Detection by Gaslight (20 page)

“Some eight months later a portion of this man's clothing is found. It bears evidence of having been lying at the bottom of the sea for many months, so that it must have sunk to its resting place within a very short time of the man's disappearance. The place where it has been lying is one over, or near, which the man must have sailed in the yacht. It has been moored to the bottom by some very heavy object; and a very heavy object has disappeared from the yacht. That heavy object had apparently not disappeared when the yacht started, and was not seen on the yacht afterwards. The evidence goes to show that the disappearance of that object coincided in time with the disappearance of the man; and a quantity of cordage disappeared, certainly, on that day. Those are the facts in our possession at present, Mr. Rodney, and I think the inference emerges automatically.”

There was a brief silence, during which the two brothers cogitated profoundly and with very disturbed expressions. Then Rodney spoke.

“I am bound to admit, Dr. Thorndyke, that, as a scheme of circumstantial evidence, this is extremely ingenious and complete. It is impossible to mistake your meaning. But you would hardly expect us to charge a highly respectable gentleman of our acquaintance with having murdered his friend and made away with the body, on a—well—a rather far-fetched theory.”

“Certainly not,” replied Thorndyke. “But, on the other hand, with this body of circumstantial evidence before us, it is clearly imperative that some further investigations should be made before we speak of the matter to any human soul.”

Rodney agreed somewhat grudgingly. “What do you suggest?” he asked.

“I suggest that we thoroughly overhaul the yacht in the first place. Where is she now?”

“Under a tarpaulin in a yard at Battersea. The gear and stores are in a disused workshop in the yard.”

“When could we look over her?”

“To-morrow morning, if you like,” said Rodney.

“Very well,” said Thorndyke. “We will call for you at nine, if that will suit.”

It suited perfectly, and the arrangement was accordingly made. A few minutes later the two brothers took their leave, but as they were shaking hands, Philip said suddenly:

“There is one little matter that occurs to me. I have only just remembered it, and I don't suppose it is of any consequence, but it is as well to mention everything. You remember my brother saying that one of the jib halyards broke that day?”

“Yes.”

“Well, of course, the jib came down and went partly overboard. Now, the next time I hoisted the sail, I noticed a small stain on it; a greenish stain like that of mud, only it wouldn't wash out, and it is there still. I meant to ask Varney about it. Stains of that kind on the jib usually come from a bit of mud on the fluke of the anchor, but the anchor was quite clean when I examined it, and besides, it hadn't been down on that day. I thought I'd better tell you about it.”

“I'm glad you did,” said Thorndyke. “We will have a look at that stain to-morrow. Good-night.” Once more he shook hands, and then, reentering the room, stood for quite a long time with his back to the fire, thoughtfully examining the toes of his boots.

We started forth next morning for our rendezvous considerably earlier than seemed necessary. But I made no comment, for Thorndyke was in that state of extreme taciturnity which characterised him whenever he was engaged on an absorbing case with an insufficiency of evidence. I knew that he was turning over and over the facts that he had, and searching for new openings; but I had no clue to the trend of his thoughts until, passing the gateway of Lincoln's Inn, he walked briskly up Chancery Lane into Holborn, and finally halted outside a wholesale druggist's.

“I shan't be more than a few minutes,” said he; “are you coming in?”

I was, most emphatically. Questions were forbidden at this stage, but there was no harm in keeping one's ears open; and when I heard his order I was the richer by a distinct clue to his next movements. Tincture of Guiacum and Ozonic Ether formed a familiar combination, and the size of the bottles indicated the field of investigation.

We found the brothers waiting for us at Lincoln's Inn. They both looked rather hard at the parcel that I was now carrying, and especially at Thorndyke's green canvas-covered research case; but they made no comment, and we set forth at once on the rather awkward cross-country journey to Battersea. Very little was said on the way, but I noticed that both men took our quest more seriously than I had expected, and I judged that they had been talking the case over.

Our journey terminated at a large wooden gate on which Rodney knocked loudly with his stick; whereupon a wicket was opened, and, after a few words of explanation, we passed through into a large yard. Crossing this, we came to a wharf, beyond which was a small stretch of unreclaimed shore, and here, drawn well above high-water mark, a small, double-ended yacht stood on chocks under a tarpaulin cover.

“This is the yacht,” said Rodney. “The gear and loose fittings are stored in the workshop behind us. Which will you see first?”

“Let us look at the gear,” said Thorndyke, and we turned to the disused workshop into which Rodney admitted us with a key from his pocket. I looked curiously about the long, narrow interior with its prosaic contents, so little suggestive of tragedy or romance. Overhead the yacht's spars rested on the tie-beams, from which hung bunches of blocks; on the floor a long row of neatly-painted half-hundredweights, a pile of chain-cable, two anchors, a stove, and other oddments such as water breakers, buckets, mops, etc., and on the long benches at the side, folded sails, locker cushions, side-light lanterns, the binnacle, the cabin lamp, and other more delicate fittings. Thorndyke, too, glanced round inquisitively, and, depositing his case on the bench, asked, “Have you still got the broken jib halyard of which you were telling me?”

“Yes,” said Rodney, “it is here under the bench.” He drew out a coil of rope, and flinging it on the floor, began to uncoil it, when it separated into two lengths.

“Which are the broken ends?” Thorndyke asked.

“It broke near the middle,” said Rodney, “where it chafed on the cleat when the sail was hoisted. This is the one end, you see, frayed out like a brush in breaking, and the other——” He picked up the second half and, passing it rapidly through his hands, held up the end. He did not finish the sentence, but stood with a frown of surprise staring at the rope in his hands.

“This is queer,” he said, after a pause, “The broken end has been cut off. Did you cut it off, Phil?”

“No,” replied Philip. “It is just as I took it from the locker, where, I suppose, you or Varney stowed it.”

“The question is,” said Thorndyke, “how much has it been cut off? Do you know the original length of the rope?”

“Yes. Forty-two feet. It is not down in the inventory, but I remember working it out. Let us see how much there is here.”

He laid the two lengths of rope along the floor and we measured them with Thorndyke's spring tape. The combined length was exactly thirty-one feet.

“So,” said Thorndyke, “there are eleven feet missing, without allowing for the lengthening of the rope by stretching. That is a very important fact.”

“What made you suspect that part of the halyard might be missing as well as the spunyarn?” Philip asked.

“I did not think,” replied Thorndyke, “that a yachtsman would use spunyarn to lash a half-handredweight to a corpse. I suspected that the spunyarn was used for something else. By the way, I see you have a revolver there. Was that on board at the time?”

“Yes,” said Rodney. “It was hanging on the cabin bulkhead. Be careful. I don't think it has been unloaded.”

Thorndyke opened the breech of the revolver, and dropping the cartridges into his hand, peered down the barrel and into each chamber separately.

“It is quite clean inside,” he remarked. Then, glancing at the ammunition in his hand, “I notice,” said he, “that these cartridges are not all alike. There is one Curtis and Harvey, and five Eleys.”

Philip looked with a distinctly startled expression at the little heap of cartridges in Thorndyke's hand, and picking out the odd one, examined it with knitted brows.

“When did you fire the revolver last, Jack?” he asked, looking up at his brother.

“On the day when we potted at those champagne bottles,” was the reply.

Philip raised his eyebrows. “Then,” said he, “this is a very remarkable affair. I distinctly remember on that occasion, when we had sunk all the bottles, reloading the revolver with Eleys, and that there were then three cartridges left over in the bag. When I had loaded I opened the new box of Curtis and Harvey's, upped them into the bag and threw the box overboard.”

“Did you clean the revolver?” asked Thorndyke.

“No, I didn't. I mean to do it later, but forgot to.”

“But,” said Thorndyke, “it has undoubtedly been cleaned, and very thoroughly. Shall we check the cartridges in the bag? There ought to be forty-nine Curtis and Harvey's and three Eley's if what you tell us is correct.”

Philip searched among the raffle on the bench and produced a small linen bag. Untying the string, he shot out on the bench a heap of cartridges which he counted one by one. There were fifty-two in all, and three of them were Eley's.

“Then,” said Thorndyke, “it comes to this: since you used that revolver it has been used by someone else. That someone fired only a single shot, after which he carefully cleaned the barrel and reloaded. Incidentally, he seems to have known where the cartridge bag was kept, but did not know about the change in the make of the cartridges. You notice,” he added, looking at Rodney, “that the circumstantial evidence accumulates.”

“I do, indeed,” Rodney replied gloomily. “Is there anything else that you wish to examine?”

“Yes. There is the sail. You spoke of a stain on the jib. Shall we see if we can make anything of that?”

“I don't think you will make much of it,” said Philip. “It is very faint. However, you shall see it.” He picked out one of the bundles of white duck, and, while he was unfolding it, Thorndyke dragged an empty bench into the middle of the floor under the skylight. Over this the sail was spread so that the mysterious mark was in the middle of the bench. It was very inconspicuous; just a faint, grey-green, wavy line like the representation of an island on a map. We all looked at it attentively for a few moments, and then Thorndyke said, “Would you mind if I made a further stain on the sail? I should like to apply some re-agents.”

“Of course, you must do what is necessary,” said Rodney. “The evidence is more important than the sail.”

Accordingly Thorndyke unpacked our parcel, and as the two bottles emerged, Philip read the labels with evident surprise, remarking:

“I shouldn't have thought the Guiacum test would have been of any use after all these months.”

“It will act, I think, if the pigment is there,” said Thorndyke; and as he spoke he poured a quantity of the tincture—which he had ordered diluted to our usual working strength—on the middle of the stained area. The pool of liquid rapidly spread considerably beyond the limits of the stain, growing paler as it extended. Then Thorndyke cautiously dropped small quantities of the Ether at various points around the stained area and watched closely as the two liquids mingled in the fabric of the sail. Gradually the Ether spread towards the stain, and, first at one point and then at another, approached and finally crossed the wavy grey line, and at each point the same change occurred; first, the faint grey line turned into a strong blue line, and then the colour extended to the enclosed space, until the entire area of the stain stood out, a conspicuous blue patch.

Philip and Thorndyke looked at one another significantly, and the latter said, “You understand the meaning of this reaction, Mr. Rodney; this is a bloodstain, and a very carefully washed bloodstain.”

“So I supposed,” Rodney replied, and for a while we were all silent.

There was something very dramatic and solemn in the sudden appearance of this staring blue patch on the sail, with the sinister message that it brought. But what followed was more dramatic still. As we stood silently regarding the blue stain, the mingled liquids continued to spread: and suddenly, at the extreme edge of the wet area, we became aware of a new spot of blue. At first a mere speck, it grew slowly as the liquid spread over the canvas into a small oval, and then a second spot appeared by its side.

At this point Thorndyke poured out a fresh charge of the tincture, and when it had soaked into the cloth, cautiously applied a sprinkling of Ether. Instantly the blue spots began to elongate, fresh spots and patches appeared, and as they ran together there sprang out of the blank surface the clear impression of a hand—a left hand, complete in all its details excepting the third finger, which was represented by an oval spot at some two-thirds of its length.

The dreaded significance of this apparition and the uncanny and mysterious manner of its emergence from the white surface impressed us so that for a while none of us spoke. At length I ventured to remark on the absence of the impression of the third finger.

“I think,” said Thorndyke, “that the impression is there. That spot looks like the mark of a finger-tip, and its position rather suggests a finger with a stiff joint.”

As he made this statement, both brothers simultaneously uttered a smothered exclamation.

Thorndyke looked up at them sharply. “What is it?” he asked.

The two men looked at one another with an expression of awe. Then Rodney said in a hushed voice, hardly above a whisper, “Varney, the man who was with Purcell on the yacht—he has a stiff joint on the third finger of his left hand.”

There was nothing more to say. The case was complete. The keystone had been laid in the edifice of circumstantial evidence. The investigation was at an end.