by Graeme Davis
“The depth of the footprints shows that he was a much heavier man than either of us,” I suggested; “perhaps he was unusually fat.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “that seems to be the explanation. The carrying of a dead weight shortens the stride, and fat is practically a dead weight. The conclusion is that he was about five feet ten inches high, and excessively fat.” He picked up his cane, and we resumed our walk, keeping an eye on the procession ahead until it had disappeared round a curve in the coast-line, when we mended our pace somewhat. Presently we reached a small headland, and, turning the shoulder of cliff, came full upon the party which had preceded us. The men had halted in a narrow bay, and now stood looking down at a prostrate figure beside which the surgeon was kneeling.
“We were wrong, you see,” observed Thorndyke. “He has not fallen over the cliff, nor has he been washed up by the sea. He is lying above high-water mark, and those footprints that we have been examining appear to be his.”
As we approached, the sergeant turned and held up his hand.
“I’ll ask you not to walk round the body just now, gentlemen,” he said. “There seems to have been foul play here, and I want to be clear about the tracks before anyone crosses them.”
Acknowledging this caution, we advanced to where the constables were standing, and looked down with some curiosity at the dead man. He was a tall, frail-looking man, thin to the point of emaciation, and appeared to be about thirty-five years of age. He lay in an easy posture, with half-closed eyes and a placid expression that contrasted strangely enough with the tragic circumstances of his death.
“It is a clear case of murder,” said Dr. Burrows, dusting the sand from his knees as he stood up. “There is a deep knife-wound above the heart, which must have caused death almost instantaneously.”
“How long should you say he has been dead, Doctor?” asked the sergeant.
“Twelve hours at least,” was the reply. “He is quite cold and stiff.”
“Twelve hours, eh?” repeated the officer. “That would bring it to about six o’clock this morning.”
“I won’t commit myself to a definite time,” said Dr. Burrows hastily. “I only say not less than twelve hours. It might have been considerably more.”
“Ah!” said the sergeant. “Well, he made a pretty good fight for his life, to all appearances.” He nodded at the sand, which for some feet around the body bore the deeply indented marks of feet, as though a furious struggle had taken place. “It’s a mighty queer affair,” pursued the sergeant, addressing Dr. Burrows. “There seems to have been only one man in it—there is only one set of footprints besides those of the deceased—and we’ve got to find out who he is; and I reckon there won’t be much trouble about that, seeing the kind of trade-marks he has left behind him.”
“No,” agreed the surgeon; “there ought not to be much trouble in identifying those boots. He would seem to be a labourer, judging by the hob-nails.”
“No, sir; not a labourer,” dissented the sergeant. “The foot is too small, for one thing; and then the nails are not regular hob-nails. They’re a good deal smaller; and a labourer’s boots would have the nails all round the edges, and there would be iron tips on the heels, and probably on the toes too. Now these have got no tips, and the nails are arranged in a pattern on the soles and heels. They are probably shooting-boots or sporting shoes of some kind.” He strode to and fro with his notebook in his hand, writing down hasty memoranda, and stooping to scrutinize the impressions in the sand. The surgeon also busied himself in noting down the facts concerning which he would have to give evidence, while Thorndyke regarded in silence and with an air of intense preoccupation the footprints around the body which remained to testify to the circumstances of the crime.
“It is pretty clear, up to a certain point,” the sergeant observed, as he concluded his investigations, “how the affair happened, and it is pretty clear, too, that the murder was premeditated. You see, Doctor, the deceased gentleman, Mr. Hearn, was apparently walking home from Port Marston; we saw his footprints along the shore—those rubber heels make them easy to identify—and he didn’t go down Sundersley Gap. He probably meant to climb up the cliff by that little track that you see there, which the people about here call the Shepherd’s Path. Now the murderer must have known that he was coming, and waited upon the cliff to keep a lookout. When he saw Mr. Hearn enter the bay, he came down the path and attacked him, and, after a tough struggle, succeeded in stabbing him. Then he turned and went back up the path. You can see the double track between the path and the place where the struggle took place, and the footprints going to the path are on top of those coming from it.”
“If you follow the tracks,” said Dr. Burrows, “you ought to be able to see where the murderer went to.”
“I’m afraid not,” replied the sergeant. “There are no marks on the path itself—the rock is too hard, and so is the ground above, I fear. But I’ll go over it carefully all the same.”
The investigations being so far concluded, the body was lifted on to the stretcher, and the cortege, consisting of the bearers, the Doctor, and the fisherman, moved off towards the Gap, while the sergeant, having civilly wished us “Good-evening,” scrambled up the Shepherd’s Path, and vanished above.
“A very smart officer that,” said Thorndyke. “I should like to know what he wrote in his notebook.”
“His account of the circumstances of the murder seemed a very reasonable one,” I said.
“Very. He noted the plain and essential facts, and drew the natural conclusions from them. But there are some very singular features in this case; so singular that I am disposed to make a few notes for my own information.”
He stooped over the place where the body had lain, and having narrowly examined the sand there and in the place where the dead man’s feet had rested, drew out his notebook and made a memorandum. He next made a rapid sketch-plan of the bay, marking the position of the body and the various impressions in the sand, and then, following the double track leading from and to the Shepherd’s Path, scrutinized the footprints with the deepest attention, making copious notes and sketches in his book.
“We may as well go up by the Shepherd’s Path,” said Thorndyke. “I think we are equal to the climb, and there may be visible traces of the murderer after all. The rock is only a sandstone, and not a very hard one either.”
We approached the foot of the little rugged track which zigzagged up the face of the cliff, and, stooping down among the stiff, dry herbage, examined the surface. Here, at the bottom of the path, where the rock was softened by the weather, there were several distinct impressions on the crumbling surface of the murderer’s nailed boots, though they were somewhat confused by the tracks of the sergeant, whose boots were heavily nailed. But as we ascended the marks became rather less distinct, and at quite a short distance from the foot of the cliff we lost them altogether, though we had no difficulty in following the more recent traces of the sergeant’s passage up the path.
When we reached the top of the cliff we paused to scan the path that ran along its edge, but here, too, although the sergeant’s heavy boots had left quite visible impressions on the ground, there were no signs of any other feet. At a little distance the sagacious officer himself was pursuing his investigations, walking backwards and forwards with his body bent double, and his eyes fixed on the ground.
“Not a trace of him anywhere,” said he, straightening himself up as we approached. “I was afraid there wouldn’t be after all this dry weather. I shall have to try a different tack. This is a small place, and if those boots belong to anyone living here they’ll be sure to be known.”
“The deceased gentleman—Mr. Hearn, I think you called him,” said Thorndyke as we turned towards the village—“is he a native of the locality?”
“Oh no, sir,” replied the officer. “He is almost a stranger. He has only been here about three weeks; but, you know, in a little place like this a man soon gets to be known—and his business,
too, for that matter,” he added, with a smile.
“What was his business, then?” asked Thorndyke.
“Pleasure, I believe. He was down here for a holiday, though it’s a good way past the season; but, then, he had a friend living here, and that makes a difference. Mr. Draper up at the Poplars was an old friend of his, I understand. I am going to call on him now.”
We walked on along the footpath that led towards the village, but had only proceeded two or three hundred yards when a loud hail drew our attention to a man running across a field towards us from the direction of the cliff.
“Why, here is Mr. Draper himself,” exclaimed the sergeant, stopping short and waving his hand. “I expect he has heard the news already.”
Thorndyke and I also halted, and with some curiosity watched the approach of this new party to the tragedy. As the stranger drew near we saw that he was a tall, athletic-looking man of about forty, dressed in a Norfolk knickerbocker suit, and having the appearance of an ordinary country gentleman, excepting that he carried in his hand, in place of a walking-stick, the staff of a butterfly-net, the folding ring and bag of which partly projected from his pocket.
“Is it true, Sergeant?” he exclaimed as he came up to us, panting from his exertions. “About Mr. Hearn, I mean. There is a rumour that he has been found dead on the beach.”
“It’s quite true, sir, I am sorry to say; and, what is worse, he has been murdered.”
“My God! you don’t say so!”
He turned towards us a face that must ordinarily have been jovial enough, but was now white and scared and, after a brief pause, he exclaimed:
“Murdered! Good God! Poor old Hearn! How did it happen, Sergeant? and when? and is there any clue to the murderer?”
“We can’t say for certain when it happened,” replied the sergeant, “and as to the question of clues, I was just coming up to call on you.”
“On me!” exclaimed Draper, with a startled glance at the officer. “What for?”
“Well, we should like to know something about Mr. Hearn—who he was, and whether he had any enemies, and so forth; anything, in fact, that would give as a hint where to look for the murderer. And you are the only person in the place who knew him at all intimately.”
Mr. Draper’s pallid face turned a shade paler, and he glanced about him with an obviously embarrassed air.
“I’m afraid.” he began in a hesitating manner, “I’m afraid I shan’t be able to help you much. I didn’t know much about his affairs. You see he was—well—only a casual acquaintance—”
“Well,” interrupted the sergeant, “you can tell us who and what he was, and where he lived, and so forth. We’ll find out the rest if you give us the start.”
“I see,” said Draper. “Yes, I expect you will.” His eyes glanced restlessly to and fro, and he added presently: “You must come up to-morrow, and have a talk with me about him, and I’ll see what I can remember.”
“I’d rather come this evening,” said the sergeant firmly.
“Not this evening,” pleaded Draper. “I’m feeling rather—this affair, you know, has upset me. I couldn’t give proper attention—”
His sentence petered out into a hesitating mumble, and the officer looked at him in evident surprise at his nervous, embarrassed manner. His own attitude, however, was perfectly firm, though polite.
“I don’t like pressing you, sir,” said he, “but time is precious—we’ll have to go single file here; this pond is a public nuisance. They ought to bank it up at this end. After you, sir.”
The pond to which the sergeant alluded had evidently extended at one time right across the path, but now, thanks to the dry weather, a narrow isthmus of half-dried mud traversed the morass, and along this Mr. Draper proceeded to pick his way. The sergeant was about to follow, when suddenly he stopped short with his eyes riveted upon the muddy track. A single glance showed me the cause of his surprise, for on the stiff, putty-like surface, standing out with the sharp distinctness of a wax mould, were the fresh footprints of the man who had just passed, each footprint displaying on its sole the impression of stud-nails arranged in a diamond-shaped pattern, and on its heel a group of similar nails arranged in a cross.
The sergeant hesitated for only a moment, in which he turned a quick startled glance upon us; then he followed, walking gingerly along the edge of the path as if to avoid treading in his predecessor’s footprints. Instinctively we did the same, following closely, and anxiously awaiting the next development of the tragedy. For a minute or two we all proceeded in silence, the sergeant being evidently at a loss how to act, and Mr. Draper busy with his own thoughts. At length the former spoke.
“You think, Mr. Draper, you would rather that I looked in on you to-morrow about this affair?”
“Much rather, if you wouldn’t mind,” was the eager reply.
“Then, in that case,” said the sergeant, looking at his watch, “as I’ve got a good deal to see to this evening, I’ll leave you here, and make my way to the station.”
With a farewell flourish of his hand he climbed over a stile, and when, a few moments later, I caught a glimpse of him through an opening in the hedge, he was running across the meadow like a hare.
The departure of the police-officer was apparently a great relief to Mr. Draper, who at once fell back and began to talk with us.
“You are Dr. Jervis, I think,” said he. “I saw you coming out of Dr. Cooper’s house yesterday. We know everything that is happening in the village, you see.” He laughed nervously, and added: “But I don’t know your friend.”
I introduced Thorndyke, at the mention of whose name our new acquaintance knitted his brows, and glanced inquisitively at my friend.
“Thorndyke,” he repeated; “the name seems familiar to me. Are you in the Law, sir?”
Thorndyke admitted the impeachment, and our companion, having again bestowed on him a look full of curiosity, continued: “This horrible affair will interest you, no doubt, from a professional point of view. You were present when my poor friend’s body was found, I think?”
“No,” replied Thorndyke; “we came up afterwards, when they were removing it.”
Our companion then proceeded to question us about the murder, but received from Thorndyke only the most general and ambiguous replies. Nor was there time to go into the matter at length, for the footpath presently emerged on to the road close to Mr. Draper’s house.
“You will excuse my not asking you in to-night,” said he, “but you will understand that I am not in much form for visitors just now.”
We assured him that we fully understood, and, having wished him “Good-evening,” pursued our way towards the village.
“The sergeant is off to get a warrant, I suppose,” I observed.
“Yes; and mighty anxious lest his man should be off before he can execute it. But he is fishing in deeper waters than he thinks, Jervis. This is a very singular and complicated case; one of the strangest, in fact, that I have ever met. I shall follow its development with deep interest.”
“The sergeant seems pretty cocksure, all the same,” I said.
“He is not to blame for that,” replied Thorndyke. “He is acting on the obvious appearances, which is the proper thing to do in the first place. Perhaps his notebook contains more than I think it does. But we shall see.”
When we entered the village I stopped to settle some business with the chemist, who acted as Dr. Cooper’s dispenser, suggesting to Thorndyke that he should walk on to the house; but when I emerged from the shop some ten minutes later he was waiting outside, with a smallish brown-paper parcel under each arm. Of one of these parcels I insisted on relieving him, in spite of his protests, but when he at length handed it to me its weight completely took me by surprise.
“I should have let them send this home on a barrow,” I remarked.
“So I should have done,” he replied, “only I did not wish to draw attention to my purchase, or give my address.”
Accepting
this hint I refrained from making any inquiries as to the nature of the contents (although I must confess to considerable curiosity on the subject), and on arriving home I assisted him to deposit the two mysterious parcels in his room.
When I came downstairs a disagreeable surprise awaited me. Hitherto the long evenings had been spent by me in solitary and undisturbed enjoyment of Dr. Cooper’s excellent library, but to-night a perverse fate decreed that I must wander abroad, because, forsooth, a preposterous farmer, who resided in a hamlet five miles distant, had chosen the evening of my guest’s arrival to dislocate his bucolic elbow. I half hoped that Thorndyke would offer to accompany me, but he made no such suggestion, and in fact seemed by no means afflicted at the prospect of my absence.
“I have plenty to occupy me while you are away,” he said cheerfully; and with this assurance to comfort me I mounted my bicycle and rode off somewhat sulkily along the dark road.
My visit occupied in all a trifle under two hours, and when I reached home, ravenously hungry and heated by my ride, half-past nine had struck, and the village had begun to settle down for the night.
“Sergeant Payne is a-waiting in the surgery, sir,” the housemaid announced as I entered the hall.
“Confound Sergeant Payne!” I exclaimed. “Is Dr. Thorndyke with him?”
“No, sir,” replied the grinning damsel. “Dr. Thorndyke is hout.”
“Hout!” I repeated (my surprise leading to unintentional mimicry).
“Yes, sir. He went hout soon after you, sir, on his bicycle. He had a basket strapped on to it—leastways a hamper—and he borrowed a basin and a kitchen-spoon from the cook.”
I stared at the girl in astonishment. The ways of John Thorndyke were, indeed, beyond all understanding.
“Well, let me have some dinner or supper at once,” I said, “and I will see what the sergeant wants.”
The officer rose as I entered the surgery, and, laying his helmet on the table, approached me with an air of secrecy and importance.
“Well, sir,” said he, “the fat’s in the fire. I’ve arrested Mr. Draper, and I’ve got him locked up in the court-house. But I wish it had been someone else.”
