The Victorian Mystery Megapack (63 page)

“We would like to be alone here until we reach Brewster.”

“I’ll see to that, sir,” answered the guard, locking the door.

When the official moved away, I asked my friend what he expected to find in the carriage that would cast any light on the case.

“Nothing,” was his brief reply.

“Then why do you come?”

“Merely to corroborate the conclusions I have already arrived at.”

“And may I ask what those conclusions are?”

“Certainly,” replied the detective, with a touch of lassitude in his voice. “I beg to call your attention, first, to the fact that this train stands between two platforms, and can be entered from either side. Any man familiar with the station for years would be aware of that fact. This shows how Mr. Kipson entered the train just before it started.”

“But the door on this side is locked,” I objected, trying it.

“Of course. But every season ticket-holder carries a key. This accounts for the guard not seeing him, and for the absence of a ticket. Now let me give you some information about the influenza. The patient’s temperature rises several degrees above normal, and he has a fever. When the malady has run its course, the temperature falls to three-quarters of a degree below normal. These facts are unknown to you, I imagine, because you are a doctor.”

I admitted such was the case.

“Well, the consequence of this fall in temperature is that the convalescent’s mind turns toward thoughts of suicide. Then is the time he should be watched by his friends. Then was the time Mr. Barrie Kipson’s friends did not watch him. You remember the 21st, of course. No? It was a most depressing day. Fog all around and mud under foot. Very good. He resolves on suicide. He wishes to be unidentified, if possible but forgets his season ticket. My experience is that a man about to commit a crime always forgets something.”

“But how do you account for the disappearance of the money?”

“The money has nothing to do with the matter. If he was a deep man, and knew the stupidness of Scotland Yard, he probably sent the notes to an enemy. If not, they may have been given to a friend. Nothing is more calculated to prepare the mind for self-destruction than the prospect of a night ride on the Scotch Express, and the view from the windows of the train as it passes through the northern part of London is particularly conducive to thoughts of annihilation.”

“What became of the weapon?”

“That is just the point on which I wish to satisfy myself. Excuse me for a moment.”

Mr. Sherlaw Kombs drew down the window on the right hand side, and examined the top of the casing minutely with a magnifying glass. Presently he heaved a sigh of relief, and drew up the sash.

“Just as I expected,” he remarked, speaking more to himself than to me. “There is a slight dent on the top of the window-frame. It is of such a nature as to be made only by the trigger of a pistol falling from the nerveless hand of a suicide. He intended to throw the weapon far out of the window, but had not the strength. It might have fallen into the carriage. As a matter of fact, it bounced away from the line and lies among the grass about ten feet six inches from the outside rail. The only question that now remains is where the deed was committed, and the exact present position of the pistol reckoned in miles from London, but that, fortunately, is too simple to even need explanation.”

“Great heavens, Sherlaw!” I cried. “How can you call that simple? It seems to me impossible to compute.”

We were now flying over Northern London, and the great detective leaned back with every sign of ennui, closing his eyes. At last he spoke wearily:

“It is really too elementary, Whatson, but I am always willing to oblige a friend. I shall be relieved, however, when you are able to work out the ABC of detection for yourself, although I shall never object to helping you with the words of more than three syllables. Having made up his mind to commit suicide, Kipson naturally intended to do it before he reached Brewster, because tickets are again examined at that point. When the train began to stop at the signal near Pegram, he came to the false conclusion that it was stopping at Brewster. The fact that the shot was not heard is accounted for by the screech of the air-brake, added to the noise of the train. Probably the whistle was also sounding at the same moment. The train being a fast express would stop as near the signal as possible. The air-brake will stop a train in twice its own length. Call it three times in this case. Very well. At three times the length of this train from the signalpost towards London, deducting half the length of the train, as this carriage is in the middle, you will find the pistol.”

“Wonderful!” I exclaimed.

“Commonplace,” he murmured.

At this moment the whistle sounded shrilly, and we felt the grind of the air-brakes.

“The Pegram signal again,” cried Kombs, with something almost like enthusiasm. “This is indeed luck. We will get out here, Whatson, and test the matter.”

As the train stopped, we got out on the right-hand side of the line. The engine stood panting impatiently under the red light, which changed to green as I looked at it. As the train moved on with increasing speed, the detective counted the carriages, and noted down the number. It was now dark, with the thin crescent of the moon hanging in the western sky throwing a weird half-light on the shining metals. The rear lamps of the train disappeared around a curve, and the signal stood at baleful red again. The black magic of the lonesome night in that strange place impressed me, but the detective was a most practical man. He placed his back against the signal-post, and paced up the line with even strides, counting his steps. I walked along the permanent way beside him silently. At last he stopped, and took a tape-line from his pocket. He ran it out until the ten feet six inches were unrolled, scanning the figures in the wan light of the new moon. Giving me the end, he placed his knuckles on the metals, motioning me to proceed down the embankment. I stretched out the line, and then sank my hand in the damp grass to mark the spot.

“Good God!” I cried, aghast, “what is this?”

“It is the pistol,” said Kombs quietly.

It was!

* * * *

Journalistic London will not soon forget the sensation that was caused by the record of the investigations of Sherlaw Kombs, as printed at length in the next day’s Evening Blade. Would that my story ended here. Alas! Kombs contemptuously turned over the pistol to Scotland Yard. The meddlesome officials, actuated, as I always hold, by jealousy, found the name of the seller upon it. They investigated. The seller testified that it had never been in the possession of Mr. Kipson, as far as he knew. It was sold to a man whose description tallied with that of a criminal long watched by the police. He was arrested, and turned Queen’s evidence in the hope of hanging his pal. It seemed that Mr. Kipson, who was a gloomy, taciturn man, and usually came home in a compartment by himself, thus escaping observation, had been murdered in the lane leading to his house. After robbing him, the miscreants turned their thoughts towards the disposal of the body—a subject that always occupies a first-class criminal mind before the deed is done. They agreed to place it on the line, and have it mangled by the Scotch Express, then nearly due. Before they got the body half-way up the embankment the express came along and stopped. The guard got out and walked along the other side to speak with the engineer. The thought of putting the body into an empty first-class carriage instantly occurred to the murderers. They opened the door with the deceased’s key. It is supposed that the pistol dropped when they were hoisting the body in the carriage.

The Queen’s evidence dodge didn’t work, and Scotland Yard ignobly insulted my friend Sherlaw Kombs by sending him a pass to see the villains hanged.

THE CASE OF ROGER CARBOYNE, by H. Greenhough Smith

(
The Strand Magazine
4 (Sep 1892)
1892)

The mysterious and extraordinary circumstances surrounding the death of Mr. Roger Carboyne have excited so much interest that it is not surprising that the room in The Three Crows Inn, which had been set apart for the inquest, was crowded at an early hour. The evidence was expected to be sensational—and most sensational, indeed, it proved to be. But for the even more remarkable dénouement of the case it is impossible that any person present could have been prepared.

The jury having returned from viewing the body, and the Coroner having taken his seat, the Court immediately proceeded to call witnesses.

Mr. Lewis George Staymer, the dead man’s friend and companion, whose name had been in everybody’s mouth during the last three days, was of course the first to be examined, and his appearance obviously excited the strongest curiosity. He is a young man of twenty-five, tall, dark, and wearing a slight black moustache. His marked air of self-possession and his quiet and direct mode of giving his evidence were manifestly those of a man who had no other motive than to relate the facts exactly as they happened. His testimony, which it will be seen confirmed in every respect the extraordinary rumours with which the public are familiar, was as follows:

“My name is Lewis George Staymer. I am a medical student, studying at London University and at Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital. Mr. Carboyne was a fellow student with me; he was two years older than myself, and we were fast friends, attending the same lectures, and generally spending our vacations together. Ten days ago we arranged to spend our Easter holidays on a riding tour on ponies through North Wales. We started on March 15th, and carried out our programme, day by day, until the 21st—last Friday. On the afternoon of that day we mounted our ponies at the door of the inn where we had stopped for lunch, The Golden Harp at Llanmawr, and rode forward on our way; it was then about half-past two. The weather was fine, but very cold for the time of year, and the ground was whitened by a light fall of snow. It must have been nearly five o’clock when a slight accident to one of my stirrup-leathers forced me to dis-mount. I called to my companion to ride on, and that I would overtake him immediately, and he did so. The road at that point runs along the mountainside, between a lofty cliff upon the left and a precipitous descent upon the right—but the path is broad and smooth, being, I should say, from ten to fifteen yards wide, and in no way dangerous. About fifty or sixty yards from the spot where I dis-mounted, the path turned at a sharp angle round a point of rock and became lost to sight. I happened to look up, while still engaged upon the stirrup leather, and I saw my friend disappear round the angle of the road. As soon as I had finished my work, which took me somewhat longer than I had expected, I re-mounted, and was about to follow him when I was startled to hear his voice cry out for help. It was a shriek—a single ringing scream—uttered as if in extremity of agony or terror. I galloped forward, and on reaching the angle of the road I was surprised to see his pony standing in the roadway, some sixty yards ahead, with the saddle empty. The rider was nowhere to be seen.”

“What time had elapsed since he left you?”

“I should say about four or five minutes—possibly six—but not more than that, I feel sure.”

“What did you do next?”

“I rode forward, calling his name loudly, and casting my eyes in all directions; but I could see no trace of him, nor of any living creature. The cliff, which at that point formed a deep bay, round which the roadway ran to the corresponding angle at the other extremity of the arc, was as steep and naked as a wall; on the other hand was the precipice. When I reached the spot at which the pony stood, I perceived that it was trembling, as if strongly startled; it made no effort to escape. One of the stirrups was lying across the saddle; the other was hanging in the usual position. I saw nothing else unusual about the pony, but on casting my eyes upon the snowy roadway I perceived marks as if a struggle had taken place there.”

“What was the position of these marks?”

“They were in front of the pony, on the forward track, and appeared as if some heavy body had been dragged for a distance of eight or ten yards. Then the marks ceased abruptly; the snow all round was absolutely undisturbed.”

“There were no footprints?”

“None whatever, except those of our two ponies on the way by which we had come. The road in front was a white sheet—it was clear that no one could have passed that way since the snow fell.”

“Did the marks extend to the edge of the precipice?”

“Oh, no; they did not stretch in that direction at all. The snow between them and the verge of the precipice was absolutely smooth and unbroken.”

“Did you approach the verge?”

“Yes; I did. I looked over and saw something white fluttering on the branches of a tree which sprouted from a crevice a few yards below. It was Mr. Carboyne’s handkerchief; I knew it by the peculiar coloured border. I had seen him use it that morning. I could not discern the bottom of the chasm, which was hidden by the branches of the trees growing at the base. The fall was almost sheer and quite impossible to descend. I was greatly agitated, and for some moments was at a loss what to do. I believed my friend lay at the foot of the precipice, but could form no conjecture as to how he could have got there.”

“Describe your course of action.”

“I returned to the ponies, with the purpose of riding with all speed to find the nearest point of descent, and was in the act of mounting when I saw two men on foot approaching from the angle of the road behind me. They were two working men, and are now in court.”