Detection by Gaslight (21 page)
Read Detection by Gaslight Online
Authors: Douglas G. Greene
After an interval of silence, during which Thorndyke was busily writing up his notes, Rodney asked, “What is to be done now? Shall I swear an information?”
Thorndyke shook his head. No man was more expert in accumulating circumstantial evidence; none was more loth to rely on it.
“A murder charge,” said he, “should be supported by proof of death and, if possible, by production of the body.”
“But the body is at the bottom of the sea!”
“True. But we know its whereabouts. It is a small area, with the lighthouse as a landmark. If that area were systematically worked over with a trawl or dredge, or better still, with a creper, there should be a very good chance of recovering the body, or, at least, the clothing and the weight.”
Rodney reflected for a few moments. “I think you are right,” he said at length. “The thing is practicable, and it is our duty to do it. I suppose you couldn't come down and help us?”
“Not now. But in a few days the spring vacation will commence, and then Jervis and I could join you, if the weather were suitable.” “Thank you both,” replied Rodney. “We will make the arrangements, and let you know when we are ready.”
It was quite early on a bright April morning when the two Rodneys, Thorndyke, and I steamed out of Penzance Harbour in a small open launch. The sea was very calm for the time of year, the sky was of a warm blue, and a gentle breeze stole out of the north-east. Over the launch's side hung a long spar, secured to a tow-rope by a bridle, and to the spar were attached a number of creepersâlengths of chain fitted with rows of hooks. The outfit further included a spirit compass, provided with sights, a sextant, and a hand-lead.
“It's lucky we didn't run up against Varney in the town,” Philip remarked, as the harbour dwindled in the distance.
“Varney!” exclaimed Thorndyke. “Do you mean that he lives at Penzance?”
“He keeps rooms there, and spends most of his spare time down in this part. He was always keen on sea-fishing, and he's keener than ever now. He keeps a boat of his own, too. It's queer, isn't it, if what we think is true?”
“Very,” said Thorndyke; and by his meditative manner I judge that circumstances afforded him matter for curious speculation.
As we passed abreast of the Land's End, and the solitary lighthouse rose ahead on the verge of the horizon, we began to overtake the scattered members of a fleet of luggers, home with lowered mainsails and hand-lines down, others with their black sails set, heading for a more distant fishing-ground. Threading our way among them, we suddenly became aware that one of the smaller luggers was heading so as to close in on us. Rodney, observing this, was putting over the helm to avoid her when a seafaring voice from the little craft hailed us.
“Launch ahoy there! Gentleman aboard wants to speak to you.”
We looked at one another significantly and in some confusion; and meanwhile our solitary “hand”âseaman, engineer, and fireman combinedâwithout waiting for orders, shut off steam. The lugger closed in rapidly and of a sudden there appeared, holding on by the mainstay, a small dark fellow who hailed us cheerfully: “Hullo, you fellows! Whither away? What's your game?”
“God!” exclaimed Philip. “It's Varney. Sheer off, Jack! Don't let him come alongside.”
“But it was too late. The launch had lost way and failed to answer the helm. The lugger sheered in, sweeping abreast of us within a foot; and, as she crept past, Varney sprang lightly from her gunwale and dropped neatly on the side bench in our stern sheets.
“Where are you off to?” he asked. “You can't be going out to fish in this baked-potato can?”
“No,” faltered Rodney, “we're not. We're going to do some dredgingâor ratherââ”
Here Thorndyke came to his assistance. “Marine worms,” said he, “are the occasion of this little voyage. There seem to be some very uncommon ones on the bottom at the base of the Wolf Rock. I have seen some in a collection, and I want to get a few more if I can.”
It was a skillfully-worded explanation, and I could see that, for the time, Varney accepted it. But from the moment when the Wolf Rock was mentioned all his vivacity of manner died out. In an instant he had become grave, thoughtful, and a trifle uneasy.
The introductions over, he reverted to the subject. He questioned us closely, especially as to our proposed methods. And it was impossible to evade his questions. There were the creepers in full view; there was the compass and the sextant; and presently these appliances would have to be put in use. Gradually, as the nature of our operations dawned on him, his manner changed more and more. A horrible pallor overspread his face, and a terrible restlessness took possession of him.
Rodney, who was navigating, brought the launch to within a quarter of a mile of the rock, and then, taking cross-bearings on the lighthouse and a point of land, directed us to lower the creepers.
It was a most disagreeable experience for us all. Varney, pale and clammy, fidgeted about the boat, now silent and moody, now almost hysterically boisterous. Thorndyke watched him furtively and, I think, judged by his manner how near we were to the object of our search.
Calm as the day was, the sea was breaking heavily over the rock, and as we worked in closer the water around boiled and eddied in an unpleasant and even dangerous manner. The three keepers in the gallery of the lighthouse watched us through their glasses, and one of them bellowed to us through a megaphone to keep further away.
“What do you say?” asked Rodney. “It's a bit risky here, with the rock right under our lee. Shall we try another side?”
“Better try one more cast this side,” said Thorndyke; and he spoke so definitely that we all, including Varney, looked at him curiously. But no one answered, and the creepers were dropped for a fresh cast still nearer the rock. We were then north of the lighthouse, and headed south so as to pass the rock on its east side. As we approached, the man with the megaphone bawled out fresh warnings, and continued to roar at us until we were abreast of the rock in a wild tumble of confused waves.
At this moment Philip, who held the towline with a single turn round a cleat, said that he felt a pull, but that it seemed as if the creepers had broken away. As soon, therefore, as we were out of the backwash into smooth water, we hauled in the linen to examine the creepers.
I looked over the side eagerly, for something new in Thorndyke's manner impressed me. Varney, too, who had hitherto taken little notice of the creepers, now knelt on the side bench, gazing earnestly into the clear water, when the tow-rope was rising.
At length the beam came in sight, and below it, on one of the creepers, a yellowish object, dimly seen through the wavering water.
“There's somethin' on this time,” said the engineer, craning over the side. He shut off steam, and, with the rest of us, watched the incoming creeper. I looked at Varney, kneeling on the bench apart from us, not fidgeting now, but still rigid, pale as wax, and staring with dreadful fascination at the slowly-rising object.
Suddenly the engineer uttered an exclamation. “Why, âtis a sou'wester, and all laced about wi' spuny'n. Surely 'tisâHi! steady, sir! My God!”
There was a heavy splash, and as Rodney rushed forward for the boat-hook I saw Varney rapidly sinking head first through the clear, blue-green water, dragged down by the hand-lead that he had hitched to his waist. By the time Rodney was back he was far out of reach; but for a long time, as it seemed, we could see him sinking, sinking, growing paler, more shadowy, more shapeless, but always steadily following the lead sinker, until at last he faded from our sight into the darkness of the ocean.
Not until he had vanished did we haul on board the creeper with its dreadful burden. Indeed, we never hauled it on board; for as Philip, with an unsteady hand, unhooked the sou'wester hat from the creeper, the encircling coils of spunyarn slipped, and from inside the hat a skull dropped into the water and sank. We watched it grow green and pallid and small, until it vanished, as Varney had vanished. Then Philip turned and flung the hat down in the bottom of the boat. Thorndyke picked it up and unwound the spunyarn.
“Do you identify it?” he asked, and then, as he turned it over, he added, “But I see it identifies itself.” He held it towards me, and I read in embroidered letters on the silk lining, “Dan Purcell.”
(1854â1914) and Robert Eustace (1868â1943)
ELIZABETH THOMASINA MEADE SMITH was one of the most successful writers of books for teenaged girlsâuntil recently it was easy to find one of her more than two hundred fifty volumes at almost any used bookstoreâas well as the creator of sensational sleuths and criminals. Madam Koluchy of
The Brotherhood of the Seven Kings
(1899) is one of the first female criminals to appear in a series of short stories, and Madame Sara in
The Sorceress of the Strand
(1903) is a serial murderer. Meade also created the first collection of medical mysteries published in England,
Stories from the Diary of a Doctor
(1894); the first collection of seemingly impossible crime detective stories,
The Master of Mysteries
(1898); and one of the earliest collections of secret-service stories,
The Lost Square
(1902). She even created a palmist detective in
The Oracle of Maddox Street
(1904).
It is generally agreed that her collaboratorsâClifford Halifax in the earlier stories and Dr. Robert Eustace in the later onesâsupplied the scientific, or pseudo-scientific, gimmicks while Meade did the actual writing. In one book Meade thanked Eustace, “to whose genius I owe the extraordinary and original ideas contained therein.” In his only book without a collaborator, however,
The Human Bacillus
(1907), Eustace said that he was the true author of the stories. Whatever the exact method of collaboration, Eustace specialized in working with other authors, including Gertrude Warden and Dorothy L. Sayers. For many years, scholars debated whether Eustace was the pseudonym of Eustace Rawlins (1854-?) or of Dr. Robert Eustace Barton (1868-1943); the recent publication of
The Letters of Dorothy L. Sayers,
ed. Barbara Reynolds (1996), definitively identified him as Dr. Barton.
“Mr. Bovey's Unexpected Will” appeared in
The Harmsworth Magazine
in 1898. It is one of the few Meade stories never to appear in one of her books, and it is the first of a four-story series about Florence Kusack.
Â
Â
Mr. Bovey's. Unexpected Will
Â
Â
AMONGST ALL MY PATIENTS there were none who excited my sense of curiosity like Miss Florence Cusack. I never thought of her without a sense of baffled inquiry taking possession of me, and I never visited her without the hope that some day I should get to the bottom of the mystery which surrounded her.
Miss Cusack was a young and handsome woman. She possessed to all appearance superabundant health, her energies were extraordinary, and her life completely out of the common. She lived alone in a large house in Kensington Court Gardens, kept a good staff of servants, and went much into society. Her beauty, her sprightliness, her wealth, and, above all, her extraordinary life, caused her to be much talked about. As one glanced at this handsome girl with her slender figure, her eyes of the darkest blue, her raven black hair and clear complexion, it was almost impossible to believe that she was a power in the police courts, and highly respected by every detective in Scotland Yard.
I shall never forget my first visit to Miss Cusack. I had been asked by a brother doctor to see her in his absence. Strong as she was, she was subject to periodical and very acute nervous attacks. When I entered her house she came up to me eagerly.
“Pray do not ask me too many questions or look too curious, Dr. Lonsdale,” she said; “I know well that my whole condition is abnormal; but, believe me, I am forced to do what I do.”
“What is that?” I inquired.
“You see before you,” she continued, with emphasis, “the most acute and, I believe, successful lady detective in the whole of London.”
“Why do you lead such an extraordinary life?” I asked.
“To me the life is fraught with the very deepest interest,” she answered. “In any case,” and now the colour faded from her cheeks, and her eyes grew full of emotion, “I have no choice; I am under a promise, which I must fulfil. There are times, however, when I need helpâsuch help as you, for instance, can give me. I have never seen you before, but I like your face. If the time should ever come, will you give me your assistance?”
I asked her a few more questions, and finally agreed to do what she wished.
From that hour Miss Cusack and I became the staunchest friends. She constantly invited me to her house, introduced me to her friends, and gave me her confidence to a marvellous extent.
On my first visit I noticed in her study two enormous brazen bulldogs. They were splendidly cast, and made a striking feature in the arrangements of the room; but I did not pay them any special attention until she happened to mention that there was a story, and a strange one, in connection with them.
“But for these dogs,” she said, “and the mystery attached to them, I should not be the woman I am, nor would my life be set apart for the performance of duties at once herculean and ghastly.”
When she said these words her face once more turned pale, and her eyes flashed with an ominous fire.
On a certain afternoon in November 1894, I received a telegram from Miss Cusack, asking me to put aside all other work and go to her at once. Handing my patients over to the care of my partner, I started for her house. I found her in her study and alone. She came up to me holding a newspaper in her hand.
“Do you see this?” she asked. As she spoke she pointed to the agony column. The following words met my eyes:â
Send more sand and charcoal dust. Core and mould ready for casting.
JOSHUA LINKLATER.
I read those curious words slowly, then glanced at the eager face of the young girl.
“I have been waiting for this,” she said, in a tone of triumph.
“But what can it mean?” I said. “Core and mould ready for casting?”
She folded up the paper, and laid it deliberately on the table.
“I thought that Joshua Linklater would say something of the kind,” she continued. “I have been watching for a similar advertisement in all the dailies for the last three weeks. This may be of the utmost importance.”
“Will you explain?” I said.
“I may never have to explain, or, on the other hand, I may,” she answered. “I have not really sent for you to point out this advertisement, but in connection with another matter. Now, pray, come into the next room with me.”
She led me into a prettily and luxuriously furnished boudoir on the same floor. Standing by the hearth was a slender fair-haired girl, looking very little more than a child.
“May I introduce you to my cousin, Letitia Ransom?” said Miss Cusack, eagerly. “Pray sit down, Letty,” she continued, addressing the girl with a certain asperity, “Dr. Lonsdale is the man of all others we want. Now, doctor, will you give me your full attention, for I have an extraordinary story to relate.”
At Miss Cusack's words Miss Random immediately seated herself. Miss Cusack favoured her with a quick glance, and then once more turned to me.
“You are much interested in queer mental phases, are you not?” she said.
“I certainly am,” I replied.
“Well, I should like to ask your opinion with regard to such a will as this.”
Once again she unfolded a newspaper, and, pointing to a paragraph, handed it to me. I read as follows:â
Â
EXTRAORDINARY TERMS OF A MISER'S WILL.
Mr. Henry Bovey, who died last week at a small house at Kew, has left one of the most extraordinary wills on record. During his life his eccentricities and miserly habits were well known, but this eclipses them all, by the surprising method in which he has disposed of his property.
Mr. Bovey was unmarried, and, as far as can be proved, has no near relations in the world. The small balance at his banker's is to be used for defraying fees, duties, and sundry charges, also any existing debts, but the main bulk of his securities were recently realised, and the money in sovereigns is locked in a safe in his house.
A clause in the will states that there are three claimants to this property, and that the one whose net bodily weight is nearest to the weight of these sovereigns is to become the legatee. The safe containing the property is not to be opened till the three claimants are present; the competition is then to take place, and the winner is at once to remove his fortune.
Considerable excitement has been manifested over the affair, the amount of the fortune being unknown. The date of the competition is also kept a close secret for obvious reasons.
“Well,” I said, laying the paper down, “whoever this Mr. Bovey was, there is little doubt that he must have been out of his mind. I never heard of a more crazy idea.”
“Nevertheless it is to be carried out,” replied Miss Cusack. “Now listen, please, Mr. Lonsdale. This paper is a fortnight old. It is now three weeks since the death of Mr. Bovey, his will has been proved, and the time has come for the carrying out of the competition. I happen to know two of the claimants well, and intend to be present at the ceremony.”
I did not make any answer, and after a pause she continuedâ“One of the gentlemen who is to be weighed against his own fortune is Edgar Wimburne. He is engaged to my cousin Letitia. If he turns out to be the successful claimant there is nothing to prevent their marrying at once; if otherwiseâ” here she turned and looked full at Miss Ransom, who stood up, the colour coming and going in her cheeksâ“if otherwise, Mr. Campbell Graham has to be dealt with.”
“Who is he?” I asked.
“Another claimant, a much older man than Edgar. Nay, I must tell you everything. He is a claimant in a double sense, being also a lover, and a very ardent one, of Letitia's.
“Letty must be saved,” she said, looking at me, “and I believe I know how to do it.”
“You spoke of three claimants,” I interrupted; “who is the third?”
“Oh, he scarcely counts, unless indeed he carries off the prize. He is William Tyndall, Mr. Bovey's servant and retainer.”
“And when, may I ask, is this momentous competition to take place?” I continued.
“To-morrow morning at half-past nine, at Mr. Bovey's house. Will you come with us to-morrow, Dr. Lonsdale, and be present at the weighing?”
“I certainly will,” I answered, “it will be a novel experience.”
“Very well; can you be at this house a little before half-past eight, and we will drive straight to Kew?”
I promised to do so, and soon after took my leave. The next day I was at Miss Cusack's house in good time. I found waiting for me Miss Cusack herself, Miss Ransom, and Edgar Wimburne.
A moment or two later we all found ourselves seated in a large landau, and in less than an hour had reached our destination. We drew up at a small dilapidated-looking house, standing in a row of prim suburban villas, and found that Mr. Graham, the lawyer, and the executors had already arrived.
The room into which we had been ushered was fitted up as a sort of study. The furniture was very poor and scanty, the carpet was old, and the only ornaments on the walls were a few tattered prints yellow with age.
As soon as ever we came in, Mr. Southby, the lawyer, came forward and spoke.
“We are met here to-day,” he said, “as you are all of course aware, to carry out the clause of Mr. Bovey's last will and testament. What reasons prompted him to make these extraordinary conditions we do not know; we only know that we are bound to carry them out. In a safe in his bedroom there is, according to his own statement, a large sum of money in gold, which is to be the property of the one of these three gentlemen whose weight shall nearest approach to the weight of the gold. Messrs. Hutchinson and Co. have been kind enough to supply one of their latest weighing machines, which has been carefully checked, and now if you three gentlemen will kindly come with me into the next room we will begin the business at once. Perhaps you, Dr. Lonsdale, as a medical man, will be kind enough to accompany us.”
Leaving Miss Cusack and Miss Ransom we then went into the old man's bedroom, where the three claimants undressed and were carefully weighed. I append their respective weights, which I noted down:â
Grahamâ13 stone 9 lbs. 6 oz.
Tyndallâ11 stone 6 lbs. 3 oz.
Wimburneâ12 stone 11 lbs.
Having resumed their attire, Miss Cusack and Miss Random were summoned, and the lawyer, drawing out a bunch of keys, went across to a large iron safe which had been built into the wall.
We all pressed round him, every one anxious to get the first glimpse of the old man's hoard. The lawyer turned the key, shot back the lock, and flung open the heavy doors. We found that the safe was literally packed with small canvas bagsâindeed, so full was it that as the doors swung open two of the bags fell to the floor with a heavy crunching noise. Mr. Southby lifted them up, and then cutting the strings of one, opened it. It was full of bright sovereigns.
An exclamation burst from us all. If all those bags contained gold there was a fine fortune awaiting the successful candidate! The business was now begun in earnest. The lawyer rapidly extracted bag after bag, untied the string, and shot the contents with a crash into the great copper scale pan, while the attendant kept adding weights to the other side to balance it, calling out the amounts as he did so. No one spoke, but our eyes were fixed as if by some strange fascination on the pile of yellow metal that rose higher and higher each moment.
As the weight reached one hundred and fifty pounds, I heard the old servant behind me utter a smothered oath. I turned and glanced at him; he was staring at the gold with a fierce expression of disappointment and avarice. He at any rate was out of the reckoning, as at eleven stone six, or one hundred and sixty pounds, he could be nowhere near the weight of the sovereigns, there being still eight more bags to untie.
The competition, therefore, now lay between Wimburne and Graham. The latter's face bore strong marks of the agitation which consumed him: the veins stood out like cords on his forehead, and his lips trembled. It would evidently be a near thing, and the suspense was almost intolerable. The lawyer continued to deliberately add to the pile. As the last bag was shot into the scale, the attendant put four ten-pound weights into the other side. It was too much. The gold rose at once. He took one off, and then the two great pans swayed slowly up and down, finally coming to a dead stop.
