 CHAPTER XI. The Blackmore Case Reviewed One of the conditions of medical practice is the capability of transferring one's attention at a moment's notice from one set of circumstances to another equally important but entirely unrelated. At each visit on his round the practitioner finds himself concerned with a particular, self-contained group of phenomena which he must consider at the moment with the utmost concentration but which he must instantly dismiss from his mind as he moves on to the next case. It is a difficult habit to acquire, for an important, distressing, or obscure case is apt to take possession of the consciousness and hinder the exercise of attention that succeeding cases demand. But experience shows the faculty to be indispensable and the practitioner learns, in time, to forget everything but the patient with whose condition he is occupied at the moment. My first morning's work on the Blackmore Case showed me that the same faculty is demanded in legal practice, and it also showed me that I had yet to acquire it, for, as I looked over the depositions and the copy of the will, memories of the mysterious house in Kennington Lane continually intruded into my reflections, and the figure of Mrs. Shalabom, white-faced, terrified, expectant, haunted me continually. In truth my interest in the Blackmore Case was little more than academic, whereas in the Kennington Case I was one of the parties and was personally concerned. To me John Blackmore was but a name, Jeffrey but a shadowy figure to which I could assign no definite personality, and Stephen himself but a casual stranger. Mr. Graves, on the other hand, was a real person. I had seen him amidst the tragic circumstances that had probably heralded his death, and had brought away with me not only a lively recollection of him, but a feeling of profound pity and concern as to his fate. The villain wise, too, and the terrible woman who aided, abetted, and perhaps even directed him, lived on in my memory as vivid and dreadful realities. Although I had uttered no hint to Thorndyke, I lamented inwardly that I had not been given some work, if there was any to do, connected with this case, in which I was so deeply interested, rather than with a dry, purely legal, and utterly bewildering case of Jeffrey Blackmore's will. Nevertheless I stuck loyally to my task. I read through the depositions and the will, without getting a single glimmer of fresh light on the case, and I made a careful digest of all the facts. I compared my digest with Thorndyke's notes, of which I also made a copy, and found that, brief as they were, they contained several matters that I had overlooked. I also drew up a brief account of our visit to New Inn, with a list of the objects that we had observed or collected, and then I addressed myself to the second part of my task, the statement of my conclusions from the facts set forth. It was only when I came to make the attempt that I realized how completely I was at sea. In spite of Thorndyke's recommendation to study Marchmont's statement as it was summarized in those notes which I had copied, and of his hint that I should find in that statement something highly significant, I was borne irresistibly to one conclusion and one only, and the wrong one at that, as I suspected, that Jeffrey Blackmore's will was a perfectly regular sound and valid document. I tried to attack the validity of the will from various directions, and failed every time. As to its genuineness, that was obviously not in question. There seemed, to me, only two conceivable respects in which any objection could be raised, is the competency of Jeffrey to execute a will, and the possibility of undue influence having been brought to bear on him. With reference to the first, there was the undoubted fact that Jeffrey was addicted to the opium habit, and this might, under some circumstances, interfere with a testator's competency to make a will. But had any such circumstances existed in this case? Had the drug habit produced such mental changes in the deceased as would destroy or weaken his judgment? There was not a particle of evidence in favor of any such belief. Up to the very end he had managed his own affairs, and, if his habits of life had undergone a change, they were still the habits of a perfectly sane and responsible man. The question of undue influence was more difficult. If it applied to any person in particular, that person could be none other than John Blackmore. Now, it was an undoubted fact that, of all Jeffrey's acquaintance, his brother John was the only one who knew that he was in resonance at New Inn. Moreover John had visited him there more than once. It was therefore possible that influence might have been brought to bear on the deceased. But there was no evidence that it had. The fact that a deceased man's only brother should be the one person who knew where he was living was not a remarkable one. And it had been satisfactorily explained by the necessity of Jeffrey's finding a reference on applying for the chambers. And against the theory of undue influence was the fact that the testator had voluntarily brought his will to the lodge, and executed it in the presence of entirely disinterested witnesses. In the end I had to give up the problem in despair, and, abandoning the documents, turned my attention to the facts elicited by our visit to New Inn. What had we learned from our exploration? It was clear that Thorndyke had picked up some facts that had appeared to him important. But important in what respect? The only possible issue that could be raised was the validity, or otherwise, of Jeffrey Blackmore's will. And since the validity of that will was supported by positive evidence of the most incontestable kind, it seemed to me that nothing we had observed could have any real bearing on the case at all. But of course this could not be. Thorndyke was no dreamer, nor was he addicted to wild speculation. If the facts observed by us seemed to him to be relevant to the case, I was prepared to assume that they were relevant, although I could not see their connection with it. And on this assumption I proceeded to examine them afresh. Now whatever Thorndyke might have observed on his own account, I had brought away from the dead man's chambers only a single fact, and a very extraordinary fact it was. The cuneiform inscription was upside down. That was the sum of the evidence that I had collected. And the question was, what did it prove? That a Thorndyke had conveyed some deep significance. What could that significance be? The inverted position was not a mere temporary accident, as it might have been if the frame had been stood on a shelf for support. It was hung on the wall, and the plate screwed on the frame showed that its position was permanent, and that it had never hung in any other. That it could have been hung up by Geoffrey himself was clearly inconceivable. But allowing that it had been fixed in its present position by some workmen when the new tenant moved in, the fact remained that there it had hung, presumably for months, and that Geoffrey Blackmore, with his expert knowledge of the cuneiform character, had never noticed that it was upside down, or, if he had noticed it, that he had never taken the trouble to have it altered. What could this mean? If he had noticed the error, but had not trouble to correct it, that would point to a very singular state of mind, an inertness and indifference remarkable even in an opium smoker. But assuming such a state of mind, I could not see that it had any bearing on the will, accepting that it was rather inconsistent with the tendency to make fussy and needless alterations which the testator had actually shown. On the other hand, if he had not noticed the inverted position of the photograph, he must have been nearly blind or quite idiotic, for the photograph was over two feet long, and the characters large enough to be read easily by a person of ordinary eyesight at a distance of forty to fifty feet. Now he was obviously not in a state of dementia, whereas his eyesight was admittedly bad, and it seemed to me that the only conclusion deducible from the photograph was that it furnished a measure of the badness of the deceased man's vision, that it proved him to have been verging on total blindness. But there was nothing startling new in this. He had, himself, declared that he was fast losing his sight. And again, what was the bearing of his partial blindness on the will? A totally blind man cannot drop his will at all. But if he has eyesight sufficient to enable him to write out and sign a will, mere defective vision will not lead him to muddle the provisions. Yet something of this kind seemed to be in Thorndike's mind, for now I recall the question that he had put to the porter. When you read the will over in Mr. Blackmore's presence, did you read it aloud? That question could have but one significance. It implied a doubt as to whether the testator was fully aware of the exact nature of the document that he was signing. Yet if he was able to write it and sign it, surely he was able also to read it through, to say nothing of the fact that, unless he was demented, he must have remembered what he had written. Thus once more my reasoning only led me into a blind alley at the end of which was the will, regular and valid in fulfilling all the requirements that the law imposed. Once again I had to confess myself beaten and in full agreement with Mr. Marchmont that there was no case, that there was nothing in dispute. Nevertheless I carefully fixed in the pocket file that Thorndike had given me the copy that I had made of his notes, together with the notes on our visit to New End, and the few and unsatisfactory conclusions at which I had arrived. And this brought me to the end of my first morning in my new capacity. And how, Thorndike asked, as we sat at lunch, as my learned friend progressed, does he propose that we advise Mr. Marchmont to enter a caveat? I read all the documents and boiled all the evidence down to a stiff jelly, and I am in a worse fog than ever. There seems to be a slight mixture of metaphors in my learned friend's remarks. But never mind the fog, Jervis. There is a certain virtue in fog. It serves, like a picture frame, to surround the essential with a neutral zone that separates it from the irrelevant. That has a very profound observation, Thorndike, I remarked ironically. I was just thinking so myself, he rejoined. And if you could contrive to explain what it means? Oh, but that is unreasonable. When one throws off a subtly philosophic orbiter dictum, one looks to the discerning critic to supply the meaning. By the way, I am going to introduce you to the gentle art of photography this afternoon. I am getting the loan of all the checks that were drawn by Geoffrey Blackmore during his residence at New Inn. There are only twenty-three of them all told. And I am going to photograph them. I shouldn't have thought the bank people would have let them go out of their possession. They're not going to. One of the partners, a Mr. Britain, is bringing them here himself and will be present while the photographs are being taken. So they will not go out of his custody. But all the same, it is a great concession, and I should not have obtained it but for the fact that I have done a good deal of work for the bank, and that Mr. Britain is more or less a personal friend. By the way, how comes it that the checks are at the bank? Why were they not returned to Geoffrey with a passbook in the usual way? I understand from Britain, replied Thorndike, that all Geoffrey's checks were retained by the bank at his request. When he was traveling he used to leave his investment securities and other valuable documents in his bankers' custody, and, as he has never applied to have them returned, the bankers still have them and are retaining them until the will is proved. When they will, of course, hand over everything to the executors. What is the object of photographing these checks, I asked? There are several objects. First, since a good photograph is practically as good as the original, when we have the photographs we practically have the checks for reference. Then, since a photograph can be duplicated indefinitely, it would be possible to perform experiments on it which involve its destruction, which would, of course, be impossible in the case of original checks. But the ultimate object I mean, what are you going to prove? You are incorrigible, Jervis, he exclaimed. How should I know what I am going to prove? This is an investigation. If I knew the results beforehand, I shouldn't want to perform the experiment. He looked at his watch, and, as we rose from the table, he said, If we have finished, we had better go up to the laboratory and see that the apparatus is ready. Mr. Britain is a busy man, and, as he is doing us a great business, we mustn't keep him waiting when he comes. We ascended to the laboratory, where Poulton was already busy inspecting the massively built copying-camera, which, with the long steel guides on which the easel or copy-holder traveled, took up the whole length of the room on the side opposite to that occupied by the chemical bench. As I was to be inducted into the photographic art, I looked at it with more attention than I had ever done before. We've made some improvements since you were here last, sir, said Poulton, who was delicately lubricating the steel guides. We fitted these steel runners instead of the black-leaded wooden ones that we used to have. And we've made two scales instead of one. Hello? That's a downstairs bell. Shall I go, sir? Perhaps you'd better, said Thorndike. It may not be Mr. Britain, and I don't want to be caught in delay just now. However, it was Mr. Britain, a breezy, alert-looking, middle-aged man, who came in escorted by Poulton and shook our hands cordially, having been previously warned of my presence. He carried a small but solid hand-bang, to which he clung tenaciously up to the very moment when its contents were required for use. So that is the camera, said he, running an inquisitive eye over the instrument. Very fine one, too. I am a bit of a photographer myself. What is that graduation on the sidebar? Those are the scales, replied Thorndike, that shows the degree of magnification or reduction. The pointer is fixed to the easel and travels with it, of course, showing the exact size of the photograph. When the pointer is opposite zero, the photograph will be identical in size with the object photographed. When it points to, say, time six, the photograph will be six times as long as the object, or a magnified 36 times superficially. Whereas if the pointer is at divide by six, the photograph will be a sixth of the length of the object, or one 36th superficial. Why are there two scales, Mr. Britain asked? There is a separate scale for each of the two lenses that we principally used. For great magnification or reduction, a lens of comparatively short focus must be used. But as a long focus lens gives us a more perfect image, we use one of very long focus, 36 inches, for copying the same size or for slight magnification or reduction. Are you going to magnify these checks, Mr. Britain asked? Not in the first place, replied Thorndike. For convenience and speed I'm going to photograph them half size, so that six checks will go on one whole plate. Afterwards we can enlarge from the negatives as much as we like. But we should probably enlarge only the signatures in any case. The precious bag was now opened and the twenty-three checks brought out and laid on the bench in a consecutive series in the order of their dates. They were then fixed by tapes, to avoid making pinholes in them, in batches of six to small drawing boards, each batch being so arranged that the signatures were towards the middle. The first board was clamped to the easel, the latter was slid along its guides until the pointer stood at divide by two on the long focus scale, and Thorndike proceeded to focus the camera with the aid of a little microscope that Polton had made for the purpose. When Mr. Britton and I had inspected the exquisitely sharp image on the focusing screen through the microscope, Polton introduced the plate and made the first exposure, carrying the dark slide off to develop the plate, while a next batch of checks was being fixed in position. In his photographic technique, as in everything else, Polton followed as closely as he could the methods of his principal and instructor. Methods characterized by that unhurried precision that leads to perfect accomplishment. When the first negative was brought forth, dripping from the dark room, it was without spot or stain scratch or pinhole, uniform in color and of exactly the required density. The six checks shown on it, ridiculously small in appearance, though only reduced to half length, looked as clear and sharp as fine etchings. Though, to be sure, my opportunity for examining them was rather limited, for Polton was uncommonly careful to keep the wet plate out of reach, and so safe from injury. Well, said Mr. Britton, when, at the end of our séance, he returned his treasures to the bag. You have now got twenty-three of our checks to all intents and purposes. I hope you are not going to make any unlawful use of them. Just tell our cashiers to keep a bright look out, and, here he lowered his voice impressively and addressed himself to me in Polton, you understand that this is a private matter between Dr. Thorndike and me. Of course, as Mr. Blackmore is dead, there is no reason why his checks should not be photographed for legal purposes. But we don't want it talked about, nor I think does Dr. Thorndike. Certainly not, Thorndike agreed emphatically. But you need not be uneasy, Mr. Britton. We are very uncommunicative people in this establishment. As my colleague and I escorted our visitor down the stairs, he returned to the subject of the checks. I don't understand what you want them for, he remarked. There is no question turning on the signatures in the case of the Blackmore deceased, is there? Well, I should say not, Thorndike replied, rather evasively. I should say very decidedly not, said Mr. Britton, if I understood March-moderate, and, even if there were, let me tell you, these signatures that you have got wouldn't help you. I have looked them over very closely, and I have seen a few signatures in my time, you know. March-mon asked me to glance over them as a matter of form, but I don't believe in matters of form. I examined them very carefully. There is an appreciable amount of variation, a very appreciable amount, but under the variation one can trace the personal character, which is what matters, the subtle, indescribable quality that makes it recognizable to the expert eye as Geoffrey Blackmore's writing. You understand me. There is such a quality, which remains when the coarser characteristics vary. Just as a man may grow old or fat or bald or may take a drink and become quite changed, and yet, through it all, he preserves a certain something which makes him recognizable as a member of a particular family. Well, I find that quality in all those signatures, and so will you, if you have had enough experience of handwriting. I thought it best to mention it in case you might be giving yourself unnecessary trouble. It is very good of you, said Thorndike, and I need not say that the information is of great value, coming from such a highly expert source. As a matter of fact, your hint will be of great value to me. He shook hands with Mr. Britton, and, as the latter disappeared down the stairs, he turned into the sitting-room and remarked, There is a very weighty and significant observation, Jervis. I advise you to consider it attentively in all its bearings. You mean the fact that the signatures are undoubtedly genuine? I meant, rather, the very interesting general truth that is contained in Britton's statement, that physiognomy is not a mere matter of facial character. A man carries his personal trademark, not in his face only, but in his nervous system and muscles, giving rise to characteristic movements and gait, in his larynx, producing an individual voice, and even in his mouth, as shown by individual peculiarities of speech and accent. And the individual nervous system, by means of those characteristic movements, transfers its peculiarities to inanimate objects that are the products of such movements, as we see in pictures, in carving, in musical execution and handwriting. No one has ever painted quite like Reynolds or Romley. No one has ever played exactly like Liszt or Paganini. The pictures, or the sounds produced by them, were, so to speak, an extension of the physiognomy of the artist, and so with handwriting. A particular specimen is a product of a particular set of motor centers in an individual brain. These are very interesting considerations, Thorndike, I remarked, but I don't quite see their present application. Do you mean them to bear in any special way on the Blackmore case? I think they do bear on it, very directly. I thought so while Mr. Britain was making his very illuminating remarks. I don't see how. In fact, I cannot see why you are going into the question of signatures at all. The signature on the will is admittedly genuine, and that seems to me to dispose of the whole affair. "'My dear Jervis,' said he, "'you and Marchmont are allowing yourselves to be obsessed by a particular fact—a very striking and waiting fact, I will admit—but still, only an isolated fact.' Jeffrey Blackmore executed his will in a regular manner, complying with all the necessary formalities and conditions. In the face of that single circumstance you and Marchmont would chuck up the sponge, as the old pugilists expressed it. Now that is a great mistake. You should never allow yourself to be bullied and browbeaten by a single fact. "'But, my dear Thorndike,' I protested, "'this fact seems to be final. It covers all the possibilities—unless you can suggest any other that would cancel it.' "'I could suggest a dozen,' he replied. Let us take an instance. Supposing Jeffrey executed this will for a wager—that he immediately revoked it and made a fresh will—that he placed the latter in the custody of some person, and that that person has suppressed it. "'Oh, surely you did not make this suggestion seriously,' I exclaimed. "'Certainly I do not,' he replied with a smile. "'I merely give it as an instance to show that your final and absolute fact is really only conditional on there being no other fact that cancels it.' "'Do you think he might have made a third will?' "'It is obviously possible. A man who makes two wills may make three or more. But I may say that I see no present reason for assuming the existence of another will. What I want to impress on you is the necessity of considering all the facts, instead of bumping heavily against the most conspicuous one and forgetting all the rest. By the way, here is a little problem for you. What was the object of which these are the parts?' He pushed across the table a little cardboard box, having first removed the lid. In it were a number of very small pieces of broken glass, some of which had been cemented together by their edges. "'These, I suppose, that I, looking with considerable curiosity at the little collection, are the pieces of glass that we picked up in poor Blackmore's bedroom?' "'Yes. You see that Polton has been endeavouring to reconstitute the object, whatever it was, but he has not been very successful, for the fragments were too small and irregular and the collection too incomplete. However, here is a specimen built up of six small pieces, which exhibits the general character of the object fairly well. He picked out the little irregularly shaped object and handed it to me, and I could not but admire the neatness with which Polton had joined the tiny fragments together. I took the little restoration, and holding it up before my eyes moved it to and fro as I looked through it at the window. "'It was not a lens,' I pronounced eventually. "'No,' thorned I agreed, it was not a lens. And so it cannot have been a spectacle glass. But the surface was curved, one side convex and the other concave, and the little piece that remains of the original edge seems to have been ground to fit a bezel or a frame. I should say that these are portions of a watch-glass.' "'That is Polton's opinion,' said Dorned Ike, and I think you're both wrong.' "'What do you say to the glass of a miniature, or locket?' "'That is rather more probable, but it is not my view.' "'What do you think it is?' I asked. But Dorned Ike was not to be drawn. I am submitting the problem for a solution by my learned friend,' he replied with an exasperating smile. And then he added, "'I don't say that you and Polton are wrong, only that I don't agree with you.' "'Perhaps you had better make a note of the properties of this object and consider it at your leisure when you are ruminating on the other data referring to the Blackmore case.' "'My ruminations,' I said, and always lead me back to the same point.' "'But you mustn't let them,' he replied, shuffled your data about. Invent hypotheses. Never mind if they seem rather wild. Don't put them aside on that account. Take the first hypothesis that you can invent and test it thoroughly with your facts. You will probably have to reject it. But you will be certain to have learned something new. Then try again with a fresh one. You remember what I told you of my methods when I began this branch of practice, and had plenty of time on my hands? I am not sure that I do. Well, I used to occupy my leisure in constructing imaginary cases, mostly criminal, for the purpose of study and for the acquirement of experience. For instance, I would devise an ingenious fraud and would plant it in detail, taking every precaution that I could think of against failure or detection. Accepting and elaborately providing for every imaginable contingency. For the time being, my entire attention was concentrated on it, making it as perfect and secure and undetectable as I could, with the knowledge and ingenuity at my command. I behaved exactly as if I were proposing actually to carry it out, and my life for liberty depended on its success, accepting that I made full notes of every detail of the scheme. Then, when my plans were as complete as I could make them, and I could think of no way in which to improve them, I changed sides and considered the case from the standpoint of detection. I analysed the case, I picked out its inherent and unavoidable weaknesses, and especially I noticed the respects in which a fraudulent proceeding of that particular kind differed from the bona fide proceeding that it simulated. The exercise was invaluable to me. I acquired as much experience from those imaginary cases as I should from real ones, and, in addition, I learned a method which is the one that I practise today. Do you mean that you still invent imaginary cases as mental exercises? No, I mean that. When I have a problem of any intricacy, I invent a case which fits the facts and the assumed motives of one of the parties. Then I work at that case until I find whether it leads to elucidation or to some fundamental disagreement. In the latter case I reject it and begin the process over again. Doesn't that method sometimes involve a good deal of wasted time and energy, I asked? No, because each time that you fail to establish a given case, you exclude a particular explanation of the facts and narrow down the field of inquiry. By repeating the process you are bound in the end to arrive in an imaginary case which fits all the facts. Then your imaginary case is the real case and the problem is solved. Let me recommend you to give the method a trial. I promised to do so, though with no very lively expectations as to the result, and with this the subject was allowed for the present to drop. The state of mind which Thorndike had advised me to cultivate was one that did not come easily. However much I endeavored to shuffle the facts of the Blackmore case, there was one which inevitably turned up on the top of the pack. The circumstances surrounding the execution of Geoffrey Blackmore's will intruded into all my cogitations on the subject with hopeless persistency. That scene in the Porter's Lodge was, to me, what King Charles's head was to pour, Mr. Dick. In the midst of my praiseworthy efforts to construct some intelligible scheme of the case it would make its appearance and reduce my mind to instant chaos. For the next few days Thorndike was very much occupied with one or two civil cases which kept him in court during the whole of the sitting, and when he came home he seemed indisposed to talk on professional topics. Meanwhile, Poulton worked steadily at the photographs of the signatures, and with a view to gaining experience I assisted him and watched his methods. In the present case the signatures were enlarged from their original dimensions, rather less than an inch-and-a-half in length, to a length of four-and-a-half inches, which rendered all the little peculiarities of the handwriting surprisingly distinct and conspicuous. Each signature was eventually mounted on a slip of card bearing a number and the date of the check from which it was taken, so that it was possible to place any two signatures together for comparison. I looked over the whole series and very carefully compared those which showed any differences, but without discovering anything more than might have been expected in view of Mr. Britain's statement. There were some trifling variations, but they were all very much alike, and no one could doubt, on looking at them, that they were all written by the same hand. As this, however, was apparently not in dispute it furnished no new information. This object, for I felt certain that he had something definite in his mind, must be to test something apart from the genuineness of the signatures. But what could that something be? I dared not ask him, for questions of that kind were anathema, so there was nothing for it but to lie low and see what he would do with the photographs. The whole series was finished on the fourth morning after my adventure at Sloan Square, and the pack of cards was duly delivered by Poulton when he brought in the breakfast tray. Thordek took up the pack somewhat with the air of a wist player, and as he ran through them I noticed that the number had increased from twenty-three to twenty-four. The additional one, Thordek explained, is the signature to the first will, which was in Marchmold's possession. I have added it to the collection as it carries us back to an earlier date. The signature of the second will presumably resemble those of the checks drawn about the same date, but that is not material, or if it should become so, we could claim to examine the second will. He laid the cards out on the table in the order of their dates and slowly ran his eye down the series. I watched him closely and ventured presently to ask, do you agree with Mr. Britten as to the general identity of character in the whole set of signatures? Yes, he replied, I should certainly have put them down as being all the signatures of one person. The variations are very slight. The later signatures are a little stiffer, a little more shaky and indistinct, and the Bs and Ks are both appreciably different from those in the earlier ones, but there is another fact which emerges when the whole series is seen together, and it is so striking and significant a fact that I am astonished at its not having been remarked on by Mr. Britten. Indeed, said I, stooping to examine the photographs with fresh interest, what is that? It is a very simple fact and very obvious, but yet, as I have said, very significant. Look carefully at number one, which is the signature of the first will dated three years ago, and compare it with number three dated the eighteenth of September last year. They looked to me identical, said I, after a careful comparison. So they do to me, said Thorndike, neither of them shows the change that occurred later, but if you look at number two, dated the sixteenth of September, you will see that it is in the later style. So is number four dated the twenty-third of September, but numbers five and six, both at the beginning of October, are in the earlier style, like the signature of the will. Thereafter, all the signatures are in the new style, but if you compare number two, dated the sixteenth of September, with number twenty-four, dated the fourteenth of March of this year, the day of Jeffrey's death, you see that they exhibit no difference. Both are in the later style, but the last shows no greater change than the first. Don't you consider these facts very striking and significant? I reflected a few moments, trying to make out the deep significance to which Thorndike was directing my attention, and not succeeding very triumphantly. You mean, I said, that the occasional reversions to the earlier form conveys some material suggestion. Yes, but more than that, what we learned from an inspection of this series is this, that there was a change in the character of the signature, a very slight change, but quite recognizable. Now that change was not gradual or insidious, nor was it progressive. It occurred at a certain definite time. At first there were one or two reversions to the earlier form, but after number six the new style continued to the end, and you notice that it continued without any increase in the change and without any variation. There are no intermediate forms. Some of the signatures are in the old style, and some in the new, but there are none that are half and half. So that, to repeat, we have here two types of signature, very much alike, but distinguishable. They alternate, but do not merge into one another to produce intermediate forms. The change occurs abruptly, but shows no tendency to increase as time goes on. It is not a progressive change. What do you make of that, Jervis? It is very remarkable, I said, pouring over the cards to verify Thorndike's statements. I don't quite know what to make of it. If the circumstances admitted of the idea of forgery one would suspect the genuineness of some of the signatures, but they don't, at any rate, in the case of the later will, to say nothing of Mr. Britton's opinion on the signatures. Still, said Thorndike, there must be some explanation of the change in the character of the signatures, and that explanation cannot be the failing eyesight of the writer, for that is a gradually progressive and continuous condition, whereas the change in the writing is abrupt and intermittent. I considered Thorndike's remark for a few moments, and then a light, though not a very brilliant one, seemed to break on me. I think I see what you are driving at, said I. You mean that the change in the writing must be associated with some new condition affecting the writer, and that that condition existed intermittently? Thorndike nodded approvingly, and I continued, the only intermittent condition that we know of is the effect of opium, so that we might consider the clear signatures to have been made when Jeffrey was in his normal state, and the less distinct ones after a bout of opium smoking. That is perfectly sound reasoning, said Thorndike. What further conclusion does it lead to? It suggests that the opium habit had been only recently acquired, since the change was noticed only about the time he went to live at New Inn, and since the change in the writing is at first intermittent and then continuous, we may infer that the opium smoking was at first occasional and later became a confirmed habit. Quite a reasonable conclusion, and very clearly stated, said Thorndike, I don't say that I entirely agree with you, or that you have exhausted the information that these signatures offer, but you have started in the right direction. I may be on the right road, I said gloomily, but I am stuck fast in one place, and I see no chance of getting any further. But you have a quantity of data, said Thorndike. You have all the facts that I had to start with, from which I constructed the hypothesis that I am now busily engaged in verifying. I have a few more data now, for as money makes money, so knowledge begets knowledge, and I put my original capital out to interest. Shall we tabulate the facts that are in our joint possession and see what they suggest? I grasped eagerly at the offer, though I had conned over my notes again and again. Thorndike produced a slip of paper from a drawer, and, uncapping his fountain pen, proceeded to write down the leading facts, reading each aloud as soon as it was written. One. The second will was unnecessary, since it contained no new matter, expressed no new intentions, and met no new conditions, and the first will was quite clear and efficient. Two. The evident intention of the testator was to leave the bulk of his property to Stephen Blackmore. Three. The second will did not, under existing circumstances, give effect to this intention whereas the first will did. Four. The signature of the second will differs slightly from that of the first, and also from what had hitherto been the testator's ordinary signature. And now we come to a very curious group of dates, which I will advise you to consider with great attention. Five. Mrs. Wilson made her will at the beginning of September last year without acquainting Jeffrey Blackmore, who seems to have been aware of the existence of this will. Six. His own second will was dated the 12th of November of last year. Seven. Mrs. Wilson died of cancer on the 12th of March this present year. Eight. Jeffrey Blackmore was last seen alive on the 14th of March. Nine. His body was discovered on the 15th of March. Ten. The change in the character of his signature began about September last year, and became permanent after the middle of October. You will find that collection of facts repay careful study Jervis, especially when considered in relation to the further data. Eleven. That we found in Blackmore's chambers a framed inscription of large size hung upside down together with what appeared to be the remains of a watch-glass and a box of staring candles and some other objects. He passed the paper to me, and I poured over it intently, focusing my attention on the various items with all the power of my will. But struggle as I would, no general conclusion could be made to emerge from the massive apparently disconnected facts. Well, Thorndike said presently, after watching with grave interest my unavailing efforts, what do you make of it? Nothing, I exclaimed desperately, slapping the paper down on the table. Of course, I can see that there are some queer coincidences, but how do they bear on the case? I understand that you want to upset this will, which we know to have been signed without compulsion or even suggestion in the presence of two respectable men who have sworn to the identity of the document. That is your object, I believe? Certainly it is. Then I am hanged if I see how you are going to do it, not I should say by offering a group of vague coincidences that would muddle any brain but your own. Thorndike chuckled softly, but pursued the subject no farther. Just add paper in your file with your other notes, he said, and think it over at your leisure. And now I want a little help from you. Have you a good memory for faces? Fairly good, I think. Why? Because I have a photograph of a man whom I think you may have met. Just look at it and tell me if you remember the face. He drew a cabinet-sized photograph from an envelope that had come by the morning's post and handed it to me. I have certainly seen this face somewhere, said I, taking the portrait over to the window to examine it more thoroughly. But I can't at the moment remember where. Try, said Thorndike, if you have seen the face before you shall be able to recall the person. I looked intently at the photograph and the more I looked the more familiar did the face appear. Suddenly the identity of the man flashed into my mind and I exclaimed in astonishment, it can't be that poor creature at Kennington, Mr. Graves. I think it can, replied Thorndike, and I think it is. But could you swear to the identity in a court of law? It is my firm conviction that the photograph is that of Mr. Graves. I would swear to that. No man ought to swear to more, said Thorndike. Identification is always a matter of opinion or belief. The man who will swear unconditionally, to identify from memory only, is a man whose evidence should be discredited. I think your sworn testimony would be sufficient. It is needless to say that the production of this photograph filled me with amazement and curiosity as to how Thorndike had obtained it. But as he replaced it impassively in its envelope without volunteering any explanation I felt that I could not question him directly. Nevertheless, I ventured to approach the subject in an indirect manner. Did you get any information from those Darmstadt people? I asked. Schnitzler? Yes. I learned, through the medium of an official acquaintance, that Dr. H. Weiss was a stranger to them, that they knew nothing about him excepting that he had ordered from them and had been supplied with a hundred grams of pure hydrochlorate of morphine. All at once? No, in separate parcels of twenty-five grams each. Is that all you know about Weiss? It is all that I actually know, but it is not all that I suspect, on very substantial grounds. By the way, what did you think of the coachman? I don't know that I thought very much about him. Why? You never suspected that he and Weiss were one in the same person? No. How could they be? They weren't in the least alike. One was a Scotchman and the other a German, but perhaps you know that they were the same? I only know what you have told me, but considering that you never saw them together, that the coachman was never available for messages or assistance when Weiss was with you, that Weiss always made his appearance some time after you arrived, and disappeared some time before you left, it has seemed to me that they might have been the same person. I should say it was impossible. They were so very different in appearance, but supposing that they were the same, would the fact be of any importance? It would mean that we could save ourselves the trouble of looking for the coachman, and it would suggest some inferences, which will occur to you if you think the matter over. But being only a speculative opinion at present, it would not be safe to infer very much from it. You have rather taken me by surprise, I remarked. It seems that you have been working at this Kennington case and working pretty actively, I imagine, whereas I supposed that your entire attention was taken up by the Blackmore affair. "'It doesn't do,' he replied, to allow one's entire attention to be taken up by any one case. I have half a dozen others, minor cases, mostly, to which I am attending at this moment. Did you think I was proposing to keep you under lock and key indefinitely?' "'Well, no, but I thought that Kennington case would have to wait its turn, and I had no idea that you were in possession of enough facts to enable you to get any farther with it. But you knew all the very striking facts of the case, and you saw the further evidence that we extracted from the empty house. "'Do you mean those things that we picked out from the rubbish under the grate?' "'Yes, you saw those curious little pieces of reed and the pair of spectacles. They are lying in the top drawer of that cabinet at this moment, and I should recommend you to have another look at them. To me they are most instructive. The pieces of reed offered an extremely valuable suggestion, and the spectacles enabled me to test that suggestion and turn it into actual information. "'Unfortunately,' said I, the pieces of reed conveyed nothing to me. I don't know what they are or of what they have formed apart.' "'I think,' he replied, that if you examine them with due consideration, you will find their use pretty obvious. Have a good look at them and the spectacles, too. Think over all that you know of that mysterious group of people who lived in that house, and see if you cannot form some coherent theory of their actions. Think also if we have not some information in our possession, by which we might be able to identify some of them and infer the identity of the others. You will have a quiet day, as I shall not be home until the evening.' "'Set yourself this task. I assure you that you have the material for identifying, or rather for testing the identity of, at least one of those persons. Go over your material systematically, and let me know in the evening what further investigations you would propose.' "'Very well,' said I, it shall be done according to your word. I will addle my brain afresh with the affair of Mr. Vice and his patient, and let the Blackmore case rip. "'There is no need to do that. You have a whole day before you. An hour's really close consideration of the Kennington case ought to show you what your next move should be, and then you could devote yourself to the consideration of Geoffrey Blackmore's will.' With this final piece of advice Thorn Dye collected the papers for his day's work, and having deposited them in his brief bag took his departure, leaving me to my meditations. CHAPTER XIII of THE MYSTERY OF THIRTY-ONE NEW IN This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. THE MYSTERY OF 31 NEW IN by R. Austin Freeman CHAPTER XIII THE STATEMENT OF SAMUEL WILKINS As soon as I was alone I commenced my investigations with a rather desperate hope of eliciting some startling and unsuspected facts. I opened a drawer, and taking from it the two pieces of reed and the shattered remains of the spectacles laid them on the table. The repairs that Thorn Dye had contemplated in the case of the spectacles had not been made. Apparently they had not been necessary. The battered wreck that lay before me, just as we had found it, had evidently furnished the necessary information. For, since Thorn Dye was in possession of a portrait of Mr. Graves, it was clear that he had succeeded in identifying him so far as to get into communication with someone who had known him intimately. The circumstance should have been encouraging, but somehow it was not. What was possible to Thorn Dye was theoretically possible to me or to anyone else. But the possibility did not realize itself in practice. There was the personal equation. Thorn Dye's brain was not an ordinary brain. Parts of which his mind instantly perceived the relation remained to other people unconnected and without meaning. His powers of observation and rapid inference were almost incredible, as I had noticed again and again, and always with undiminished wonder, he seemed to take in everything at a single glance, and in an instant to appreciate the meaning of everything that he had seen. Here was a case in point. I had myself seen all that he had seen, and indeed much more, for I had looked on the very people and witnessed their actions, whereas he had never set eyes on any of them. I had examined the little handful of rubbish that he had gathered up so carefully, and would have flung it back under the grate without a qualm. Not a glimmer of light had I perceived in the cloud of mystery, nor even a hint of the direction in which to seek enlightenment. And yet Thorn Dye had, in some incomprehensible manner, contrived to piece together facts that I had probably not even observed, and that so completely, that he had already, in these few days, narrowed down the field of inquiry to quite a small area. From these reflections I returned to the objects on the table. The spectacles, as things of which I had some expert knowledge, were not so profound a mystery to me. A pair of spectacles might easily afford good evidence for identification that I perceived clearly enough. Not a ready-made pair picked up casually at a shop, but a pair constructed by a skilled optician to remedy a particular defective vision and to fit a particular face. And such were the spectacles before me. The build of the frames was peculiar. The existence of a cylindrical lens, which I could easily make out from the remaining fragments, showed that one glass had been cut to a prescribed shape and almost certainly ground to a particular formula, and also that the distance between centers must have been carefully secured. Hence these spectacles had an individual character. But it was manifestly impossible to inquire of all the spectacle-makers in Europe, for the glasses were not necessarily made in England. As confirmation the spectacles might be valuable. As a starting point they were of no use at all. From the spectacles I turned to the pieces of reed. These were what had given Thorndike his start. Would they give me a leading hint to? I looked at them and wondered what it was that they had told Thorndike. The little fragment of the red paper label had a dark brown or thin black border ornamented with a fret pattern, and on it I detected a couple of tiny points of gold, like the dust from leaf-guilding. But I learned nothing from that. Then the shorter piece of reed was artificially hollered to fit on the longer piece. Apparently it formed a protective sheath or cap, but what did it protect? Presumably a point or edge of some kind. Could this be a pocket-knife of any sort, such as a small stencil-knife? No, the material was too fragile for a knife-handle. It could not be an etching needle for the same reason. And it was not a surgical appliance. At least it was not like any surgical instrument that was known to me. I turned it over and over and cuddled my brains, and then I had a brilliant idea. Was it a reed-pen of which the point had been broken off? I knew that reed-pens were still in use by draftsmen of decorative leanings with an affection for the fat line. Could any of our friends be draftsmen? This seemed the most probable solution of the difficulty, and the more I thought about it the more likely it seemed. Draftsmen usually sign their work intelligibly, and even when they use a device instead of a signature their identity is easily traceable. Could it be that Mr. Graves, for instance, was an illustrator, and that Thorndyke had established his identity by looking through the works of all the well-known thick-line draftsmen? This problem occupied me for the rest of the day. My explanation did not seem quite to fit Thorndyke's description of his methods, but I could think of no other. I turned it over during my solitary lunch. I meditated on it with the aid of several pipes in the afternoon, and, having refreshed my brain with a cup of tea, I went forth to walk in the temple gardens, which I was permitted to do without breaking my parole, to think it out afresh. The result was disappointing. I was basing my reasoning on the assumption that the pieces of reed were parts of a particular appliance appertaining to a particular craft, whereas they might be the remains of something quite different, appertaining to a totally different craft or to no craft at all. And in no case did they point to any known individual or indicate any but the vaguest kind of search. After pacing the pleasant walks for upwards of two hours, I at length turned back towards our chambers, where I arrived as the lamplighter was just finishing his round. My fruitless speculations had left me somewhat irritable. The lighted windows that I had noticed as I approached had given me the impression that Thorndyke had returned. I intended to press him for a little further information. When, therefore, I let myself into our chambers and found, instead of my colleague a total stranger, and only a back view at that, I was disappointed and annoyed. The stranger was seated by the table reading a large document that looked like a lease. He made no movement when I entered, but when I crossed the room and wished him good evening, he half rose and bowed silently. It was then that I first saw his face, and a mighty start he gave me. For one moment I actually thought he was Mr. Weiss, so close was the resemblance, but immediately I perceived that he was a much smaller man. I sat down nearly opposite and stole an occasional furtive glance at him. The resemblance to Weiss was really remarkable. The same flaxen hair, the same ragged beard, and a similar red nose, with the patches of acne rosacea spreading to the adjacent cheeks. He wore spectacles, too, through which he took a quick glance at me now and again, returning immediately to his document. After some moments of rather embarrassing silence I ventured to remark that it was a mild evening, to which he ascended with sort of scotch, mm-hmm, and nodded slowly. Then came another interval of silence, during which I speculated on the possibility of his being a relative of Mr. Weiss, and wondered what the deuce he was doing in our chambers. "'Have you an appointment with Dr. Thorndike?' I asked at length. He bowed solemnly, and by way of reply in the affirmative, as I assumed, emitted another, mm-hmm. I looked at him sharply, a little nettle by his lack of manners, whereupon he opened out the lease so that it screened his face. And as I glanced at the back of the document I was astonished to observe that it was shaking rapidly. The fellow was actually laughing. What he found in my simple question to cause him so much amusement I was totally unable to imagine, but there it was. The tremulous movements of the document left me in no possible doubt that he was for some reason convulsed with laughter. It was extremely mysterious. Also it was rather embarrassing. I took out my pocket file and began to look over my notes. Then the document was lowered, and I was able to get another look at the stranger's face. He was really extra-ordinarily like Weiss. The shaggy eyebrows throwing the eye sockets into shadow gave him, in conjunction with his spectacles, the same owlish, solemn expression that I had noticed in my Kennington acquaintance, and which, by the way, was singularly out of character with a frivolous behavior that I had just witnessed. From time to time as I looked at him he caught my eye and instantly averted his own, turning rather red. Apparently he was a shy, nervous man, which I might account for his giggling, for I have noticed that shy or nervous people have a habit of smiling inopportunely and even giggling when embarrassed by meeting an oversteady eye. And it seemed my own eye had this disconcerting quality, for even as I looked at him the document suddenly went up again and began to shake violently. I stood it for a minute or two, but finding the situation intolerably embarrassing I rose and brusquely excusing myself went up to the laboratory to look for Poulton and inquire at what time Thorndike was expected home. To my surprise, however, on entering I discovered Thorndike himself just finishing the mounting of a microscopic specimen. "'Did you know there was someone below waiting to see you?' I asked. "'Is it any one you know?' he inquired. "'No,' I answered. It is a red-nosed, sniggering fool and spectacles. He has got a lease or a deed or some other sort of document, which he has been using to play a sort of idiotic game of peep-bow. I couldn't stand him, so I came up here.' Thorndike laughed heartily at my description of his client. "'What are you laughing at?' I asked sourly, at which he laughed yet more heartily and added to the aggravation by wiping his eyes. "'Our friend seems to have put you out,' he remarked. "'He put me out literally. If I had stayed much longer I should have punched his head.' "'In that case,' said Thorndike, I'm glad you didn't stay, but come down and let me introduce you. No, thank you, I've had enough of him for the present. But I have a very special reason for wishing to introduce you. I think you will get some information from him that will interest you very much. And you needn't quarrel with a man for being of a cheerful disposition.' "'Cherful be hanged,' I exclaimed. I don't call a man cheerful because he behaves like a gibbering idiot.' To this Thorndike made no reply but a broad and appreciative smile, and we descended to the lower floor. As we entered the room, the stranger rose, and, glancing in an embarrassed way from one of us to the other, suddenly broke out into an undeniable snigger. I looked at him sternly, and Thorndike, quite unmoved by his endochorus behavior, said, in a gray voice, "'Let me introduce you, Jervis, though I think you have met this gentleman before.' "'I think not,' I said, stiffly. "'Oh, yes you have, sir,' interposed the stranger. And as he spoke I started. For his voice was uncommonly like the familiar voice of Poulton. I looked at the speaker with sudden suspicion. And now I could see that the flaxen hair was a wig, that the beard had a decidedly artificial look, and that the eyes that beamed through the spectacles were remarkably like the eyes of our factotum. But the blotchy face, the bulbous nose, and the shaggy, overhanging eyebrows were alien features, that I could not reconcile with the personality of our refined and aristocratic-looking little assistant. "'Is this a practical joke?' I asked. "'No,' replied Thorndike, it is a demonstration. "'When we were talking this morning it appeared to me that you did not realize the extent to which it is possible to conceal identity under suitable conditions of light. So I arranged, with Poulton's rather reluctant assistance, to give you ocular evidence. The conditions are not favourable, which makes the demonstration more convincing. This is a very well-lighted room, and Poulton is a very poor actor. In spite of which it has been possible for you to sit opposite him for several minutes and look at him, I have no doubt, very attentively, without discovering his identity. If the room had been lighted only with a candle, and Poulton had been equal to the task of supporting his makeup with an appropriate voice and manner, the deception would have been perfect. "'I can see that he has a wig on quite plainly,' said I. "'Yes, but you would not in a dimly-lighted room. On the other hand, if Poulton were to walk down Fleet Street at midday in this condition, the makeup would be conspicuously evident to any moderately observant passer-by. The secret of making up consists in a careful adjustment to the conditions of light and distance in which the makeup is to be seen. That in use on the stage would look ridiculous in an ordinary room. That which would serve in an artificially-lighted room would look ridiculous out of doors by daylight. Is any effective makeup possible out of doors in ordinary daylight?' I asked. "'Oh, yes,' replied Thorndyke, but it must be on a totally different scale from that of the stage. A wig, and especially a beard or a mustache, must be joined up at the edges with hair actually stuck on the skin with transparent cement and carefully trimmed with scissors. The same applies to eyebrows. An alteration in the color of the skin must be carried out much more subtly. Poulton's nose has been built up with a small covering of toupee paste. The pimples on the cheeks produce little particles of the same material. And the general tinting has been done with grease paint, with a very light scumble of powder color to take off some of the shine. This would be possible in outdoor makeup, but it would have to be done with the greatest care and delicacy. In fact, with what the art critics call reticence. A very little makeup is sufficient and too much is fatal. You would be surprised to see how little paste is required to alter the shape of the nose and the entire character of the face. At this moment there came a loud knock at the door. A single solid dab of the knocker, which Poulton seemed to recognize, for he ejaculated, Good Lord, sir! That'll be Wilkins, the cabman. I had forgotten all about him. Whatever's to be done! He stared at us in ludicrous horror for a moment or two, and then, snatching off his wig, beard, and spectacles, poked them into a cupboard. But his appearance was now too much, even for Thorndike, who hastily got behind him, for he had now resumed his ordinary personality, but with a very material difference. Oh, it's nothing to laugh at, sir, he exclaimed indignantly, as I crammed my anchor-chiff into my mouth. Somebody's got to let him in, or he'll go away. Yes, and that won't do, said Thorndike, but don't worry, Poulton, you can step into the office, all open the door. Poulton's presence of mind, however, seemed to have entirely forsaken him, for he only hovered irresolutely in the wake of his principle. As the door opened, a thick and husky voice inquired, Jent, name a Poulton live here? Yes, quite right, said Thorndike. Come in, your name is Wilkins, I think? That's me, sir, said the voice, and in response to Thorndike's invitation, a typical growler-cabin of the old school, complete even to imbricated cape and dangling badge stocked into the room, and, glancing round with a mixture of embarrassment and defiance, suddenly fixed on Poulton's nose a look of devouring curiosity. Here you are, then, Poulton remarked nervously. Yes, replied the cabin in a slightly hostile tone. Here I am. What am I wanted to do? And where is this here, Mr. Poulton? I am Mr. Poulton, replied our abashed assistant. Well, it's the other Mr. Poulton what I want, said the cab man, with his eyes still riveted on the old factory prominence. There isn't any other Poulton, our subordinate replied irritably. I am the—er, person who spoke to you in the shelter. Are you, though, said the manifestly incredulous cabbie? I shouldn't have thought it. What you ought to know. What do you want me to do? We want you, said Thorn Dyke, to answer one or two questions. And the first one is— Are you a teetotaler? The question being illustrated by the production of a decanter. The cab man's dignity relaxed somewhat. I ain't bigoted, said he. Then sit down and mix yourself a glass of grog—soda or plain water. May as well have all the extras, replied the cab man, sitting down and grasping the decanter with the air of a man who means business. Perhaps you wouldn't mind squirting out the soda, sir, being more used to it. While these preliminaries were being arranged, Poulton silently slipped out of the room, and when our visitor had fortified himself with a gulp of the uncommonly stiff mixture, the examination began. Your name, I think, is Wilkins, said Thorn Dyke. That's me, sir, Samuel Wilkins, is my name. And your occupation? Is a very dry one, and not paid for as it deserves. I drive the cab, sir. A four-wheel cab is what I drive, and a very poor job it is. Do you happen to remember a very foggy day about a month ago? Do I not, sir? A regular sneezer, that was. Wednesday, the fourteenth of March. I remember the date because my benefit society came down on me for arrears that morning. Will you tell us what happened to you between six and seven in the evening of that day? I will, sir, replied the cab man, emptying his tumbler by way of bracing himself up for the effort. A little before six I was waiting on the arrival-side of the great northern station, King's Cross, when I seized a gentleman and a lady coming out. The gentleman he looks up and down, and then he sees me and walks up to the cab and opens the door and helps the lady in. Then he says to me, Do you know new in? he says. That's what he says to me, what was born and brought up in Whitehorse Alley, Drury Lane. Get inside, says I. Well, says he. You drive in through the gate in which street, he says, as if he expected me to go in by Houghton Street and down the steps. And then, he says, you drive nearly to the end and you'll see a house with a large brass plate at the corner of the doorway. That's where we want to be set down, he says, and with that he nips in and pulls up the window and off we goes. It took us a full half-hour to get to new in through the fog, for I had to get down and lead the horse part of the way. As I drove in under the archway, I saw it was half past six by the clock in the Porter's Lodge. I drove down nearly to the end of the inn and drew up opposite a house where there was a big brass plate by the doorway. It was number thirty-one. Then the gent crawls out and hands me five bob, two arf-grounds, and then he helps the lady out. In a way they waddles to the doorway and I see them start up the stairs very slow, regular pilgrims' progress. And that was the last I see of them. Thorndyke wrote down the cab-man's statement verbatim, together with his own questions, and then asked, "'Can you give us any description of the gentleman?' The gent, said Wilkins, was a very respectable-looking gent, although he did look as if he'd had a drop of something short, and small blame to him on a day like that. But he was all there, and he knew what was the proper fare for a foggy evening, which is more than some of them do. He was an elderly gent, about sixty, and he wore spectacles. But he didn't seem to be able to see much through him. He was a funny-un to look at, as round in the back as a turtle and he walked with his head stuck forward like a goose. What made you think he had been drinking? Well, he wasn't as steady as he might have been on his pins, but he wasn't drunk, you know, only a bit wobbly on the plates. And the lady? What was she like? I couldn't see much of her because her head was wrapped up in some sort of a woolen veil. But I should say she wasn't a chicken. Might have been about the same age as the gent, but I couldn't swear to that. She seemed a trifle rickety on the pins, too. In fact, they were a rum-looking couple. I watched them tottering across the pavement and up the stairs, hanging on to each other, him peering through his blinkers and she trying to see through her veil, and I thought it was a jolly good job they'd got a nice sound cab and a steady driver to bring them safe home. How was the lady dressed? Can't rightly say, not being a expert. Her head was done up in this here veil like a pudding in a cloth and she had a small hat on. She had a dark brown mantle, with a fringe of beads around it and a black dress. And I noticed when she got into the cab at the station that one of her stockings looked like the bellows of a concertina. That's all I can tell you. Thorn Dyke wrote down the last answer, and having read the entire statement aloud, handed the pin to our visitor. If that is all correct, he said, I will ask you to sign your name at the bottom. Do you want me to swear a affidavit that it's all true? asked Wilkins. No, thank you, replied Thorn Dyke. We may have to call you to give evidence in court, and then you'll be sworn, and you'll also be paid for your attendance. For the present I want you to keep your own counsel, and say nothing to anybody about having been here. We have to make some other inquiries, and we don't want the affair talked about. I see, sir, said Wilkins, as he laboriously traced his signature at the foot of the statement. You don't want the other parties for to ogle your lay. All right, sir. You can depend on me. I'm fly, I am. Thank you, Wilkins, said Thorn Dyke. And now, what are we to give you for your trouble in coming here? I'll leave the fare to you, sir. You know what the information's worth, but I should think Arfa Thicken wouldn't hurt you. Thorn Dyke laid on the table a couple of sovereigns at the site of which the cab man's eyes glistened. We have your address, Wilkins, said he. If we want you as a witness we shall let you know, and if not there will be another two pounds for you at the end of a fortnight, but you have not let this little interview leak out. Wilkins gathered up the spoils gleefully. You can trust me, sir, said he, for to keep my mouth shut. I know's which side my bread's buttered. Good night, gentlemen all. With this comprehensive salute he moved toward the door and let himself out. Well, Jervis, what do you think of it? Thorn Dyke asked, as the cab man's footsteps faded away in a creaky diminuendo. I don't know what to think. The woman is a new factor in the case, and I don't know how to place her. Not entirely new, said Thorn Dyke. You have not forgotten those beads that we found in Jeffrey's bedroom, have you? No, I had not forgotten them, but I did not see that they told us much, excepting that some woman had apparently been in his bedroom at some time. That, I think, is all they did tell us. But now they tell us that a particular woman was in his bedroom at a particular time, which is a good deal more significant. Yes, it almost looks as if she must have been there when he made away with himself. It does, very much. By the way, you were right about the colors of those beads and also about the way they were used. As to their use, that was a mere guess, but it has turned out to be correct. It was well that we found the beads, for, small as is the amount of information they give, it is still enough to carry us a stage further. How so? I mean that the cabman's evidence tells us only that this woman entered the house. The beads tell us that she was in the bedroom, which, as you say, seems to connect her to some extent with Jeffrey's death. Not necessarily, of course, it is only a suggestion, but a rather strong suggestion, under the peculiar circumstances. "'Even so,' said I, this new fact seems to me so far from clearing up the mystery, only to add to it a fresh element of still-deeper mystery. The porter's evidence at the inquest could leave no doubt that Jeffrey contemplated suicide, and his preparations pointedly suggest this particular night as the time selected by him for doing away with himself. Is that not so?' Suddenly the porter's evidence was very clear on that point. Then I don't see where this woman comes in. It is obvious that her presence at the inn, and especially in the bedroom on this occasion and in these strange, secret circumstances, has a rather sinister look. But yet I do not see in which way she could have been connected with the tragedy. Perhaps, after all, she has nothing to do with it. You remember that Jeffrey went to the lodge about eight o'clock to pay his rent, and chatted for some time with the porter. That looks as if the lady had already left. "'Yes,' said Thornbike. But on the other hand, Jeffrey's remarks to the porter with reference to the cab do not quite agree with the account that we have just heard from Wilkins. Which suggests, as does Wilkins's account generally, some secrecy as to the lady's visit to his chambers. "'Do you know who the woman was?' I asked. "'No, I don't know,' he replied. I have a rather strong suspicion that I can identify her. But I am waiting for some further facts. Is your suspicion founded on some new matter that you have discovered, or is it deducible from facts that are known to me?' "'I think,' he replied, "'that you know practically all that I know, although I have in one instance turned a very strong suspicion into a certainty by further inquiries. But I think you ought to be able to form some idea as to who this lady probably was. But no woman has been mentioned in the case at all. No, but I think you should be able to give this lady a name, not withstanding. "'Should I?' Then I begin to suspect that I am not cut out for medical legal practice, for I don't see the faintest glimmer of a suggestion.' Thorndyke smiled benevolently. "'Don't be discouraged, Jervis,' said he. "'I expect that when you first began to go round the wards you doubted whether you were cut out for medical practice. I did. For special work one needs special knowledge and an acquired faculty for making use of it. What does a second-year student make of a small thoracic aneurysm? He knows the anatomy of the chest. He begins to know the normal heart sounds and areas of dullness. But he cannot yet fit his various items of knowledge together. Then comes the experienced physician, and perhaps makes a complete diagnosis without any examination at all, merely from hearing the patient speak or cough. He has the same facts as a student, but he has acquired the faculty of instantly connecting an abnormality of function with its correlated anatomical change. It's a matter of experience. And with your previous training you will soon acquire the faculty. Try to observe everything. Let nothing escape you. And try constantly to find some connection between the facts and events that seem to be unconnected. That is my advice to you, and with that we will put away the Blackmore case for the present and consider our day's work at an end. Chapter 14 of the Mystery of Thirty-One New End. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Mystery of Thirty-One New End by R. Austin Freeman. Chapter 14, Thondike Lays the Mine. The information supplied by Mr. Samuel Wilkins, so far from dispelling the cloud of mystery that hung over the Blackmore case, only enveloped it in deeper obscurity, so far as I was concerned. The new problem that Thondike offered for solution was a tougher one than any of the others. He proposed that I should identify and give a name to this mysterious woman. But how could I? No woman, excepting Mrs. Wilson, had been mentioned in connection with the case. This new, dramatic persona had appeared suddenly from nowhere, and straight away vanished without leaving a trace. Among the two or three beads that we had picked up in Jeffery's room. Nor was it in the least clear what part of any she had played in the tragedy. The facts still pointed as plainly to suicide as before her appearance. Jeffery's repeated hints as to his intentions, and the very significant preparations that he had made, were enough to negative any idea of foul play. And yet the woman's presence in the chambers at that time, the secret manner of her arrival, and her precautions against recognition, strongly suggested some kind of complicity in the dreadful event that followed. But what complicity is possible in the case of suicide? The woman might have furnished him with the syringe and the poison, but it would not have been necessary for her to go to his chambers for that purpose. Big ideas of persuasion and hypnotic suggestion floated through my brain, but the explanations did not fit the case, and the hypnotic suggestion of crime is not very convincing to the medical mind. Then I thought of blackmail in connection with some disgraceful secret. But though this was a more hopeful suggestion, it was not very probable considering Jeffery's age and character. And all these speculations failed to throw the faintest light on the main question, who was this woman? A couple of days passed during which Thondike made no further reference to the case. He was, most of the time, away from home, though how he was engaged I had no idea. What was rather more unusual was that Poulton seemed to have deserted the laboratory and taken to outdoor pursuits. I assumed that he had seized the opportunity of leaving me in charge, and I dimly surmised that he was acting as Thondike's private inquiry agent, as he seemed to have done in the case of Samuel Wilkins. On the evening of the second day, Thondike came home in obviously good spirits, and his first proceedings aroused my expectant curiosity. He went to a cupboard and brought forth a box of Trigonopoly Cherutes. Now the Trigonopoly Cherute was Thondike's one dissipation. To be enjoyed only on rare and specially festive occasions, which in practice meant those occasions on which he had scored some important point, or solved some unusually tough problem, wherefore I watched him with lively interest. It's a pity that the tricky is such a poisonous beast, he remarked, taking up one of the Cherutes and sniffing at it delicately. There is no other cigar like it to a really abandoned smoker. He laid the cigar back in the box and continued, I think I shall treat myself to one after dinner to celebrate the occasion. What occasion, I asked. The completion of the Blackmore case. I am just going to write to Marchmont, advising him to enter a caveat. Do you mean to say that you have discovered a flaw in the will, after all? A flaw, he exclaimed. My dear Jervis, that second will is a forgery. I stared at him in amazement, for his assertion sounded like nothing more or less than errant nonsense. But the thing is impossible, Thondike, I said. Not only did the witnesses recognize their own signatures and the painter's greasy finger-marks, but they had both read the will and remembered its contents. Yes, that is the interesting feature in the case. It is a very pretty problem. I shall give you a last chance to solve it. Tomorrow evening, we shall have to give a full explanation, so you have another 24 hours in which to think it over. And meanwhile, I am going to take you to my club to dine. I think we shall be pretty safe there for Mrs. Shalabalm. He sat down and wrote a letter, which was apparently quite a short one, and having addressed and stamped it, prepared to go out. Come, said he, let us away to the gay and festive scenes and halls of dazzling light. We will lay the mine in the Fleet Street pillow-box. I should like to be in March month's office when it explodes. I expect, for that matter, said I, that the explosion will be felt pretty distinctly in these chambers. I expect so too, replied Thondike. And that reminds me that I shall be out all day tomorrow. So if March month calls, you must do all that you can to persuade him to come round after dinner and bring Stephen Blackmore, if possible. I am anxious to have Stephen here, as he will be able to give us some further information and confirm certain matters of fact. I promise to exercise my utmost powers of persuasion on Mr. March month, which I should certainly have done on my own account, being now on the very tip-toe of curiosity to hear Thondike's explanation of the unthinkable conclusion at which he had arrived. And the subject dropped completely. Nor could I, during the rest of the evening, induce my colleague to reopen it even in the most indirect or elusive manner. Our explanations in respect to Mr. March month were fully realized, for on the following morning within an hour of Thondike's departure from our chambers, the knocker was plied with more than usual emphasis. And on my opening the door, I discovered the solicitor in company with a somewhat older gentleman. Mr. March month appeared somewhat out of humor, while his companion was obviously in a state of extreme irritation. How do you do, Dr. Jarvis, said March month as he entered at my invitation. Your friend, I suppose, is not in just now. No, and he will not be returning until the evening. Hm! I'm sorry. We wish to see him rather particularly. This is my partner, Mr. Winwood. The latter gentleman bowed stiffly and March month continued. We have had a letter from Dr. Thondike, and it is, I may say, a rather curious letter. In fact, a very singular letter indeed. It is the letter of a madman, growled Mr. Winwood. No, no, Winwood, nothing of the kind. Control yourself, I beg you. But really, the letter is rather incomprehensible. It relates to the will of the late Jeffrey Blackmore. You know the main facts of the case, and we cannot reconcile it with those facts. This is the letter, exclaimed Mr. Winwood, dragging the document from his wallet and slapping it down on the table. If you are acquainted with the case, sir, just read that and let us hear what you think. I took up the letter and read aloud. Jeffrey Blackmore decedent, dear Mr. Marchmont, I have gone into this case with great care and have now no doubt that the second will is a forgery. Criminal proceedings will, I think, be inevitable. But meanwhile it would be wise to enter a caveat. If you could look in at my chambers tomorrow evening we could talk the case over, and I should be glad if you could bring Mr. Steven Blackmore, whose personal knowledge of the events in the party's concerned, would be of great assistance in clearing up obscure details. I am, your sincerely, John Evelyn Thorndike, C. F. Marchmont, Esquire. Well, exclaimed Mr. Winwood, glaring ferociously at me, what do you think of the learned council's opinion? I knew that Thorndike was writing to you to this effect, I replied, but I must frankly confess that I can make nothing of it. Have you acted on his advice? Certainly not, shouted the irascible lawyer. You suppose that we wish to make ourselves the laughing stock of the courts? The thing is impossible, ridiculously impossible. It can't be that, you know, I said a little stiffly, for I was somewhat nettle'd by Mr. Winwood's manner, or Thorndike would not have written this letter. The conclusion looks as impossible to me as it does to you, but I have complete confidence in Thorndike. If he says that the will is a forgery, I have no doubt that it is a forgery. But how the deuce can it be, roared Winwood? You know the circumstances under which the will was executed. Yes, but so does Thorndike, and he is not a man who overlooks important facts. It is useless to argue with me. I am in a complete fog about the case myself. You had better come in this evening and talk it over with him, as he suggests. It is very inconvenient, grumble, Mr. Winwood. We shall have to dine in town. Yes, said Marchmont, but it is the only thing to be done. As Dr. Gervis says, we must take it that Thorndike has something solid to base his opinion on. He doesn't make elementary mistakes. And of course, if what he says is correct, Mr. Stephen's position is totally changed. Barth, exclaimed Winwood, he has found a mayor's nest, I tell you. Still I agree that the explanation should be worth hearing. You mustn't mind Winwood, said Marchmont, in an apologetic undertone. He's a peppery old fellow with a rough tongue, but he doesn't mean any harm. Which statement Winwood ascended to or descended from? For it was impossible to say which, by a prolonged growl. We shall expect you, then, I said, about eight tonight. And you will try to bring Mr. Stephen with you? Yes, replied Marchmont, I think we can promise that he shall come with us. I have sent him a telegram asking him to attend. With this the two lawyers took their departure, leaving me to meditate upon my colleague's astonishing statement, which I did considerably to the prejudice of other employment. That Thondike would be able to justify the opinion that he had given I had no doubt whatever. But yet there was no denying that his proposition was what Mr. Dick Swiviller would call a staggara. When Thondike returned I informed him of the visit of our two friends, and acquainted him with the sentiments that they had expressed, whereat he smiled with quiet amusement. I thought, he remarked, that letter would bring Marchmont to our door before long. As to Winwood I have never met him, but I gather that he is one of those people whom you mustn't mind. In a general way I object to people who tacitly claim exemption from the ordinary rules of conduct that are held to be binding on their fellows. But as he promises to give us what the variety ought us call an extra turn, we will make the best of him and give him a run for his money. Here Thondike smiled mischievously. I understood the meaning of that smile later in the evening and asked, what do you think of the affair yourself? I have given it up, I answered, to my paralyzed brain the Blackmore case is like an endless algebraical problem propounded by an insane mathematician. Thondike laughed at my comparison, which I planted myself was a rather apt one. Come and dine, said he, and let us crack a bottle that our hearts may not turn to water under the frown of the disdainful Winwood. I think the old bell in Holborn will meet our present requirements better than the club. There is something jovial and roistering about an ancient tavern, but we must keep a shop lookout for Mrs. Schallibau. Thereupon we set forth, and after a week's close imprisonment I once more looked upon the friendly London streets, the cheerfully lighted shop windows, and the multitudes of companiable strangers who moved unceasingly along the payments. End of Chapter 14, Recording by James O'Connor, Randolph, Massachusetts, February 2010.