On arriving at my chambers after my conference
with Thorndyke I found awaiting me a letter
from a Maidstone solicitor offering me a brief for a
case of some importance that was to be tried at the
forthcoming assizes. At first, I read it almost
impatiently, so preoccupied was my mind with the tragedy
in which I was involved. It seemed inopportune,
almost impertinent. But, in fact it was most opportune,
as I presently realized, in that it recalled me to the
realities of normal life. My duties to my friends I
did, indeed, take very seriously. But I was not an idle
man. I had my way to make in my profession and
could not afford to drop out of the race, to sacrifice
my ambitions entirely, even on the altar of friendship.
I sat down and glanced through the instructions. It
was a case of alleged fraud, an intricate case which
interested me at once and in which I thought I could do
myself credit; which was also the opinion of the
solicitor, who was evidently anxious for me to undertake it.
Eventually, I decided to accept the brief, and having
written a letter to that effect, I set myself to spend the
remainder of the evening in studying the instructions
and mastering the rather involved details. For time
was short, since the case was down for hearing in a
couple of days’ time and the morrow would be taken
up by my engagements at Hilborough Square.
I pass over the incidents of the funeral. It was a
dismal and unpleasant affair, lacking all the dignity
and pathos that relieve the dreariness of an ordinary
funeral. None of us could forget, as we sat back in
the mourning coach as far out of sight as possible, that
the corpse in the hearse ahead was the corpse of a
murdered man, and that most of the bystanders knew
it. Even in the chapel, the majestic service was marred
and almost vulgarized by the self-consciousness of the
mourners and at the grave-side we found one another
peering furtively around for signs of recognition. To
all of us it was a profound relief, when we were once
more gathered together in the drawing room, to hear
the street door close finally and the mourning carriage
rumble away down the square.
I took an early opportunity of mentioning the brief
and I could see that to both the women the prospect of
my departure came as a disagreeable surprise.
“How soon will you have to leave us?” Madeline
asked, anxiously.
“I must start for Maidstone to-morrow morning,” I
replied.
“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed. “How empty the place
will seem and how lost we shall be without you to
advise us.”
“I hope,” said I, “that the occasions for advice are
past, and I shall not be so very far away, if you should
want to consult me.”
“No,” said Barbara, “and I suppose you will not be
away for very long. Shall you come back when your
case is finished or shall you stay for the rest of the
assizes?”
“I shall probably have some other briefs offered,
which will detain me until the assizes are over. My
solicitor hinted at some other cases, and of course
there is the usual casual work that turns up on
circuit.”
“Well,” she rejoined, “we can only wish you good
luck and plenty of work, though we shall be glad when
it is time for you to come back; and we must be
thankful that you were here to help us through the worst of
our troubles.”
The general tenor of this conversation, which took
place at the lunch table, was not, apparently, to
Wallingford’s taste; for he sat glumly consuming his food
and rather ostentatiously abstaining from taking any
part in the discussion. Nor was I surprised; for the
obvious way in which both women leant on me was a
reproach to his capacity, which ought to have made my
advice and guidance unnecessary. But though I
sympathized in a way with his displeasure, it nevertheless
made me a little uneasy. For there was another matter
that I wanted to broach; one in which he might
consider himself concerned; namely, my commission to
Thorndyke. I had, indeed, debated with myself
whether I should not be wiser to keep my own counsel
on the subject; but I had decided that they were all
interested parties and that it would seem unfriendly
and uncandid to keep them in the dark. But, for
obvious reasons, I did not propose to acquaint them
with Thorndyke’s views on the case.
The announcement, when I made it, was received
without enthusiasm, and Wallingford, as I had feared,
was inclined to be resentful.
“Don’t you think, Mayfield,” said he, “that you
ought to have consulted the rest of us before putting
this private inquiry agent, or whatever he is, on the
case?”
“Perhaps I ought,” I admitted. “But it is important
to us all that the mystery should be cleared up.”
“That is quite true,” said Barbara, “and for my part,
I shall never rest until the wretch who made away
with poor Harold is dragged out into the light of
day—that is, if there is really such a person; I mean, if
Harold’s death was not, after all, the result of some
ghastly accident. But is it wise for us to meddle? The
police have the case in hand. Surely, with all their
experience and their machinery of detection, they are
more likely to be successful than a private individual,
no matter how clever he may be.”
“That,” I replied, “is, in fact, Dr. Thorndyke’s own
view. He wished to leave the inquiry to the police;
and I may say that he will not come into the case
unless it should turn out that the police are unable
to solve the mystery.”
“In which case,” said Wallingford, “it is extremely
unlikely that an outsider, without their special
opportunities, will be able to solve it. And if he should
happen to find a mare’s nest, we shall share the glory
and the publicity of his discovery.”
“I don’t think,” said I, “that you need have any
anxiety on that score. Dr. Thorndyke is not at all
addicted to finding mare’s nests and still less to
publicity. If he makes any discovery he will probably
keep it to himself until he has the whole case cut and
dried. Then he will communicate the facts to the
police; and the first news we shall have on the
subject will be the announcement that an arrest has been
made. And when the police make an arrest on Thorndyke’s
information, you can take it that a conviction
will follow inevitably.”
“I don’t think I quite understand Dr. Thorndyke’s
position,” said Madeline. “What is he? You seem
to refer to him as a sort of superior private detective.”
“Thorndyke,” I replied, “is a unique figure in the
legal world. He is a barrister and a doctor of medicine.
In the one capacity he is probably the greatest
criminal lawyer of our time. In the other he is, among other
things, the leading authority on poisons and on crimes
connected with them; and so far as I know, he has
never made a mistake.”
“He must be a very remarkable man,” Wallingford
remarked, drily.
“He is,” I replied; and in justification of my
statement, I gave a sketch of one or two of the cases in
which Thorndyke had cleared up what had seemed to
be a completely and helplessly insoluble mystery.
They all listened with keen interest and were evidently
so far impressed that any doubts as to Thorndyke’s
capacity were set at rest. But yet I was conscious, in
all three, of a certain distrust and uneasiness. The
truth was, as it seemed to me, that none of them had
yet recovered from the ordeal of the inquest. In their
secret hearts, what they all wanted—even Barbara, as
I suspected—was to bury the whole dreadful episode
in oblivion. And seeing this, I had not the courage to
remind them of their—of our position as the actual
suspected parties whose innocence it was Thorndyke’s
function to make clear.
In view of my impending departure from London, I
stayed until the evening was well advanced, though
sensible of a certain impatience to be gone; and when,
at length, I took my leave and set forth homeward, I
was conscious of the same sense of relief that I had
felt on the previous day. Now, for a time, I could
dismiss this horror from my mind and let my thoughts
occupy themselves with the activities that awaited me
at Maidstone; which they did so effectually that by the
time I reached my chambers, I felt that I had my case
at my fingers’ ends.
I had just set to work making my preparations for
the morrow when my glance happened to light on the
glazed bookcase in which the long series of my diaries
was kept; and then I suddenly bethought me of the
abstract which I had promised to make for
Thorndyke. There would be no time for that now; and yet,
since he had seemed to attach some importance to it,
I could not leave my promise unfulfilled. The only
thing to be done was to let him have the diary, itself.
I was a little reluctant to do this for I had never
yet allowed any one to read it. But there seemed to
be no alternative; and, after all, Thorndyke was a
responsible person; and if the diary did contain a
certain amount of confidential matter, there was
nothing in it that was really secret or that I need object to
any one reading. Accordingly, I took out the current
volume, and, dropping it into my pocket, made my way
round to King’s Bench Walk.
My knock at the door was answered by Thorndyke,
himself, and as I entered the room, I was a little
disconcerted at finding a large man seated in an easy
chair by the fire with his back to me; and still more
so when, on hearing me enter, he rose and turned to
confront me. For the stranger was none other than
Mr. Superintendent Miller.
His gratification at the meeting seemed to be no
greater than mine, though he greeted me quite
courteously and even cordially. I had the uncomfortable
feeling that I had broken in on a conference and began
to make polite preparations for a strategic retreat.
But Thorndyke would have none of it.
“Not at all, Mayfield,” said he. “The superintendent
is here on the same business as you are, and when
I tell him that you have commissioned me to investigate
this case, he will realize that we are colleagues.”
I am not sure that the superintendent realized this
so very vividly, but it was evident that Thorndyke’s
information interested him. Nevertheless he waited for
me and Thorndyke to make the opening moves and
only relaxed his caution by slow degrees.
“We were remarking when you came in,” he said, at
length, “what a curiously baffling case this is, and how
very disappointing. At first it looked all plain sailing.
There was the lady who used to prepare the special
diet for the unfortunate man and actually take it up to
him and watch him eat it. It seemed as if we had her
in the hollow of our hand. And then she slipped out.
The arsenic that was found in the stomach seemed to
connect the death with the food; but then there was
that confounded bottle of medicine that seemed to put the
food outside the case. And when we came to reckon
up the evidence furnished by the medicine, it proved
nothing. Somebody put the poison in. All of them
had the opportunity, more or less, and all about
equally. Nothing pointed to one more than another.
And that is how it is all through. There is any amount
of suspicion; but the suspicion falls on a group of
people, not on any one in particular.”
“Yes,” said Thorndyke, “the issues are most
strangely confused.”
“Extraordinarily,” said Miller. “This queer
confusion runs all through the case. You are constantly
thinking that you have got the solution, and just as you
are perfectly sure, it slips through your fingers. There
are lots of clues—fine ones; but as soon as you follow
one up it breaks off in the middle and leaves you
gaping. You saw what happened at the search, Mr.
Mayfield.”
“I saw the beginning—the actual search; but I don’t
know what came of it.”
“Then I can tell you in one word. Nothing. And
yet we seemed to be right on the track every time.
There was that secret drawer of Mr. Wallingford’s.
When I saw that packet of white powder in it, I
thought it was going to be a walk-over. I didn’t
believe for a moment that the stuff was cocaine. But it
was. I went straight to our analyst to have it tested.”
As the superintendent was speaking I caught
Thorndyke’s eye, fixed on me with an expression of
reproachful inquiry. But he made no remark and Miller
continued: “Then there were those two empty bottles.
The one that I found in the library yielded definite
traces of arsenic. But then, whose bottle was it? The
place was accessible to the entire household. It was
impossible to connect it with any one person. On the
other hand, the bottle that I found in Miss Norris’s
cupboard, and that was presumably hers—though she
didn’t admit it—contained no arsenic; at least the
analyst said it didn’t, though as it smelt of lavender
and had a red stain at the bottom, I feel convinced
that it had had Fowler’s Solution in it. What do you
think, Doctor? Don’t you think the analyst may have
been mistaken?”
“No,” Thorndyke replied, decidedly. “If the red
stain had been due to Fowler’s Solution there would
have been an appreciable quantity of arsenic present;
probably a fiftieth of a grain at least. But Marsh’s
test would detect a much smaller quantity than that.
If no arsenic was found by a competent chemist who
was expressly testing for it, you can take it that no
arsenic was there.”
“Well,” Miller rejoined, “you know best. But you
must admit that it is a most remarkable thing that one
bottle which smelt of lavender and had a red stain at
the bottom, should contain arsenic, and that another
bottle, exactly similar in appearance and smelling of
lavender and having a red stain at the bottom, should
contain no arsenic.”
“I am entirely with you, Miller,” Thorndyke agreed.
“It is a most remarkable circumstance.”
“And you see my point,” said Miller. “Every
discovery turns out a sell. I find a concealed packet of
powder—with the owner lying like Ananias—but the
powder turns out not to be arsenic. I find a bottle
that did contain arsenic, and there is no owner. I
find another, similar bottle, which has an owner, and
there is no arsenic in it. Rum, isn’t it? I feel like
the donkey with the bunch of carrots tied to his nose.
The carrots are there all right, but he can never get a
bite at ’em.”
Thorndyke had listened with the closest attention to
the superintendent’s observations and he now began a
cautious cross-examination—cautious because Miller
was taking it for granted that I had told him all about
the search; and I could not but admire his discretion in
suppressing the fact that I had not. For, while
Thorndyke, himself, would not suspect me of any intentional
concealment, Miller undoubtedly would, and what little
confidence he had in me would have been destroyed.
Accordingly, he managed the superintendent so adroitly
that the latter described, piecemeal, all the incidents
of the search.
“Did Wallingford say how he came to be in
possession of all this cocaine and morphine?” he asked.
“No,” replied Miller. “I asked him, but he refused
to say where he had got it.”
“But he could be made to answer,” said Thorndyke.
“Both of these drugs are poisons. He could be made to
account for having them in his possession and could
be called upon to show that he came by them
lawfully. They are not ordinarily purchasable by the
public.”
“No, that’s true,” Miller admitted. “But is there
any object in going into the question? You see, the
cocaine isn’t really any affair of ours.”
“It doesn’t seem to be,” Thorndyke agreed, “at least,
not directly; but indirectly it may be of considerable
importance. I think you ought to find out where he
got that cocaine and morphine, Miller.”
The superintendent reflected with the air of having
seen a new light.
“I see what you mean, Doctor,” said he. “You mean
that if he got the stuff from some Chinaman or
common dope merchant, there wouldn’t be much in it;
whereas, if he got it from some one who had a general
stock of drugs, there might be a good deal in it. Is
that the point?”
“Yes. He was able to obtain poisons from
somebody, and we ought to know exactly what facilities he
had for obtaining poisons and what poisons he
obtained.”
“Yes, that is so,” said Miller. “Well, I will see
about it at once. Fortunately he is a pretty easy
chappie to frighten. I expect, if I give him a bit of a
shake-up, he will give himself away; and if he won’t,
we must try other means. And now, as I think we have
said all that we have to say at present, I will wish you
two gentlemen good night.”
He rose and took up his hat, and having shaken our
hands, was duly escorted to the door by Thorndyke;
who, when he had seen his visitor safely on to the
stairs, returned and confronted me with a look of deep
significance.
“You never told me about that cocaine,” said he.
“No,” I admitted. “It was stupid of me, but the
fact is that I was so engrossed by your rather
startling observations on the case that this detail slipped
my memory.
“And it really had not impressed me as being of any
importance. I accepted Wallingford’s statement that
the stuff was cocaine and that, consequently, it was no
concern of ours.”
“I don’t find myself able to agree to that
‘consequently,’ Mayfield. How did you know that the
cocaine was no concern of ours?”
“Well, I didn’t see that it was, and I don’t now.
Do you?”
“No; I know very little about the case at present.
But it seems to me that the fact that a person in this
house had a considerable quantity of a highly poisonous
substance in his possession is one that at least requires
to be noted. The point is, Mayfield, that until we know
all the facts of this case we cannot tell which of them
is or is not relevant. Try to bear that in mind. Do
not select particular facts as important and worthy of
notice. Note everything in any way connected with
our problem that comes under your observation and
pass it on to me without sifting or selection.”
“I ought not to need these exhortations,” said I.
“However, I will bear them in mind should I ever have
anything more to communicate. Probably I never
shall. But I will say that I think Miller is wasting his
energies over Wallingford. The man is no favourite
of mine. He is a neurotic ass. But I certainly do not
think he has the makings of a murderer.”
Thorndyke smiled a little drily. “If you are able,”
said he, “to diagnose at sight a potential murderer,
your powers are a good deal beyond mine. I should
have said that every man has the makings of a
murderer, given the appropriate conditions.”
“Should you really?” I exclaimed. “Can you, for
instance, imagine either of us committing a murder?”
“I think I can,” he replied. “Of course, the
probabilities are very unequal in different cases. There
are some men who may be said to be prone to murder.
A man of low intelligence, of violent temper, deficient
in ordinary self-control, may commit a murder in
circumstances that would leave a man of a superior type
unmoved. But still, the determining factors are motive
and opportunity. Given a sufficient motive and a real
opportunity, I can think of no kind of man who
might not commit a homicide which would, in a legal
sense, be murder.”
“But is there such a thing as a sufficient motive
for murder?”
“That question can be answered only by the individual
affected. If it seems to him sufficient, it is
sufficient in practice.”
“Can you mention a motive that would seem to you
sufficient?”
“Yes, I can. Blackmail. Let us take an imaginary
case. Suppose a man to be convicted of a crime of
which he is innocent. As he has been convicted, the
evidence, though fallacious, is overwhelming. He is
sentenced to a term of imprisonment—say penal
servitude. He serves his sentence and is in due course
discharged. He is now free; but the conviction stands
against him. He is a discharged convict. His name is
in the prison books, his photograph and his finger-prints
are in the Habitual Criminals’ Register. He is
a marked man for life.
“Now suppose that he manages to shed his identity
and in some place where he is unknown begins life
afresh. He acquires the excellent character and
reputation to which he is, in fact, entitled. He marries and
has a family; and he and his family prosper and enjoy
the advantages that follow deservedly from his industry
and excellent moral qualities.
“And now suppose that at this point his identity is
discovered by a blackmailer who forthwith fastens on
him, who determines to live on him in perpetuity, to
devour the products of his industry, to impoverish his wife
and children and to destroy his peace and security by
holding over his head the constant menace of exposure.
What is such a man to do? The law will help him
so far as it can; but it cannot save him from exposure.
He can obtain the protection of the law only on
condition that he discloses the facts. But that disclosure
is precisely the evil that he seeks to avoid. He is an
innocent man, but his innocence is known only to
himself. The fact, which must transpire if he prosecutes,
is that he is a convicted criminal.
“I say, Mayfield, what can he do? What is his
remedy? He has but one; and since the law cannot
really help him, he is entitled to help himself. If I
were in that man’s position and the opportunity
presented itself, I would put away that blackmailer with
no more qualms than I should have in killing a wasp.”
“Then I am not going to blackmail you, Thorndyke,
for I have a strong conviction that an opportunity
would present itself.”
“I think it very probable,” he replied with a smile.
“At any rate, I know a good many methods that I
should not adopt, and I think arsenic poisoning is one
of them. But don’t you agree with me?”
“I suppose I do, at least in the very extreme case
that you have put. But it is the only case of
justifiable premeditated homicide that I can imagine; and
it obviously doesn’t apply to Wallingford.”
“My dear Mayfield,” he exclaimed. “How do we
know what does or does not apply to Wallingford?
How do we know what he would regard as an adequate
motive? We know virtually nothing about him or
his affairs or about the crime itself. What we do know
is that a man has apparently been murdered, and that,
of the various persons who had the opportunity to
commit the murder (of whom he is one) none had any
intelligible motive at all. It is futile for us to argue
back and forth on the insufficient knowledge that we
possess. We can only docket and classify all the facts
that we have and follow up each of them impartially
with a perfectly open mind. But, above all, we must
try to increase our stock of facts. I suppose you
haven’t had time to consider that abstract of which
we spoke?”
“That is really what brought me round here this
evening. I haven’t had time, and I shan’t have just
at present as I am starting to-morrow to take up work
on the Southeastern Circuit. But I have brought the
current volume of the diary, itself, if you would care
to wade through it.”
“I should, certainly. The complete document is
much preferable to an abstract which might leave me
in the dark as to the context. But won’t you want to
have your diary with you?”
“No, I shall take a short-hand note-book to use
while I am away. That is, in fact, what I usually do.”
“And you don’t mind putting this very confidential
document into the hands of a stranger?”
“You are not a stranger, Thorndyke. I don’t mind
you, though I don’t think I would hand it to anybody
else. Not that it contains anything that the whole
world might not see, for I am a fairly discreet diarist.
But there are references to third parties with reflections
and comments that I shouldn’t care to have read by
Thomas, Richard and Henry. My only fear is that
you will find it rather garrulous and diffuse.”
“Better that than overcondensed and sketchy,” said
he, as he took the volume from me. He turned the
leaves over, and having glanced at one or two pages
exclaimed: “This is something like a diary, Mayfield!
Quite in the classical manner. The common, daily
jottings such as most of us make, are invaluable if they
are kept up regularly, but this of yours is immeasurably
superior. In a hundred years’ time it will be a
priceless historical work. How many volumes of it
have you got?”
“About twenty: and I must say that I find the older
ones quite interesting reading. You may perhaps like
to look at one or two of the more recent volumes.”
“I should like to see those recording the events of
the last three years.”
“Well, they are all at your service. I have brought
you my duplicate latchkey and you will find the
volumes of the diary in the glazed book-case. It is
usually kept locked, but as nobody but you will have
access to the chambers while I am away, I shall leave
the key in the lock.”
“This is really very good of you, Mayfield,” he said,
as I rose to take my departure. “Let me have your
address, wherever you may be for the time being, and
I will keep you posted in any developments that may
occur. And now, good-bye and good luck!” He shook
my hand cordially and I betook myself to my
chambers to complete my preparations for my start on the
morrow.
