CHAPTER I.
The Pool in the Wood

There are certain days in our lives which, as we recall them, seem to detach themselves from the general sequence as forming the starting-point of a new epoch. Doubtless, if we examined them critically, we should find them to be but links in a connected chain. But in a retrospective glance their continuity with the past is unperceived, and we see them in relation to the events which followed them rather than to those which went before.

Such a day is that on which I look back through a vista of some twenty years; for on that day I was, suddenly and without warning, plunged into the very heart of a drama so strange and incredible that in the recital of its events I am conscious of a certain diffidence and hesitation.

The picture that rises before me as I write is very clear and vivid. I see myself, a youngster of twenty-five, the owner of a brand-new medical diploma, wending my way gaily down Wood-lane, Highgate, at about eight o’clock on a sunny morning in early autumn. I was taking a day’s holiday, the last I was likely to enjoy for some time; for on the morrow I was to enter on the duties of my first professional appointment. I had nothing in view to-day but sheer, delightful idleness. It is true that a sketch-book in one pocket and a box of collecting-tubes in another suggested a bare hint of purpose in the expedition; but primarily it was a holiday, a pleasure jaunt, to which art and science were no more than possible sources of contributory satisfaction.

At the lower end of the lane was the entrance to Church-yard Bottom Wood, then open and unguarded save by a few hurdles (it has since been enclosed and re-named “Queen’s Wood”). I entered and took my way along the broad, rough path, pleasantly conscious of the deep silence and seeming remoteness of this surviving remnant of the primeval forest of Britain, and letting my thoughts stray to the great plague-pit in the haunted wood that gave the place its name. The foliage of the oaks was still unchanged despite the waning of the year. The low-slanting sunlight spangled it with gold and made rosy patterns on the path, where lay a few prematurely fallen leaves; but in the hollows among the undergrowth traces of the night-mists lingered, shrouding tree-bole, bush, and fern in a mystery of gauzy blue.

A turn of the path brought me suddenly within a few paces of a girl who was stooping at the entrance to a side-track, and seemed to be peering into the undergrowth as if looking for something. As I appeared, she stood up and looked round at me with a startled, apprehensive manner that caused me to look away and pass as if I had not seen her. But the single glance had shown me that she was a strikingly handsome girl—indeed, I should have used the word “beautiful”; that she seemed to be about my own age, and that she was evidently a lady.

The apparition, pleasant as it was, set me speculating as I strode forward. It was early for a girl like this to be afoot in the woods, and alone, too. Not so very safe, either, as she had seemed to realize, judging by the start that my approach seemed to have given her. And what could it be that she was looking for? Had she lost something at some previous time and come to search for it before any one was about? It might be so. Certainly she was not a poacher, for there was nothing to poach, and she hardly had the manner or appearance of a naturalist.

A little farther on I struck into a side path which led, as I knew, in the direction of a small pond. That pond I had had in my mind when I put the box of collecting-tubes in my pocket, and I now made my way to it as directly as the winding track would let me; but still it was not the pond or its inmates that occupied my thoughts, but the mysterious maiden whom I had left peering into the undergrowth. Perhaps if she had been less attractive I might have given her less consideration. But I was twenty-five; and if a man at twenty-five has not a keen and appreciative eye for a pretty girl, there must be something radically wrong with his mental make-up.

In the midst of my reflections I came out into a largish opening in the wood, at the centre of which, in a slight hollow, was the pond: a small oval piece of water, fed by the trickle of a tiny stream, the continuation of which carried away the overflow towards the invisible valley.

Approaching the margin, I brought out my box of tubes and, uncorking one, stooped and took a trial dip. When I held the glass tube against the light and examined its contents through my pocket lens I found that I was in luck. The “catch” included a green hydra, clinging to a rootlet of duckweed, several active water-fleas, a scarlet water-mite, and a beautiful sessile rotifer. Evidently this pond was a rich hunting ground.

Delighted with my success, I corked the tube, put it away, and brought out another, with which I took a fresh dip. This was less successful, but the naturalist’s ardour and the collector’s cupidity being thoroughly aroused, I persevered, gradually enriching my collection and working my way slowly round the margin of the pond, forgetful of everything—even of the mysterious maiden—but the objects of my search; indeed, so engrossed was I with my pursuit of the minute denizens of this watery world that I failed to observe a much larger object which must have been in view most of the time. Actually, I did not see it until I was right over it. Then, as I was stooping to clear away the duckweed for a fresh dip, I found myself confronted by a human face, just below the surface and half-concealed by the pond-weed.

It was a truly appalling experience. Utterly unprepared for this awful apparition, I was so overcome by astonishment and horror that I remained stooping, with motion arrested, as if petrified, staring at the thing in silence and hardly breathing. The face was that of a man of about fifty or a little more: a handsome, refined, rather intellectual face, with a moustache and Vandyke beard, and surmounted by a thickish growth of iron-grey hair. Of the rest of the body little was to be seen, for the duckweed and water-crowfoot had drifted over it, and I had no inclination to disturb them.

Recovering somewhat from the shock of this sudden and fearful encounter, I stood up and rapidly considered what I had better do. It was clearly not for me to make any examination or meddle with the corpse in any way; indeed, when I considered the early hour and the remoteness of this solitary place, it seemed prudent to avoid the possibility of being seen there by any chance stranger. Thus reflecting, with my eyes still riveted on the pallid, impassive face, so strangely sleeping below the glassy surface and conveying to me somehow a dim sense of familiarity, I pocketed my tubes, and, turning back, stole away along the woodland track, treading lightly, almost stealthily, as one escaping from the scene of a crime.

Very different was my mood, as I retraced my steps, from that in which I had come. Gone was all my gaiety and holiday spirit. The dread meeting had brought me into an atmosphere of tragedy, perchance even of something more than tragedy. With death I was familiar enough; death as it comes to men, prefaced by sickness or even by injury. But the dead man who lay in that still and silent pool in the heart of the wood had come there by none of the ordinary chances of normal life. It seemed barely possible that he could have fallen in by mere misadventure, for the pond was too shallow and its bottom shelved too gently for accidental drowning to be conceivable. Nor was the strange, sequestered spot without significance. It was just such a spot as might well be chosen by one who sought to end his life—or another’s.

I had nearly reached the main path when an abrupt turn of the narrow track brought me once more face to face with the girl whose existence I had till now forgotten. She was still peering into the dense undergrowth as if searching for something; and again, on my sudden appearance, she turned a startled face towards me. But this time I did not look away. Something in her face struck me with a nameless fear. It was not only that she was pale and haggard, but that her expression betokened anxiety and even terror. As I looked at her I understood in a flash the dim sense of familiarity of which I had been conscious in the pallid face beneath the water. It was her face that it had recalled.

With my heart in my mouth, I halted and, taking off my cap, addressed her.

“Pray pardon me; you seem to be searching for something. Can I help you in any way or give you any information?”

She looked at me a little shyly and, as I thought, with slight distrust, but she answered civilly enough, though rather stiffly:

“Thank you, but I am afraid you can’t help me. I am not in need of any assistance.”

This, under ordinary circumstances, would have brought the interview to an abrupt end. But the circumstances were not ordinary, and as she made as if to pass me I ventured to persist.

“Please,” I urged, “don’t think me impertinent, but would you mind telling me what you are looking for? I have a reason for asking, and it isn’t curiosity.”

She reflected for a few moments before replying, and I feared that she was about to administer another snub. Then, without looking at me, she replied:

“I am looking for my father” (and at these words my heart sank). “He did not come home last night. He left Hornsey to come home, and he would ordinarily have come by the path through the wood. He always came that way from Hornsey. So I am looking through the wood in case he missed his way, or was taken ill, or—”

Here the poor girl suddenly broke off, and, letting her dignity go, burst into tears. I huskily murmured a few indistinct words of condolence, but, in truth, I was little less affected than she was. It was a terrible position, but there was no escape from it. The corpse that I had just seen was almost certainly her father’s corpse. At any rate, the question whether it was or not had to be settled now, and settled by me—and her. That was quite clear; but yet I could not screw my courage up to the point of telling her. While I was hesitating, however, she forced the position by a direct question.

“You said just now that you had a reason for asking what I was searching for. Would it be—?” She paused and looked at me inquiringly as she wiped her eyes.

I made a last, frantic search for some means of breaking the horrid news to her. Of course there was none. Eventually I stammered:

“The reason I asked was—er—the fact is that I have just seen the body of a man lying—”

“Where?” she demanded. “Show me the place!”

Without replying, I turned and began quickly to retrace my steps along the narrow track. A few minutes brought me to the opening in which the pond was situated, and I was just beginning to skirt the margin, closely followed by my companion, when I heard her utter a low, gasping cry. The next moment she had passed me and was running along the bank towards a spot where I could now see the toe of a boot just showing through the duckweed. I stopped short and watched her with my heart in my throat. Straight to the fatal spot she ran, and for a moment stood on the brink, stooping over the weedy surface. Then, with a terrible, wailing cry, she stepped into the water.

Instantly I ran forward and waded into the pond to her side. Already she had her arms round the dead man’s neck and was raising the face above the surface. I saw that she meant to bring the body ashore, and, useless as it was, it seemed a natural thing to do. Silently I passed my arms under the corpse and lifted it; and as she supported the head we bore it through the shallows and up the bank, where I laid it down gently in the high grass.

Not a word had been spoken, nor was there any question that need be asked. The pitiful tale told itself only too plainly. As I stood looking with swimming eyes at the tragic group, a whole history seemed to unfold itself; a history of love and companionship, of a happy, peaceful past made sunny by mutual affection, shattered in an instant by the hideous present, with its portent of a sad and lonely future. She had sat down on the grass and taken the dead head on her lap, tenderly wiping the face with her handkerchief, smoothing the grizzled hair and crooning or moaning words of endearment into the insensible ears. She had forgotten my presence: indeed, she was oblivious of everything but the still form that bore the outward semblance of her father.

Some minutes passed thus. I stood a little apart, cap in hand, more moved than I had ever been in my life, and, naturally enough, unwilling to break in upon a grief so overwhelming and, as it seemed to me, so sacred. But presently it began to be borne in on me that something had to be done. The body would have to be removed from this place, and the proper authorities ought to be notified. Still, it was some time before I could gather courage to intrude on her sorrow; to profane her grief with the sordid realities of everyday life. At last I braced myself up for the effort, and addressed her.

“Your father,” I said gently—I could not refer to him as “the body”—“will have to be taken away from here; and the proper persons will have to be informed of what has happened. Shall I go alone, or will you come with me? I don’t like to leave you here.”

She looked up at me, and to my relief answered me with quiet composure:

“I can’t leave him here all alone. I must stay with him until he is taken away. Do you mind telling whoever ought to be told”—like me, she instinctively avoided the word “police”—“and making what arrangements are necessary?”

There was nothing more to be said; and loath as I was to leave her alone with the dead, my heart assented to her decision. In her place, I should have had the same feeling. Accordingly, with a promise to return as quickly as I could, I stole away along the woodland track. When I turned to take a last glance at her before plunging into the wood, she was once more leaning over the head that lay in her lap, looking with fond grief into the impassive face and stroking the dank hair.

My intention had been to go straight to the police-station, when I had ascertained its whereabouts, and make my report to the officer in charge. But a fortunate chance rendered this proceeding unnecessary, for, at the moment when I emerged from the top of Wood-lane, I saw a police-officer, mounted on a bicycle—a road patrol, as I assumed him to be—approaching along the Archway-road. I hailed him to stop, and as he dismounted and stepped on to the footway I gave him a brief account of the finding of the body and my meeting with the daughter of the dead man. He listened with calm, business-like interest, and, when I had finished, said:

“We had better get the body removed as quickly as possible. I will run along to the station and get the wheeled stretcher. There is no need for you to come. If you will go back and wait for us at the entrance to the wood that will save time. We shall be there within a quarter of an hour.”

I agreed gladly to this arrangement, and when I had seen him mount his machine and shoot away along the road, I turned back down the Lane and re-entered the wood. Before taking up my post, I walked quickly down the path and along the track to the opening by the pond. My new friend was sitting just as I had left her, but she looked up as I emerged from the track and advanced towards her. I told her briefly what had happened and was about to retire when she asked: “Will they take him to our house?”

“I am afraid not,” I replied. “There will have to be an inquiry by the coroner, and until that is finished his body will have to remain in the mortuary.”

“I was afraid it might be so,” she said with quiet resignation; and as she spoke she looked down with infinite sadness at the waxen face in her lap. A good deal relieved by her reasonable acceptance of the painful necessities, I turned back and made my way to the rendezvous at the entrance to the wood.

As I paced to and fro on the shady path, keeping a look-out up the Lane, my mind was busy with the tragedy to which I had become a party. It was a grievous affair. The passionate grief which I had witnessed spoke of no common affection. On one life at least this disaster had inflicted irreparable loss, and there were probably others on whom the blow had yet to fall. But it was not only a grievous affair; it was highly mysterious. The dead man had apparently been returning home at night in a customary manner and by a familiar way. That he could have strayed by chance from the open, well-worn path into the recesses of the wood was inconceivable, while the hour and the circumstances made it almost as incredible that he should have been wandering in the wood by choice. And again, the water in which he had been lying was quite shallow; so shallow as to rule out accidental drowning as an impossibility.

What could the explanation be? There seemed to be but three possibilities, and two of them could hardly be entertained. The idea of intoxication I rejected at once. The girl was evidently a lady, and her father was presumably a gentleman, who would not be likely to be wandering abroad drunk; nor could a man who was sober enough to have reached the pond have been so helpless as to be drowned in its shallow waters. To suppose that he might have fallen into the water in a fit was to leave unexplained the circumstance of his being in that remote place at such an hour. The only possibility that remained was that of suicide; and I could not but admit that some of the appearances seemed to support that view. The solitary place—more solitary still at night—was precisely such as an intending suicide might be expected to seek; the shallow water presented no inconsistency; and when I recalled how I had found his daughter searching the wood with evident foreboding of evil, I could not escape the feeling that the dreadful possibility had not been entirely unforeseen.

My meditations had reached this point when, as I turned once more towards the entrance and looked up the Lane, I saw two constables approaching, trundling a wheeled stretcher, while a third man, apparently an inspector, walked by its side. As the little procession reached the entrance, and I turned back to show the way, the latter joined me and began at once to interrogate me. I gave him my name, address, and occupation, and followed this with a rapid sketch of the facts as known to me, which he jotted down in a large notebook, and he then said:

“As you are a doctor, you can probably tell me how long the man had been dead when you first saw him.”

“By the appearance and the rigidity,” I replied, “I should say about nine or ten hours; which agrees pretty well with the account his daughter gave of his movements.”

The inspector nodded. “The man and the young lady,” said he, “are strangers to you, I understand. I suppose you haven’t picked up anything that would throw any light on the affair?”

“No,” I answered; “I know nothing but what I have told you.”

“Well,” he remarked, “it’s a queer business. It is a queer place for a man to be in at night, and he must have gone there of his own accord. But there, it is no use guessing. It will all be thrashed out at the inquest.”

As he reached this discreet conclusion, we came out into the opening and I heard him murmur very feelingly, “Dear, dear! Poor thing.” The girl seemed hardly to have changed her position since I had last seen her, but she now tenderly laid the dead head on the grass and rose as we approached; and I saw with great concern that her skirts were soaked almost from the waist downwards.

The officer took off his cap and as he drew near looked down gravely but with an inquisitive eye at the dead man. Then he turned to the girl and said in a singularly gentle and deferential manner:

“This is a very terrible thing, Miss. A dreadful thing. I assure you that I am more sorry for you than I can tell; and I hope you will forgive me for having to intrude on your sorrow by asking questions. I won’t trouble you more than I can help.”

“Thank you,” she replied quietly. “Of course I realize your position. What do you want me to tell you?”

“I understand,” replied the inspector, “that this poor gentleman was your father. Would you mind telling me who he was and where he lived and giving me your own name and address?”

“My father’s name,” she answered, “was Julius D’Arblay. His private address was Ivy Cottage, North Grove, Highgate. His studio and workshop, where he carried on the profession of a modeller, is in Abbey-road, Hornsey. My name is Marion D’Arblay, and I lived with my father. He was a widower and I was his only child.”

As she concluded, with a slight break in her voice, the inspector shook his head, and again murmured, “Dear, dear,” as he rapidly entered her answers in his notebook. Then, in a deeply apologetic tone, he asked:

“Would you mind telling us what you know as to how this happened?”

“I know very little,” she replied. “As he did not come home last night, I went to the studio this morning quite early to see if he was there. He sometimes stayed there all night when he was working very late. The woman who lives in the adjoining house and looks after the studio, told me that he had been working late last night, but that he left to come home soon after ten. He always used to come through the wood because it was the shortest way and the most pleasant. So when I learned that he had started to come home, I came to the wood to see if I could find any traces of him. Then I met this gentleman, and he told me that he had seen a dead man in the wood, and—” Here she suddenly broke down, and, sobbing passionately, flung out her hand towards the corpse.

The inspector shut his notebook and, murmuring some indistinct words of sympathy, nodded to the constables, who had drawn up the stretcher a few paces away and lifted off the cover. On this silent instruction they approached the body, and, with the inspector’s assistance and mine, lifted it on to the stretcher without removing the latter from its carriage. As they picked up the cover the inspector turned to Miss D’Arblay and said gently but finally: “You had better not come with us. We must take him to the mortuary, but you will see him again after the inquest, when he will be brought to your house if you wish it.”

She made no objection; but as the constables approached with the cover she stooped over the stretcher and kissed the dead man on the forehead. Then she turned away; the cover was placed in position; the inspector and the constables saluted reverently, and the stretcher was wheeled away along the narrow track.

For some time after it had gone, we stood in silence at the margin of the pond with our eyes fixed on the place where it had disappeared. I considered in no little embarrassment what was to be done next. It was most desirable that Miss D’Arblay should be got home as soon as possible, and I did not at all like the idea of her going alone, for her appearance, with her drenched skirts and her dazed and rather wild expression, was such as to attract unpleasant attention. But I was a total stranger to her, and I felt a little shy of pressing my company on her. However, it seemed a plain duty, and, as I saw her shiver slightly, I said:

“You had better go home now and change your clothes. They are very wet. And you have some distance to go.”

She looked down at her soaked dress and then she looked at me.

“You are rather wet, too,” she said. “I am afraid I have given you a great deal of trouble.”

“It is little enough that I have been able to do,” I replied. “But you must really go home now; and if you will let me walk with you and see you safely to your house, I shall be much more easy in my mind.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “It is kind of you to offer to see me home, and I am glad not to have to go alone.”

With this, we walked together to the edge of the opening, and proceeded in single file along the track to the main path, and so out into Wood-lane, at the top of which we crossed the Archway Road into Southwood-lane. We walked mostly in silence, for I was unwilling to disturb her meditations with attempts at conversation, which could only have seemed banal or impertinent. For her part, she appeared to be absorbed in reflections the nature of which I could easily guess, and her grief was too fresh for any thought of distraction. But I found myself speculating with profound discomfort on what might be awaiting her at home. It is true that her own desolate state as an orphan without brothers or sisters had its compensation in that there was no wife to whom the dreadful tidings had to be imparted, nor any fellow orphans to have their bereavement broken to them. But there must be some one who cared; or, if there were not, what a terrible loneliness would reign in that house!

“I hope,” I said, as we approached our destination, “that there is some one at home to share your grief and comfort you a little.”

“There is,” she replied. “I was thinking of her, and how grievous it will be to have to tell her: an old servant and a dear friend. She was my mother’s nurse when the one was a child and the other but a young girl. She came to our house when my mother married, and has managed our home ever since. This will be a terrible shock to her, for she loved my father dearly—every one loved him who knew him. And she has been like a mother to me since my own mother died. I don’t know how I shall break it to her.”

Her voice trembled as she concluded and I was deeply troubled to think of the painful homecoming that loomed before her; but still it was a comfort to know that her sorrow would be softened by sympathy and loving companionship, not heightened by the empty desolation that I had feared.

A few minutes more brought us to the little square—which, by the way, was triangular—and to a pleasant little old-fashioned house, on the gate of which was painted the name, “Ivy Cottage.” In the bay window on the ground floor I observed a formidable-looking elderly woman, who was watching our approach with evident curiosity; which, as we drew nearer and the state of our clothing became visible, gave place to anxiety and alarm. Then she disappeared suddenly, to reappear a few moments later at the open door, where she stood viewing us both with consternation and me in particular with profound disfavour.

At the gate Miss D’Arblay halted and held out her hand. “Good-bye,” she said. “I must thank you some other time for all your kindness;” and with this she turned abruptly, and, opening the gate, walked up the little paved path to the door where the old woman was waiting.

CHAPTER II.
A Conference with Dr. Thorndyke

The sound of the closing door seemed, as it were, to punctuate my experiences and to mark the end of a particular phase. So long as Miss D’Arblay was present, my attention was entirely taken up by her grief and distress; but now that I was alone I found myself considering at large the events of this memorable morning. What was the meaning of this tragedy? How came this man to be lying dead in that pool? No common misadventure seemed to fit the case. A man may easily fall into deep water and be drowned; may step over a quay-side in the dark or trip on a mooring-rope or ring-bolt. But here there was nothing to suggest any possible accident. The water was hardly two feet deep where the body was lying and much less close to the edge. If he had walked in in the dark, he would simply have walked out again. Besides, how came he there at all? The only explanation that was intelligible was that he went there with the deliberate purpose of making away with himself.

I pondered this explanation, and found myself unwilling to accept it, notwithstanding that his daughter’s presence in the wood, her obvious apprehension, and her terrified searching among the underwood seemed to hint at a definite expectation on her part. But yet that possibility was discounted by what his daughter had told me of him. Little as she had said, it was clear that he was a man universally beloved. Such men, in making the world a pleasant place for others, make it pleasant for themselves. They are usually happy men; and happy men do not commit suicide. Yet, if the idea of suicide were rejected, what was left? Nothing but an insoluble mystery.

I turned the problem over again and again as I sat on the top of the tram (where I could keep my wet trousers out of sight), not as a matter of mere curiosity but as one in which I was personally concerned. Friendships spring up into sudden maturity under great emotional stress. I had known Marion D’Arblay but an hour or two, but they were hours which neither of us would ever forget; and in that brief space she had become to me a friend who was entitled, as of right, to sympathy and service. So, as I revolved in my mind the mystery of this man’s death, I found myself thinking of him not as a chance stranger but as the father of a friend; and thus it seemed to devolve upon me to elucidate the mystery, if possible.

It is true that I had no special qualifications for investigating an obscure case of this kind, but yet I was better equipped than most young medical men. For my hospital, St. Margaret’s, though its medical school was but a small one, had one great distinction; the chair of Medical Jurisprudence was occupied by one of the greatest living authorities on the subject, Dr. John Thorndyke. To him and his fascinating lectures my mind naturally turned as I ruminated on the problem; and presently, when I found myself unable to evolve any reasonable suggestion, the idea occurred to me to go and lay the facts before the great man himself.

Once started, the idea took full possession of me, and I decided to waste no time but to seek him at once. This was not his day for lecturing at the hospital, but I could find his address in our school calendar; and as my means, though modest, allowed of my retaining him in a regular way, I need have no scruples as to occupying his time. I looked at my watch. It was even now but a little past noon. I had time to change and get an early lunch and still make my visit while the day was young.

A couple of hours later found me walking slowly down the pleasant, tree-shaded footway of King’s Bench-walk in the Inner Temple, looking up at the numbers above the entries. Dr. Thorndyke’s number was 5a, which I presently discovered inscribed on the keystone of a fine, dignified brick portico of the seventeenth century, on the jamb whereof was painted his name as the occupant of the “1st pair.” I accordingly ascended the first pair, and was relieved to find that my teacher was apparently at home; for a massive outer door, above which his name was painted, stood wide open, revealing an inner door, furnished with a small, brilliantly burnished brass knocker, on which I ventured to execute a modest rat-tat. Almost immediately the door was opened by a small, clerical-looking gentleman who wore a black linen apron—and ought, from his appearance, to have had black gaiters to match—and who regarded me with a look of polite inquiry.

“I wanted to see Dr. Thorndyke,” said I, adding discreetly, “on a matter of professional business.”

The little gentleman beamed on me benevolently. “The doctor,” said he, “has gone to lunch at his club, but he will be coming in quite shortly. Would you like to wait for him?”

“Thank you,” I replied, “I should, if you think I shall not be disturbing him.”

The little gentleman smiled; that is to say, the multitudinous wrinkles that covered his face arranged themselves into a sort of diagram of geniality. It was the crinkliest smile that I have ever seen, but a singularly pleasant one.

“The doctor,” said he, “is never disturbed by professional business. No man is ever disturbed by having to do what he enjoys doing.”

As he spoke, his eyes turned unconsciously to the table, on which stood a microscope, a tray of slides and mounting material, and a small heap of what looked like dressmaker’s cuttings.

“Well,” I said, “don’t let me disturb you, if you are busy.”

He thanked me very graciously, and, having installed me in an easy chair, sat down at the table and resumed his occupation, which apparently consisted in isolating fibres from the various samples of cloth and mounting them as microscopic specimens. I watched him as he worked, admiring his neat, precise, unhurried methods, and speculating on the purpose of his proceedings; whether he was preparing what one might call museum specimens, to be kept for reference, or whether these preparations were related to some particular case. I was considering whether it would be admissible for me to ask a question on the subject when he paused in his work, assuming a listening attitude, with one hand—holding a mounting-needle—raised and motionless.

“Here comes the doctor,” said he.

I listened intently and became aware of footsteps, very faint and far away, and only barely perceptible. But my clerical friend—who must have had the auditory powers of a watch-dog—had no doubts as to their identity, for he began quietly to pack all his material on the tray. Meanwhile the footsteps drew nearer; they turned in at the entry and ascended the “first pair,” by which time my crinkly-faced acquaintance had the door open. The next moment Dr. Thorndyke entered and was duly informed that “a gentleman was waiting to see” him.

“You under-estimate my powers of observation, Polton,” he informed his subordinate, with a smile. “I can see the gentleman distinctly with the naked eye. How do you do, Gray?”—and he shook my hand cordially.

“I hope I haven’t come at the wrong time, sir,” said I. “If I have, you must adjourn me. But I want to consult you about a rather queer case.”

“Good,” said Thorndyke. “There is no wrong time for a queer case. Let me hang up my hat and fill my pipe and then you can proceed to make my flesh creep.”

He disposed of his hat, and when Mr. Polton had departed with his tray of material he filled his pipe, laid a note block on the table, and invited me to begin; whereupon I gave him a detailed account of what had befallen me in the course of the morning, to which he listened with close attention, jotting down an occasional note, but not interrupting my narrative. When I had finished he read through his notes and then said:

“It is, of course, evident to you that all the appearances point to suicide. Have you any reasons, other than those you have mentioned, for rejecting that view?”

“I am afraid not,” I replied gloomily. “But you have always taught us to beware of too ready acceptance of the theory of suicide in doubtful cases.”

He nodded approvingly. “Yes,” he said, “that is a cardinal principle in medico-legal practice. All other possibilities should be explored before suicide is accepted. But our difficulty in this case is that we have hardly any of the relevant facts. The evidence at the inquest may make everything clear. On the other hand it may leave things obscure. But what is your concern with the case? You are merely a witness to the finding of the body. The parties are all strangers to you, are they not?”

“They were,” I replied. “But I feel that some one ought to keep an eye on things for Miss D’Arblay’s sake, and circumstances seem to have put the duty on me. So, as I can afford to pay any costs that are likely to be incurred, I proposed to ask you to undertake the case—on a strict business footing, you know, sir.”

“When you speak of my undertaking the case,” said he, “what is it that is in your mind? What do you want me to do in the matter?”

“I want you to take any measures that you may think necessary,” I replied, “to ascertain definitely, if possible, how this man came by his death.”

He reflected awhile before answering. At length he said:

“The examination of the body will be conducted by the person whom the coroner appoints, probably the police surgeon. I will write to the coroner for permission to be present at the post-mortem examination. He will certainly make no difficulties. I will also write to the police surgeon, who is sure to be quite helpful. If the post-mortem throws no light on the case—in fact, in any event—I will instruct a first-class shorthand writer to attend at the inquest and make a verbatim report of the evidence; and you, of course, will be present as a witness. That, I think, is about all that we can do at present. When we have heard all the evidence, including that furnished by the body itself, we shall be able to judge whether the case calls for further investigation. How will that do?”

“It is all that I could wish,” I answered, “and I am most grateful to you, sir, for giving your time to the case. I hope you don’t think I have been unduly meddlesome.”

“Not in the least,” he replied warmly. “I think you have shown a very proper spirit in the way you have interpreted your neighbourly duties to this poor, bereaved girl, who, apparently, has no one else to watch over her interests. And I take it as a compliment from an old pupil that you should seek my help.”

I thanked him again, very sincerely, and had risen to take my leave, when he held up his hand.

“Sit down, Gray, if you are not in a hurry,” said he. “I hear the pleasant clink of crockery. Let us follow the example of the eminent Mr. Pepys—though it isn’t always a safe thing to do—and taste of the ‘China drinke called Tee,’ while you tell me what you have been doing since you went forth from the fold.”

It struck me that the sense of hearing was uncommonly well developed in this establishment, for I had heard nothing; but a few moments later the door opened very quietly, and Mr. Polton entered with a tray on which was a very trim, and even dainty, tea service, which he set out noiselessly and with a curious neatness of hand, on a small table placed conveniently between our chairs.

“Thank you, Polton,” said Thorndyke. “I see you diagnosed my visitor as a professional brother.”

Polton crinkled benevolently and admitted that he “thought the gentleman looked like one of us’; and with this he melted away, closing the door behind him without a sound.

“Well,” said Thorndyke, as he handed me my tea-cup, “what have you been doing with yourself since you left the hospital?”

“Principally looking for a job,” I replied; “and now I’ve found one—a temporary job, though I don’t know how temporary. To-morrow I take over the practice of a man named Cornish in Mecklenburgh-square. Cornish is a good deal run down, and wants to take a quiet holiday on the East Coast. He doesn’t know how long he will be away. It depends on his health; but I have told him that I am prepared to stay as long as he wants me to. I hope I shan’t make a mess of the job, but I know nothing of general practice.”

“You will soon pick it up,” said Thorndyke; “but you had better get your principal to show you the ropes before he goes, particularly the dispensing and bookkeeping. The essentials of practice, you know, but the little practical details have to be learnt, and you are doing well to make your first plunge into professional life in a practice that is a going concern. The experience will be valuable when you make a start on your own account.”

On this plane of advice and comment our talk proceeded until I thought that I had stayed long enough, when I once more rose to depart. Then, as we were shaking hands, Thorndyke reverted to the object of my visit.

“I shall not appear in this case unless the coroner wishes me to,” said he. “I shall consult with the official medical witness, and he will probably give our joint conclusions in his evidence; unless we should fail to agree, which is very unlikely. But you will be present, and you had better attend closely to the evidence of all the witnesses and let me have your account of the inquest as well as the shorthand writer’s report. Good-bye, Gray. You won’t be far away if you should want my help or advice.”

I left the precincts of the Temple in a much more satisfied frame of mind. The mystery which seemed to me to surround the death of Julius D’Arblay would be investigated by a supremely competent observer, and I need not further concern myself with it. Perhaps there was no mystery at all. Possibly the evidence at the inquest would supply a simple explanation. At any rate, it was out of my hands and into those of one immeasurably more capable and I could now give my undivided attention to the new chapter of my life that was to open on the morrow.

CHAPTER III.
The Doctor’s Revelations

It was in the evening of the very day on which I took up my duties at number 61 Mecklenburgh-square that the little blue paper was delivered summoning me to attend at the inquest on the following day. Fortunately, Dr. Cornish’s practice was not of a highly strenuous type, and the time of year tended to a small visiting list, so that I had no difficulty in making the necessary arrangements. In fact, I made them so well that I was the first to arrive at the little building in which the inquiry was to be held and was admitted by the caretaker to the empty room. A few minutes later, however, the inspector made his appearance, and while I was exchanging a few words with him the jury began to straggle in, followed by the reporters, a few spectators and witnesses, and finally the coroner, who immediately took his place at the head of the table and prepared to open the proceedings.

At this moment I observed Miss D’Arblay standing hesitatingly in the doorway and looking into the room as if reluctant to enter. I at once rose and went to her, and as I approached she greeted me with a friendly smile and held out her hand; and I then perceived, lurking just outside, a tall, black-apparelled woman, whose face I recognized as that which I had seen at the window.

“This,” said Miss D’Arblay, presenting me, “is my friend, Miss Boler, of whom I spoke to you. This, Arabella dear, is the gentleman who was so kind to me on that dreadful day.”

I bowed deferentially, and Miss Boler recognized my existence by a majestic inclination, remarking that she remembered me. As the coroner now began his preliminary address to the jury, I hastened to find three chairs near the table, and, having inducted the ladies into two of them, took the third myself, next to Miss D’Arblay. The coroner and the jury now rose and went out to the adjacent mortuary to view the body, and during their absence I stole an occasional critical glance at my fair friend.

Marion D’Arblay was, as I have said, a strikingly handsome girl. The fact seemed now to dawn on me afresh, as a new discovery; for the harrowing circumstances of our former meeting had so preoccupied me that I had given little attention to her personality. But now, as I looked her over anxiously to see how the grievous days had dealt with her, it was with a sort of surprised admiration that I noted the beautiful, thoughtful face, the fine features, and the wealth of dark, gracefully disposed hair. I was relieved, too, to see the change that a couple of days had wrought. The wild, dazed look was gone. Though she was pale and heavy-eyed and looked tired and infinitely sad, her manner was calm, quiet and perfectly self-possessed.

“I am afraid,” said I, “that this is going to be rather a painful ordeal for you.”

“Yes,” she agreed; “it is all very dreadful. But it is a dreadful thing in any case to be bereft in a moment of the one whom one loves best in all the world. The circumstances of the loss cannot make very much difference. It is the loss itself that matters. The worst moment was when the blow fell—when we found him. This inquiry and the funeral are just the drab accompaniments that bring home the reality of what has happened.”

“Has the inspector called on you?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “He had to, to get the particulars; and he was so kind and delicate that I am not in the least afraid of the examination by the coroner. Every one has been kind to me, but none so kind as you were on that terrible morning.”

I could not see that I had done anything to call for so much gratitude, and I was about to enter a modest disclaimer when the coroner and the jury returned, and the inspector approached somewhat hurriedly.

“It will be necessary,” said he, “for Miss D’Arblay to see the body—just to identify deceased; a glance will be enough. And, as you are a witness, Doctor, you had better go with her to the mortuary. I will show you the way.”

Miss D’Arblay rose without any comment or apparent reluctance, and we followed the inspector to the adjoining mortuary, where, having admitted us, he stood outside awaiting us. The body lay on the slate-topped table, covered with a sheet excepting the face, which was exposed and was undisfigured by any traces of the examination. I watched my friend a little nervously as we entered the grim chamber, fearful that this additional trial might be too much for her self-control. But she kept command of herself, though she wept quietly as she stood beside the table looking down on the still, waxen-faced figure. After standing thus for a few moments, she turned away with a smothered sob, wiped her eyes, and walked out of the mortuary.

When we re-entered the court-room, we found our chairs moved up to the table, and the coroner waiting to call the witnesses. As I had expected, my name was the first on the list, and, on being called, I took my place by the table near to the coroner and was duly sworn.

“Will you give us your name, occupation, and address?” the coroner asked.

“My name is Stephen Gray,” I replied. “I am a medical practitioner, and my temporary address is 61, Mecklenburgh-square, London.”

“When you say ‘your temporary address’ you mean—?”

“I am taking charge of a medical practice at that address. I shall be there six weeks or more.”

“Then that will be your address for our purposes. Have you viewed the body that is now lying in the mortuary, and, if so, do you recognize it?”

“Yes. It is the body which I saw lying in a pond in Church-yard Bottom Wood on the morning of the 16th instant—last Tuesday.”

“Can you tell us how long deceased had been dead when you first saw the body?”

“I should say he had been dead nine or ten hours.”

“Will you relate the circumstances under which you discovered the body?”

I gave a circumstantial account of the manner in which I made the tragic discovery, to which not only the jury but also the spectators listened with eager interest. When I had finished my narrative, the coroner asked: “Did you observe anything which led you, as a medical man, to form any opinion as to the cause of death?”

“No,” I replied. “I saw no injuries or marks of violence or anything which was not consistent with death by drowning.”

This concluded my evidence, and when I had resumed my seat, the name of Marion D’Arblay was called by the coroner, who directed that a chair should be placed for the witness. When she had taken her seat, he conveyed to her, briefly, but feelingly, his own and the jury’s sympathy.

“It has been a terrible experience for you,” he said, “and we are most sorry to have to trouble you in your great affliction, but you will understand that it is unavoidable.”

“I quite understand that,” she replied, “and I wish to thank you and the jury for your kind sympathy.”

She was then sworn, and having given her name and address, proceeded to answer the questions addressed to her, which elicited a narrative of the events substantially identical with that which she had given to the inspector and which I have already recorded.

“You have told us,” said the coroner, “that when Dr. Gray spoke to you, you were searching among the bushes. Will you tell us what was in your mind—what you were searching for, and what induced you to make that search?”

“I was very uneasy about my father,” she replied. “He had not been home that night, and he had not told me that he intended to stay at the studio—as he sometimes did when he was working very late. So, in the morning I went to the studio in Abbey-road to see if he was there; but the caretaker told me that he had started for home about ten o’clock. Then I began to fear that something had happened to him, and as he always came home by the path through the wood, I went there to see if—if anything had happened to him.”

“Had you in your mind any definite idea as to what might have happened to him?”

“I thought he might have been taken ill or have fallen down dead. He once told me that he would probably die quite suddenly. I believe that he suffered from some affection of the heart, but he did not like speaking about his health.”

“Are you sure that there was nothing more than this in your mind?”

“There was nothing more. I thought that his heart might have failed and that he might have wandered, in a half-conscious state, away from the main path and fallen dead in one of the thickets.”

The coroner pondered this reply for some time. I could not see why, for it was plain and straightforward enough. At length he said, very gravely and with what seemed to me unnecessary emphasis:

“I want you to be quite frank and open with us, Miss D’Arblay. Can you swear that there was no other possibility in your mind than that of sudden illness?”

She looked at him in surprise, apparently not understanding the drift of the question. As to me, I assumed that he was endeavoring delicately to ascertain whether deceased was addicted to drink.

“I have told you exactly what was in my mind,” she replied.

“Have you ever had any reason to suppose, or to entertain the possibility, that your father might take his own life?”

“Never,” she answered emphatically. “He was a happy, even-tempered man, always interested in his work, and always in good spirits. I am sure he would never have taken his own life.”

The coroner nodded with a rather curious air of satisfaction, as if he were concurring with the witness’s statement. Then he asked in the same grave, emphatic manner:

“So far as you know, had your father any enemies?”

“No,” she replied confidently. “He was a kindly, amiable man who disliked nobody, and every one who knew him loved him.”

As she uttered this panegyric (and what prouder testimony could a daughter have given?), her eyes filled, and the coroner looked at her with deep sympathy but yet with a somewhat puzzled expression.

“You are sure,” he said gently, “that there was no one whom he might have injured—even inadvertently—or who bore him any grudge or ill-will?”

“I am sure,” she answered, “that he never injured or gave offence to any one, and I do not believe that there was any person in the whole world who bore him anything but goodwill.”

The coroner noted this reply, and as he entered it in the depositions his face bore the same curious puzzled or doubtful expression. When he had written the answer down, he asked:

“By the way, what was the deceased’s occupation?”

“He was a sculptor by profession, but in late years he worked principally as a modeller for various trades—pottery manufacturers, picture-frame makers, carvers, and the makers of high-class wax figures for shop windows.”

“Had he any assistants or subordinates?”

“No. He worked alone. Occasionally I helped him with his moulds when he was very busy or had a very large work on hand; but usually he did everything himself. Of course, he occasionally employed models.”

“Do you know who those models were?”

“They were professional models. The men, I think, were all Italians, and some of the women were too. I believe my father kept a list of them in his address book.”

“Was he working from a model on the night of his death?”

“No. He was making the moulds for a porcelain statuette.”

“Did you ever hear that he had any kind of trouble with his models?”

“Never. He seemed always on the best of terms with them, and he used to speak of them most appreciatively.”

“What sort of persons are professional models? Should you say they are a decent, well-conducted class?”

“Yes. They are usually most respectable, hard-working people; and, of course, they are sober and decent in their habits or they would be of no use for their professional duties.”

The coroner meditated on these replies with a speculative eye on the witness. After a short pause, he began along another line.

“Did deceased ever carry about with him property of any considerable value?”

“Never, to my knowledge.”

“No jewellery, plate, or valuable material?”

“No. His work was practically all in plaster or wax. He did no goldsmith’s work and he used no precious material.”

“Did he ever have any considerable sums of money about him?”

“No. He received all his payments by cheque and he made his payments in the same way. His habit was to carry very little money on his person—usually not more than one or two pounds.”

Once more the coroner reflected profoundly. It seemed to me that he was trying to elicit some fact—I could not imagine what—and was failing utterly. At length, after another puzzled look at the witness, he turned to the jury and inquired if any of them wished to put any questions; and when they had severally shaken their heads he thanked Miss D’Arblay for the clear and straightforward way in which she had given her evidence and released her.

While the examination had been proceeding, I had allowed my eyes to wander round the room with some curiosity: for this was the first time that I had ever been present at an inquest. From the jury, the witnesses in waiting and the reporters—among whom I tried to identify Dr. Thorndyke’s stenographer—my attention was presently transferred to the spectators. There were only a few of them, but I found myself wondering why there should be any. What kind of person attends as a spectator at an ordinary inquest such as this appeared to be? The newspaper reports of the finding of the body were quite unsensational and promised no startling developments. Finally I decided that they were probably local residents who had some knowledge of the deceased and were just indulging their neighbourly curiosity.

Among them my attention was particularly attracted by a middle-aged woman who sat near me: at least I judged her to be middle-aged, though the rather dense black veil that she wore obscured her face to a great extent. Apparently she was a widow, and advertised the fact by the orthodox, old-fashioned “weeds.” But I could see that she had white hair and wore spectacles. She held a folded newspaper on her knee, apparently dividing her attention between the printed matter and the proceedings of the court. She gave me the impression of having come in to spend an idle hour, combining a somewhat perfunctory reading of the paper with a still more perfunctory attention to the rather gruesome entertainment that the inquest afforded.

The next witness called was the doctor who had made the official examination of the body; on whom my bereaved friend bestowed a listless, incurious glance and then returned to her newspaper. He was a youngish man, though his hair was turning gray, with a quiet but firm and confident manner and a very clear, pleasant voice. The preliminaries having been disposed of, the coroner led off with the question:

“You have made an examination of the body of the deceased?”

“Yes. It is that of a well-proportioned, fairly muscular man of about sixty, quite healthy with the exception of the heart, one of the valves of which—the mitral valve—was incompetent and allowed some leakage of blood to take place.”

“Was the heart affection sufficient to account for the death of deceased?”

“No. It was quite a serviceable heart. There was good compensation—that is to say, there was extra growth of muscle to make up for the leaky valve. So far as his heart was concerned, deceased might have lived for another twenty years.”

“Were you able to ascertain what actually was the cause of death?”

“Yes. The cause of death was aconitine poisoning.”

At this reply a murmur of astonishment arose from the jury, and I heard Miss D’Arblay suddenly draw in her breath. The spectators sat up on their benches, and even the veiled lady was so far interested as to look up from her paper.

“How had the poison been administered?” the coroner asked.

“It had been injected under the skin by means of a hypodermic syringe.”

“Can you give an opinion as to whether the poison was administered to deceased by himself or by some other person?”

“It could not have been injected by deceased himself,” the witness replied. “The needle-puncture was in the back, just below the left shoulder-blade. It is, in my opinion, physically impossible for any one to inject into his own body with a hypodermic syringe in that spot. And, of course, a person who was administering an injection to himself would select the most convenient spot—such as the front of the thigh. But apart from the question of convenience, the place in which the needle-puncture was found was actually out of reach.” Here the witness produced a hypodermic syringe, the action of which he demonstrated with the aid of a glass of water; and having shown the impossibility of applying it to the spot that he had described, passed the syringe round for the jury’s inspection.

“Have you formed any opinion as to the purpose for which this drug was administered in this manner?”

“I have no doubt that it was administered for the purpose of causing the death of deceased.”

“Might it not have been administered for medicinal purposes?”

“That is quite inconceivable. Leaving out of consideration the circumstances—the time and place where the administration occurred—the dose excludes the possibility of medicinal purposes. It was a lethal dose. From the tissues round the needle-puncture we recovered the twelfth of a grain of aconitine. That alone was more than enough to cause death. But a quantity of the poison had been absorbed, as was shown by the fact that we recovered a recognizable trace from the liver.”

“What is the medicinal dose of aconitine?”

“The maximum medicinal dose is about the four-hundredth of a grain, and even that is not very safe. As a matter of fact, aconitine is very seldom used in medical practice. It is a dangerous drug, and of no particular value.”

“How much aconitine do you suppose was injected?”

“Not less than the tenth of a grain—that is about forty times the maximum medicinal dose. Probably more.”

“There can, I suppose, be no doubt as to the accuracy of the facts that you have stated—as to the nature and quantity of the poison?”

“There can be no doubt whatever. The analysis was made in my presence by Professor Woodford, of St. Margaret’s Hospital, after I had removed the tissues from the body in his presence. He has not been called because, in accordance with the procedure under Coroner’s Law, I am responsible for the analysis and the conclusions drawn from it.”

“Taking the medical facts as known to you, are you able to form an opinion as to what took place when the poison was administered?”

“That,” the witness replied, “is a matter of inference or conjecture. I infer that the person who administered the poison thrust the needle violently into the back of the deceased, intending to inject the poison into the chest. Actually, the needle struck a rib and bent up sharply, so that the contents of the syringe were delivered just under the skin. Then I take it that the assailant ran away—probably towards the pond—and deceased pursued him. Very soon the poison would take effect, and then deceased would have fallen. He may have fallen into the pond, or more probably, was thrown in. He was alive when he fell into the pond, as is proved by the presence of water in the lungs; but he must then have been insensible; and in a dying condition, for there was no water in the stomach, which proves that the swallowing reflex had already ceased.”

“Your considered opinion, then, based on the medical facts ascertained by you, is, I understand, that deceased died from the effects of a poison injected into his body by some other person with homicidal intent?”

“Yes; that is my considered opinion, and I affirm that the facts do not admit of any other interpretation.”

The coroner looked towards the jury. “Do any of you gentlemen wish to ask the witness any questions?” he inquired; and when the foreman had replied that the jury were entirely satisfied with the doctor’s explanations, he thanked the witness, who thereupon retired. The medical witness was succeeded by the inspector, who made a short statement respecting the effects found on the person of deceased. They comprised a small sum of money—under two pounds—a watch, keys, and other articles, none of them of any appreciable value, but, such as they were, furnishing evidence that at least petty robbery had not been the object of the attack.

When the last witness had been heard, the coroner glanced at his notes and then proceeded to address the jury.

“There is little, gentlemen,” he began, “that I need say to you. The facts are before you, and they seem to admit of only one interpretation. I remind you that, by the terms of your oath, your finding must be ‘according to the evidence.’ Now the medical evidence is quite clear and definite. It is to the effect that deceased met his death by poison, administered violently by some other person: that is by homicide. Homicide is the killing of a human being, and it may or may not be criminal. But if the homicidal act is done with the intent to kill; if that intention has been deliberately formed—that is to say, if the homicidal act has been premeditated; then that homicide is wilful murder.

“Now the person who killed the deceased came to the place where the act was done provided with a solution of a very powerful and uncommon vegetable poison. He was also provided with a very special appliance—to wit, a hypodermic syringe—for injecting it into the body. The fact that he was furnished with the poison and the appliance creates a strong enough presumption that he came to this place with the deliberate intention of killing the deceased. That is to say, this fact constitutes strong evidence of premeditation.

“As to the motive for this act, we are completely in the dark; nor have we any evidence pointing to the identity of the person who committed that act. But a coroner’s inquest is not necessarily concerned with motives, nor is it our business to fix the act on any particular person. We have to find how and by what means the deceased met his death; and for that purpose we have clear and sufficient evidence. I need say no more, but will leave you to agree upon your finding.”

There was a brief interval of silence when the coroner had finished speaking. The jury whispered together for a few seconds; then the foreman announced that they had agreed upon their verdict.

“And what is your decision, gentlemen?” the coroner asked.

“We find,” was the reply, “that deceased met his death by wilful murder, committed by some person unknown.”

The coroner bowed. “I am in entire agreement with you, gentlemen,” said he. “No other verdict was possible, and I am sure you will join me in the hope that the wretch who committed this dastardly crime may be identified and in due course brought to justice.”

This brought the proceedings to an end. As the Court rose the spectators filed out of the building and the coroner approached Miss D’Arblay to express once more his deep sympathy with her in her tragic bereavement. I stood apart with Miss Boler, whose rugged face was wet with tears, but set in a grim and wrathful scowl.

“Things have taken a terrible turn,” I ventured to observe.

She shook her head and uttered a sort of low growl. “It won’t bear thinking of,” she said gruffly. “There is no possible retribution that would meet the case. One has thought that some of the old punishments were cruel and barbarous, but if I could lay my hands on the villain that did this—” She broke off, leaving the conclusion to my imagination, and in an extraordinarily different voice said: “Come, Miss Marion, let us get out of this awful place.”

As we walked away slowly and in silence, I looked at Miss D’Arblay, not without anxiety. She was very pale, and the dazed expression that her face had borne on the fatal day of the discovery had, to some extent, reappeared. But now the signs of bewilderment and grief were mingled with something new. The rigid face, the compressed lips, and lowered brows spoke of a deep and abiding wrath.

Suddenly she turned to me and said, abruptly, almost harshly:

“I was wrong in what I said to you before the inquiry. You remember that I said that the circumstances of the loss could make no difference; but they make a whole world of difference. I had supposed that my dear father had died as he had thought he would die; that it was the course of Nature, which we cannot rebel against. Now I know, from what the doctor said, that he might have lived on happily for the full span of human life but for the malice of this unknown wretch. His life was not lost; it was stolen—from him and from me.”

“Yes,” I said somewhat lamely. “It is a horrible affair.”

“It is beyond bearing!” she exclaimed. “If his death had been natural, I would have tried to resign myself to it. I would have tried to put my grief away. But to think that his happy, useful life has been snatched from him—that he has been torn from us who loved him by the deliberate act of this murderer—it is unendurable. It will be with me every hour of my life until I die. And every hour I shall call on God for justice against this wretch.”

I looked at her with a sort of admiring surprise. A quiet, gentle girl as I believed her to be at ordinary times, now, with her flushed cheeks, her flashing eyes and ominous brows, she reminded me of one of the heroines of the French Revolution. Her grief seemed to be merged in a longing for vengeance.

While she had been speaking Miss Boler had kept up a running accompaniment in a deep, humming bass. I could not catch the words—if there were any—but was aware only of a low, continuous bourdon. She now said with grim decision:

“God will not let him escape. He shall pay the debt to the uttermost farthing.” Then, with sudden fierceness, she added: “If I should ever meet with him I could kill him with my own hand.”

After this both women relapsed into silence, which I was loth to interrupt. The circumstances were too tragic for conversation. When we reached their gate Miss D’Arblay held out her hand and once again thanked me for my help and sympathy.

“I have done nothing,” said I, “that any stranger would not have done, and I deserve no thanks. But I should like to think that you will look on me as a friend, and if you should need any help will let me have the privilege of being of use to you.”

“I look on you as a friend already,” she replied; “and I hope you will come and see us sometimes—when we have settled down to our new conditions of life.”

As Miss Boler seemed to confirm this invitation, I thanked them both and took my leave, glad to think that I had now a recognized status as a friend and might pursue a project which had formed in my mind even before we had left the court-house.

The evidence of the murder, which had fallen like a thunderbolt on us all, had a special significance for me; for I knew that Dr. Thorndyke was behind this discovery, though to what extent I could not judge. The medical witness was an obviously capable man, and it might be that he would have made the discovery without assistance. But a needle-puncture in the back is a very inconspicuous thing. Ninety-nine doctors in a hundred would almost certainly have overlooked it, especially in the case of a body apparently “found drowned,” and seeming to call for no special examination beyond the search for gross injuries. The revelation was very characteristic of Thorndyke’s methods and principles. It illustrated in a most striking manner the truth which he was never tired of insisting on: that it is never safe to accept obvious appearances, and that every case, no matter how apparently simple and commonplace, should be approached with suspicion and scepticism and subjected to the most rigorous scrutiny. That was precisely what had been done in this case; and thereby an obvious suicide had been resolved into a cunningly planned and skilfully executed murder. It was quite possible that, but for my visit to Thorndyke, those cunning plans would have succeeded and the murderer have secured the cover of a verdict of “Death by misadventure” or “Suicide while temporarily insane.” At any rate, the results had justified me in invoking Dr. Thorndyke’s aid; and the question now arose whether it would be possible to retain him for the further investigation of the case.

This was the project that had occurred to me as I listened to the evidence and realized how completely the unknown murderer had covered up his tracks. But there were difficulties. Thorndyke might consider such an investigation outside his province. Again, the costs involved might be on a scale entirely beyond my means. The only thing to be done was to call on Thorndyke and hear what he had to say on the subject, and this I determined to do on the first opportunity. And having formed this resolution, I made my way back by the shortest route to Mecklenburgh-square, where the evening consultations were now nearly due.

CHAPTER IV.
Mr. Bendelow

There are certain districts in London the appearance of which conveys to the observer the impression that the houses, and indeed, the entire streets, have been picked up second-hand. There is in this aspect a grey, colourless, mouldy quality, reminiscent, not of the antique shop, but rather of the marine store dealers; a quality which even communicates itself to the inhabitants, so that one gathers the impression that the whole neighbourhood was taken as a going concern.

It was on such a district that I found myself looking down from the top of an omnibus a few days after the inquest (Dr. Cornish’s brougham being at the moment under repairs and his horse “out to grass” during the slack season), being bound for a street in the neighbourhood of Hoxton—Market-street by name—which abutted, as I had noticed when making out my route, on the Regent’s Canal. The said route I had written out, and now, in the intervals of my surveys of the unlovely prospect, I divided my attention between it and the note which had summoned me to these remote regions.

Concerning the latter I was somewhat curious, for the envelope was addressed, not to Dr. Cornish, but to “Dr. Stephen Gray.” This was really quite an odd circumstance. Either the writer knew me personally or was aware that I was acting as locum tenens for Cornish. But the name—James Morris—was unknown to me, and a careful inspection of the index of the ledger had failed to bring to light any one answering to the description. So Mr. Morris was presumably a stranger to my principal also. The note, which had been left by hand in the morning, requested me to call “as early in the forenoon as possible,” which seemed to hint at some degree of urgency. Naturally, as a young practitioner, I speculated with interest, not entirely unmingled with anxiety, on the possible nature of the case, and also on the patient’s reasons for selecting a medical attendant whose residence was so inconveniently far away.

In accordance with my written route, I got off the omnibus at the corner of Shepherdess-walk, and pursuing that pastoral thoroughfare for some distance, presently plunged into a labyrinth of streets adjoining it and succeeded most effectually in losing myself. However, inquiries addressed to an intelligent fish-vendor elicited a most lucid direction and I soon found myself in a little, drab street which justified its name by giving accommodation to a row of stationary barrows loaded with what looked like the “throw-outs” from a colossal spring clean. Passing along this kerb-side market and reflecting (like Diogenes, in similar circumstances) how many things there were in the world that I did not want, I walked slowly up the street looking for Number 23—my patient’s number—and the canal which I had seen on the map. I located them both at the same instant, for Number 23 turned out to be the last house on the opposite side, and a few yards beyond it the street was barred by a low wall, over which, as I looked, the mast of a sailing-barge came into view and slowly crept past. I stepped up to the wall and looked over. Immediately beneath me was the towing-path, alongside which the barge was now bringing up and beginning to lower her mast, apparently in order to pass under a bridge that spanned the canal some two hundred yards farther along.

From these nautical manœuvres I transferred my attention to my patient’s house—or, at least, so much of it as I could see; for Number 23 appeared to consist of a shop with nothing over it. There was, however, in a wall which extended to the canal wall a side door with a bell and knocker, so I inferred that the house was behind the shop, and that the latter had been built on a formerly existing front garden. The shop itself was somewhat reminiscent of the stalls down the street, for though the fascia was newly painted (with the inscription “J. Morris, General Dealer”) the stock-in-trade exhibited in the window was in the last stage of senile decay. It included, I remember, a cracked Toby jug, a mariner’s sextant of an obsolete type, a Dutch clock without hands, a snuff-box, one or two plaster statuettes, an invalid punch-bowl, a shiny, dark, and inscrutable oil painting and a plaster mask, presumably the death mask of some celebrity whose face was unknown to me.

My examination of this collection was brought to a sudden end by the apparition of a face above the half-blind of glazed shop-door; the face of a middle-aged woman who seemed to be inspecting me with malevolent interest. Assuming—rather too late—a brisk, professional manner, I opened the shop door, thereby setting a bell jangling within, and confronted the owner of the face.

“I am Dr. Gray,” I began to explain.

“Side door,” she interrupted brusquely. “Ring the bell and knock.”

I backed out hastily and proceeded to follow the directions, giving a tug at the bell and delivering a flourish on the knocker. The hollow reverberations of the latter almost suggested an empty house, but my vigorous pull at the bell-handle produced no audible result, from which I inferred—wrongly, as afterwards appeared—that it was out of repair. After waiting quite a considerable time, I was about to repeat the performance when I heard sounds within; and then the door was opened, to my surprise, by the identical sour-faced woman whom I had seen in the shop. As her appearance and manner did not invite conversation, and she uttered no word, I followed her in silence through a long passage, or covered way, which ran parallel to the side of the shop and presumably crossed the site of the garden. It ended at a door which opened into the hall proper; a largish square space into which the doors of the ground-floor rooms opened. It contained the main staircase and was closed in at the farther end by a heavy curtain which extended from wall to wall.

We proceeded in this funereal manner up the stairs to the first floor on the landing of which my conductress halted and for the first time broke the silence.

“You will probably find Mr. Bendelow asleep or dozing,” she said in a rather gruff voice. “If he is, there is no need for you to disturb him.”

“Mr. Bendelow!” I exclaimed. “I understood that his name was Morris.”

“Well, it isn’t,” she retorted. “It is Bendelow. My name is Morris and so is my husband’s. It was he who wrote to you.”

“By the way,” said I, “how did he know my name? I am acting for Dr. Cornish, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” said she, “and I don’t suppose he did. Probably the servant told him. But it doesn’t matter. Here you are, and you will do as well as another. I was telling you about Mr. Bendelow. He is in a pretty bad way. The specialist whom Mr. Morris took him to—Dr. Artemus Cropper—said he had cancer of the bi-lorus, whatever that is—”

“Pylorus,” I corrected.

“Well, pylorus, then, if you prefer it,” she said impatiently. “At any rate, whatever it is, he’s got cancer of it; and, as I said before, he is in a pretty bad way. Dr. Cropper told us what to do, and we are doing it. He wrote out full directions as to diet—I will show them to you presently—and he said that Mr. Bendelow was to have a dose of morphia if he complained of pain—which he does, of course; and that, as there was no chance of his getting better, it didn’t matter how much morphia he had. The great thing was to keep him out of pain. So we give it to him twice a day—at least, my husband does—and that keeps him fairly comfortable. In fact, he sleeps most of the time, and is probably dozing now; so you are not likely to get much out of him, especially as he is rather hard of hearing even when he is awake. And now you had better come in and have a look at him.”

She advanced to the door of a room and opened it softly, and I followed in a somewhat uncomfortable frame of mind. It seemed to me that I had no function but that of a mere figure-head. Dr. Cropper, whom I knew by name as a physician of some reputation, had made the diagnosis and prescribed the treatment, neither of which I, as a mere beginner, would think of contesting. It was an unsatisfactory, even an ignominious, position from which my professional pride revolted. But apparently it had to be accepted.

Mr. Bendelow was a most remarkable-looking man. Probably he had always been somewhat peculiar in appearance; but now the frightful emaciation (which strongly confirmed Cropper’s diagnosis) had so accentuated his original peculiarities that he had the appearance of some dreadful, mirthless caricature. Under the influence of the remorseless disease, every structure which was capable of shrinking had shrunk to the vanishing-point, leaving the unshrinkable skeleton jutting out with a most horrible and grotesque effect. His great hooked nose, which must always have been strikingly prominent, stuck out now, thin and sharp, like the beak of some bird of prey. His heavy, beetling brows, which must always have given to his face a frowning sullenness, now overhung sockets which had shrunk away into mere caverns. His naturally high cheek-bones were now not only prominent, but exhibited the details of their structure as one sees them in a dry skull. Altogether, his aspect was at once pitiable and forbidding. Of his age I could form no estimate. He might have been a hundred. The wonder was that he was still alive; that there was yet left in that shrivelled body enough material to enable its mechanism to continue its functions.

He was not asleep, but was in that somnolent, lethargic state that is characteristic of the effects of morphia. He took no notice of me when I approached the bed, nor even when I spoke his name somewhat loudly.

“I told you you wouldn’t get much out of him,” said Mrs. Morris, looking at me with a sort of grim satisfaction. “He doesn’t have a great deal to say to any of us nowadays.”

“Well,” said I, “there is no need to rouse him, but I had better just examine him, if only as a matter of form. I can’t take the case entirely on hearsay.”

“I suppose not,” she agreed. “You know best. Do what you think necessary, but don’t disturb him more than you can help.”

It was not a prolonged examination. The first touch of my fingers on the shrunken abdomen made me aware of the unmistakable hard mass and rendered further exploration needless. There could be no doubt as to the nature of the case or of what the future held in store. It was only a question of time, and a short time at that.

The patient submitted to the examination quite passively, but he seemed to be fully aware of what was going on, for he looked at me in a sort of drunken, dreamy fashion, but without any sign of interest in my proceedings. When I had finished, I looked him over again, trying to reconstitute him as he might have been before this deadly disease fastened on him. I observed that he seemed to have a fair crop of hair of a darkish iron-grey. I say “seemed,” because the greater part of his head was covered by a skull cap of black silk; but a fringe of hair straying from under it on to the forehead suggested that he was not bald. His teeth, too, which were rather conspicuous, were natural teeth and in good preservation. In order to verify this fact, I stooped and raised his lip the better to examine them. But at this point Mrs. Morris intervened.

“There, that will do,” she said impatiently. “You are not a dentist, and his teeth will last as long as he will want them. If you have finished you had better come with me and I will show you Dr. Cropper’s prescriptions. Then you can tell me if you have any further directions to give.”

She led the way out of the room, and when I had made a farewell gesture to the patient (of which he took no notice) I followed her down the stairs to the ground floor where she ushered me into a small, rather elegantly furnished room. Here she opened the flap of a bureau and from one of the little drawers took an open envelope which she handed to me. It contained one or two prescriptions for occasional medicines, and a sheet of directions relative to the diet and general management of the patient, including the administration of morphia. The latter read, under the general heading, “Simon Bendelow, Esq.”:

“As the case progresses, it will probably be necessary to administer morphine regularly, but the amount given should, if possible, be restricted to ¼ gr. Morph. Sulph., not more than twice a day; but, of course, the hopeless prognosis and probable early termination of the case make some latitude admissible.”

Although I was in complete agreement with the writer, I was a little puzzled by these documents. They were signed “Artemus Cropper, M.D.,” but they were not addressed to any person by name. They appeared to have been given to Mr. Morris, in whose possession they now were; but the use of the word “morphine” instead of the more familiar “morphia” and the generally technical phraseology seemed inappropriate to directions addressed to lay persons. As I returned them I remarked:

“These directions read as if they had been intended for the information of a medical man.”

“They were,” she replied. “They were meant for the doctor who was attending Mr. Bendelow at the time. When we moved to this place I got them from him to show to the new doctor. You are the new doctor.”

“Then you haven’t been here very long?”

“No,” she replied. “We have only just moved in. And that reminds me that our stock of morphia is running out. Could you bring a fresh tube of the tabloids next time you call? My husband left an empty tube for me to give you to remind you what size the tabloids are. He gives Mr. Bendelow the injections.”

“Thank you,” said I, “but I don’t want the empty tube. I read the prescription and shan’t forget the dose. I will bring a new tube to-morrow—that is, if you want me to call every day. It seems hardly necessary.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she agreed. “I should think twice a week would be quite enough. Monday and Thursday would suit me best; if you could manage to come about this time I should be sure to be in. My time is rather taken up, as I haven’t a servant at present.”

It was a bad arrangement. Fixed appointments are things to avoid in medical practice. Nevertheless I agreed to it—subject to unforeseen obstacles—and was forthwith conducted back along the covered way and launched into the outer world with a farewell which it would be inadequate to describe as unemotional.

As I turned away from the door I cast a passing glance at the shop window; and once again I perceived a face above the half-blind. It was a man’s face this time; presumably the face of Mr. Morris. And, like his wife, he seemed to be “taking stock of me.” I returned the attention, and carried away with me the instantaneous mental photograph of a man in that unprepossessing transitional state between being clean-shaved and wearing a beard which is characterized by a sort of grubby prickliness that disfigures the features without obscuring them. His stubble was barely a week old, but as his complexion and hair were dark, the effect was very untidy and disreputable. And yet, as I have said, it did not obscure the features. I was even able, in that momentary glance, to note a detail which would probably have escaped a non-medical eye: the scar of a hare-lip which had been very neatly and skilfully mended, and which a moustache would probably have concealed altogether.

I did not, however, give much thought to Mr. Morris. It was his dour-faced wife, with her gruff, over-bearing manner who principally occupied my reflections. She seemed to have divined in some way that I was but a beginner—perhaps my youthful appearance gave her the hint—and to have treated me with almost open contempt. In truth my position was not a very dignified one. The diagnosis of the case had been made for me, the treatment had been prescribed for me, and was being carried out by other hands than mine. My function was to support a kind of legal fiction that I was conducting the case, but principally to supply the morphia (which a chemist might have refused to do), and when the time came, to sign the death certificate. It was an ignominious rôle for a young and ambitious practitioner, and my pride was disposed to boggle at it. But yet there was nothing to which I could object. The diagnosis was undoubtedly correct, and the treatment and management of the case exactly such as I should have prescribed. Finally I decided that my dissatisfaction was principally due to the unattractive personality of Mrs. Morris; and with this conclusion I dismissed the case from my mind and let my thoughts wander into more agreeable channels.

CHAPTER V.
Inspector Follett’s Discovery

To a man whose mind is working actively, walking is a more acceptable mode of progression than riding in a vehicle. There is a sort of reciprocity between the muscles and the brain—possibly due to the close association of the motor and psychical centres—whereby the activity of the one appears to act as a stimulus to the other. A sharp walk sets the mind working, and, conversely, a state of lively reflection begets an impulse to bodily movement.

Hence, when I had emerged from Market-street and set my face homewards, I let the omnibuses rumble past unheeded. I knew my way now. I had but to retrace the route by which I had come, and, preserving my isolation amidst the changing crowd, let my thoughts keep pace with my feet. And I had, in fact, a good deal to think about; a general subject for reflection which arranged itself around two personalities, Miss D’Arblay and Dr. Thorndyke.

To the former I had written suggesting a call on her, “subject to the exigencies of the service,” on Sunday afternoon, and had received a short but cordial note definitely inviting me to tea. So that matter was settled, and really required no further consideration, though it did actually occupy my thoughts for an appreciable part of my walk. But that was mere self-indulgence: the preliminary savouring of an anticipated pleasure. My cogitations respecting Dr. Thorndyke were, on the other hand, somewhat troubled. I was eager to invoke his aid in solving the hideous mystery which his acuteness had (I felt convinced) brought into view. But it would probably be a costly business, and my pecuniary resources were not great. To apply to him for services of which I could not meet the cost was not to be thought of. The too-common meanness of sponging on a professional man was totally abhorrent to me.

But what was the alternative? The murder of Julius D’Arblay was one of those crimes which offer the police no opportunity; at least, so it seemed to me. Out of the darkness this fiend had stolen to commit this unspeakable atrocity, and into the darkness he had straightway vanished, leaving no trace of his identity nor any hint of his diabolical motive. It might well be that he had vanished for ever; that the mystery of the crime was beyond solution. But if any solution was possible, the one man who seemed capable of discovering it was John Thorndyke.

This conclusion, to which my reflections led again and again, committed me to the dilemma that either this villain must be allowed to go his way unmolested, if the police could find no clue to his identity—a position that I utterly refused to accept; or that the one supremely skilful investigator should be induced, if possible, to take up the inquiry. In the end I decided to call on Thorndyke and frankly lay the facts before him, but to postpone the interview until I had seen Miss D’Arblay and ascertained what view the police took of the case, and whether any new facts had transpired.