There was no blood on the desk, however; but there wore several bloodstains on the carpet, and also innumerable muddy footprints, which were especially noticeable near the window.
On examining the window, the constable speedily discovered that it had been opened from the outside. Immediately underneath was the sloping roof of a wooden tool-shed, and on this roof ample evidence that somebody had crawled up it.
“It’s easy to see what’s ’appened,” said the constable, when he had completed his investigations and the housemaid had been sent for the nearest doctor. “Somebody climbed on to the roof of the tool-shed and broke into this room through that window. He forced open the lid of that desk with this poker, and was in the act of riflin’ the desk, when Mr. Sinclair awoke and surprised ’im. The man then attacked Mr. Sinclair with the poker, and stunned ’im; then he rushed to the window, climbed out on to the roof of the shed, closed the window behind ’im, slid down the roof of the shed, dropped to the ground, and made ’is escape.”
The doctor, when he arrived, endorsed the constable’s theory, and added the further information that the blow had fractured Mr. Sinclair’s skull.
“Do you think he will recover?” asked Miss Arnold.
“It’s no good deceiving you,” said the doctor; “I don’t.”
Miss Arnold felt it was her duty to take every possible step to bring her uncle’s assailant to justice, and, accordingly, at seven o’clock she sent the housemaid with a note to Sexton Blake, asking the detective to come to Lordship Park at once.
II.
Except that Mr. Sinclair had been put back to bed, nothing had been altered in the bedroom when Sexton Blake arrived. He listened to Miss Arnold’s story, and then, by permission of the doctor, examined the wound in the centre of Mr. Sinclair’s forehead.
“The skull has certainly been fractured,” he said to the doctor; “but the fracture is a very slight one, and—er—doesn’t it occur to you that there is another cause for this profound unconsciousness!”
“What other cause can there be?” asked the doctor.
The doctor glanced round the room, and as he did so his eyes fell on a hanging cabinet over the washstand. He walked up to it and opened it. Inside, amongst other things, he found a bottle labelled “Syrup of Chloral” and a medicine-glass, in the bottom of which were a few drops of liquid. He smelt at this liquid and tasted it; then he turned to Miss Arnold.
“Was your uncle in the habit of taking chloral as a sleeping-draught?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered, in some surprise.
“I thought so,” said Sexton Blake. “Now, will you kindly tell me which is the chair you found overturned when you broke into the room?”
Miss Arnold pointed out the chair, and Sexton Blake examined it. On one of the sharp corners of the frame he found a stain of blood.
He examined the poker and the writing-desk. With the aid of a pocket-lens, he examined the bloodstains and the muddy footprints on the carpet. He next examined the window, the roof of the tool-shed, and the surface of the ground, outside. In the garden he discovered two distinct impressions of the burglar’s feet. He measured them, and made a sketch of them in his notebook. Then he climbed back on to the roof of the shed and returned to the bedroom.
With the doctor and Miss Arnold looking on, he subjected every nook and corner of the room to a minute and careful examination. In the course of his investigations he came to the grate, in which a fire had been laid ready for lighting. And here, on the top of the pile of wood and coal, he discovered the remains of a half-burnt match and several fragments of charred and blackened paper.
Carefully removing these fragments of charred p
aper, he examined them with his lens. They appeared to be portions of a cheque, for on one of them he read the words, “Pay to—”; on another, “—ed Bidwell”; and on another, “D 24543.” The writing, or the printing, on the other fragments was undecipherable.
“Well?” said the doctor when Sexton Blake had entered these particulars’ in his notebook.
“In the first place,” said Sexton Blake, turning to Miss Arnold, “your uncle was not stunned with the poker; his unconsciousness has little or nothing to do with that wound on his forehead. The moment I saw him, I saw that he was suffering from an overdose of chloral; and when I examined the poker I found two hairs adhering to the bloodstain on the end, which satisfied me as the wound on your uncle’s forehead is at least an inch away from any part that is covered with hair—that the wound had not been inflicted with the poker. Clearly, then, somebody else had been struck with the poker, and the wound on your uncle’s forehead was due to some other cause.
“In my opinion,” he continued, “what happened was this: A man, wearing narrow-toed, well-made boots, climbed on to the roof of the tool-shed and broke into this room through that window. He woke your uncle, and probably covered him with a revolver. He ordered him to open that desk and take out and burn a certain cheque. Probably your uncle, in the hope of taking the man by surprise, said he had not the key of the desk, and suggested he should break it open with the poker. Apparently the man assented, and your uncle, having secured the poker, suddenly sprang at him and struck him a violent blow on the head. That is why the end of the poker is stained with blood, and why there are hairs adhering to it.
“The man was evidently not seriously injured,” he went on, “for we have clear proof that your uncle broke open the desk and burnt the cheque by holding a lighted match to it over the wood and coals in the grate. When the cheque had been burnt, the man, who was bleeding from the wound on his head—I have found drops of blood leading from the desk to the window and down the roof of the shed and across the garden—climbed out through the window and made his escape.
