The Vanishing Man - R. Austin Freeman
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THE VANISHING MAN
A Detective Romance
BY R. AUSTIN FREEMAN
1911
TO MY FRIEND
A.E.B.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I THE VANISHING MAN
II THE EAVESDROPPER
III JOHN THORNDYKE
IV LEGAL COMPLICATIONS AND A JACKAL
V THE WATERCRESS-BED
VI SIDELIGHTS
VII JOHN BELLINGHAM'S WILL
VIII A MUSEUM IDYLL
IX THE SPHINX OF LINCOLN'S INN
X THE NEW ALLIANCE
XI THE EVIDENCE REVIEWED
XII A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY
XIII THE CROWNER'S QUEST
XIV WHICH CARRIES THE READER INTO THE
PROBATE COURT
XV CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE
XVI "O! ARTEMIDORUS, FAREWELL!"
XVII THE ACCUSING FINGER
XVIII JOHN BELLINGHAM
XIX A STRANGE SYMPOSIUM
XX THE END OF THE CASE
CHAPTER I
THE VANISHING MAN
The school of St. Margaret's Hospital was fortunate in its lecturer on
Medical Jurisprudence, or Forensic Medicine, as it is sometimes
described. At some schools the lecturer on this subject is appointed
apparently for the reason that he lacks the qualifications to lecture on
any other. But with us it was very different: John Thorndyke was not
only an enthusiast, a man of profound learning and great reputation, but
he was an exceptional teacher, lively and fascinating in style and of
endless resources. Every remarkable case that had ever been recorded he
appeared to have at his fingers' ends; every fact--chemical, physical,
biological, or even historical--that could in any way be twisted into a
medico-legal significance, was pressed into his service; and his own
varied and curious experiences seemed as inexhaustible as the widow's
cruse. One of his favourite devices for giving life and interest to a
rather dry subject was that of analysing and commenting upon
contemporary cases as reported in the papers (always, of course, with a
due regard to the legal and social proprieties); and it was in this way
that I first became introduced to the astonishing series of events that
was destined to exercise so great an influence on my own life.
The lecture which had just been concluded had dealt with the rather
unsatisfactory subject of survivorship. Most of the students had left
the theatre, and the remainder had gathered round the lecturer's table
to listen to the informal comments that Dr. Thorndyke was wont to
deliver on these occasions in an easy, conversational manner, leaning
against the edge of the table and apparently addressing his remarks to a
stick of blackboard chalk that he held in his fingers.
"The problem of survivorship," he was saying, in reply to a question put
by one of the students, "ordinarily occurs in cases where the bodies of
the parties are producible, or where, at any rate, the occurrence of
death and its approximate time are actually known. But an analogous
difficulty may arise in a case where the body of one of the parties is
not forthcoming, and the fact of death may have to be assumed on
collateral evidence.
"Here, of course, the vital question to be settled is, what is the
latest instant at which it is certain that this person was alive? And
the settlement of that question may turn on some circumstance of the
most trivial and insignificant kind. There is a case in this morning's
paper which illustrates this. A gentleman has disappeared rather
mysteriously. He was last seen by the servant of a relative at whose
house he had called. Now, if this gentleman should never reappear, dead
or alive, the question as to what was the latest moment at which he was
certainly alive will turn upon the further question: 'Was he or was he
not wearing a particular article of jewellery when he called at that
relative's house?'"
He paused with a reflective eye bent upon the stump of chalk that he
still held; then, noting the expectant interest with which we were
regarding him, he resumed:
"The circumstances in this case are very curious; in fact, they are
highly mysterious; and if any legal issues should arise in respect of
them, they are likely to yield some very remarkable complications. The
gentleman who has disappeared, Mr. John Bellingham, is a man well known
in archaeological circles. He recently returned from Egypt, bringing
with him a very fine collection of antiquities--some of which, by the
way, he has presented to the British Museum, where they are now on
view--and having made this presentation, he appears to have gone to
Paris on business. I may mention that the gift consisted of a very fine
mummy and a complete set of tomb-furniture. The latter, however, had not
arrived from Egypt at the time when the missing man left for Paris, but
the mummy was inspected on the fourteenth of October at Mr. Bellingham's
house by Dr. Norbury of the British Museum, in the presence of the donor
and his solicitor, and the latter was authorised to hand over the
complete collection to the British Museum authorities when the
tomb-furniture arrived; which he has since done.
"From Paris he seems to have returned on the twenty-third of November,
and to have gone direct from Charing Cross to the house of a relative, a
Mr. Hurst, who is a bachelor and lives at Eltham. He appeared at the
house at twenty minutes past five, and as Mr. Hurst had not yet come
down from town and was not expected until a quarter to six, he explained
who he was and said he would wait in the study and write some letters.
The housemaid accordingly showed him into the study, furnished him with
writing materials, and left him.
"At a quarter to six Mr. Hurst let himself in with his latchkey, and
before the housemaid had time to speak to him he had passed through into
the study and shut the door.
"At six o'clock, when the dinner bell was rung, Mr. Hurst entered the
dining-room alone, and, observing that the table was laid for two, asked
the reason.
"'I thought Mr. Bellingham was slaying to dinner, sir,' was The
housemaid's reply.
"'Mr. Bellingham!' exclaimed the astonished host. 'I didn't know he was
here. Why was I not told?'
"'I thought he was in the study with you, sir,' said the housemaid.
"On this a search was made for the visitor, with the result that he was
nowhere to be found. He had disappeared without leaving a trace, and
what made the incident more odd was that the housemaid was certain that
he had not gone out by the front door. For since neither she nor the
cook was acquainted with Mr. John Bellingham, she had remained the whole
time either in the kitchen, which commanded a view of the front gate, or
in the dining-room, which opened into the hall opposite the study door.
The study itself has a French window opening on a narrow grass plot,
across which is a side gate that opens into an alley; and it appears
that Mr. Bellingham must have made his exit by this rather eccentric
route. At any rate--and this is the important fact--he was not in the
house, and no one had seen him leave it.
"After a hasty meal Mr. Hurst returned to town and called at the office
of Mr. Bellingham's solicitor and confidential agent, a Mr. Jellicoe,
and mentioned the matter to him. Mr. Jellicoe knew nothing of his
client's return from Paris, and the two men at once took the train down
to Woodford, where the missing man's brother, Mr. Godfrey Bellingham,
lives. The servant who admitted them said that Mr. Godfrey was not at
home, but that his daughter was in the library, which is a detached
building situated in a shrubbery beyond the garden at the back of the
house. Here the two men found, not only Miss Bellingham, but also her
father, who had come in by the back gate.
"Mr. Godfrey and his daughter listened to Mr. Hurst's story with the
greatest surprise, and assured him that they had neither seen nor heard
anything of John Bellingham.
"Presently the party left the library to walk up to the house; but only
a few feet from the library door Mr. Jellicoe noticed an object lying in
the grass and pointed it out to Mr. Godfrey.
"The latter picked it up, and they all recognised it as a scarab which
Mr. John Bellingham had been accustomed to wear suspended from his
watch-chain. There was no mistaking it. It was a very fine scarab of the
eighteenth dynasty fashioned of lapis lazuli and engraved with the
cartouche of Amenhotep III. It had been suspended by a gold ring
fastened to a wire which passed through the suspension hole, and the
ring, though broken, was still in position.
"This discovery, of course, only added to the mystery, which was still
further increased when, on inquiry, a suit-case bearing the initials
J.B. was found to be lying unclaimed in the cloak-room at Charing Cross.
Reference to the counterfoil of the ticket-book showed that it had been
deposited about the time of arrival of the Continental express on the
twenty-third of November, so that its owner must have gone straight on
to Eltham.
"That is how the affair stands at present, and, should the missing man
never reappear or should his body never be found, the question, as you
see, which will be required to be settled is, 'What is the exact time
and place, when and where, he was last known to be alive?' As to the
place, the importance of the issues involved in that question are
obvious and we need not consider them. But the question of time has
another kind of significance. Cases have occurred, as I pointed out in
the lecture, in which proof of survivorship by less than a minute has
secured succession to property. Now, the missing man was last seen alive
at Mr. Hurst's house at twenty minutes past five on the twenty-third of
November. But he appears to have visited his brother's house at
Woodford, and, since nobody saw him at that house, it is at present
uncertain whether he went there before or after calling on Mr. Hurst. If
he went there first, then twenty minutes past five on the evening of the
twenty-third is the latest moment at which he is known to have been
alive; but if he went there after, there would have to be added to this
time the shortest possible time in which he could travel from the one
house to the other.
"But the question as to which house he visited first hinges on the
scarab. If he was wearing the scarab when he arrived at Mr. Hurst's
house, it would be certain that he went there first; but if it was not
then on his watch-chain, a probability would be established that he
went first to Woodford. Thus, you see, a question which may conceivably
become of the most vital moment in determining the succession of
property turns on the observation or non-observation by this housemaid
of an apparently trivial and insignificant fact."
"Has the servant made any statement on the subject, sir?" I ventured to
inquire.
"Apparently not," replied Dr. Thorndyke; "at any rate, there is no
reference to any such statement in the newspaper report, though,
otherwise, the case is reported in great detail; indeed, the wealth of
detail, including plans of the two houses, is quite remarkable and well
worth noting as being in itself a fact of considerable interest."
"In what respect, sir, is it of interest?" one of the students asked.
"Ah!" replied Dr. Thorndyke, "I think I must leave you to consider that
question yourself. This is an untried case, and we mustn't make free
with the actions and motives of individuals."
"Does the paper give any description of the missing man, sir?" I asked.
"Yes; quite an exhaustive description. Indeed, it is exhaustive to the
verge of impropriety, considering that the man may possibly turn up
alive and well at any moment. It seems that he has an old Pott's
fracture of the left ankle, a linear, longitudinal scar on each
knee--origin not stated, but easily guessed at--and that he has tattooed
on his chest in vermilion a very finely and distinctly executed
representation of the symbolical Eye of Osiris--or Horus or Ra, as the
different authorities have it. There certainly ought to be no
difficulty in identifying the body. But we will hope that it won't come
to that.
"And now I must really be running away, and so must you; but I would
advise you all to get copies of the paper and file them when you have
read the remarkably full details. It is a most curious case, and it is
highly probable that we shall hear of it again. Good afternoon,
gentlemen."
Dr. Thorndyke's advice appealed to all who heard it, for medical
jurisprudence was a live subject at St. Margaret's and all of us were
keenly interested in it. As a result, we sallied forth in a body to the
nearest newsvendor's, and, having each provided himself with a copy of
the _Daily Telegraph_, adjourned together to the Common Room to devour
the report and thereafter to discuss the bearings of the case,
unhampered by those considerations of delicacy that afflicted our more
squeamish and scrupulous teacher.
CHAPTER II
THE EAVESDROPPER
It is one of the canons of correct conduct, scrupulously adhered to
(when convenient) by all well-bred persons, that an acquaintance should
be initiated by a proper introduction. To this salutary rule, which I
have disregarded to the extent of an entire chapter, I now hasten to
conform; and the more so inasmuch as nearly two years have passed since
my first informal appearance.
Permit me, then, to introduce Paul Berkeley, M.B., etc., recently--very
recently--qualified, faultlessly attired in the professional frock-coat
and tall hat, and, at the moment of introduction, navigating with
anxious care a perilous strait between a row of well-filled coal-sacks
and a colossal tray piled high with kidney potatoes.
The passage of this strait landed me on the terra firma of Fleur-de-Lys
Court, where I halted for a moment to consult my visiting list. There
was only one more patient for me to see this morning, and he lived at 49
Nevill's Court, wherever that might be. I turned for information to the
presiding deity of the coal shop.
"Can you direct me, Mrs. Jablett, to Nevill's Court?"
She could and she did, grasping me confidentially by the arm (the mark
remained on my sleeve for weeks) and pointing a shaking forefinger at
the dead wall ahead. "Nevill's Court," said Mrs. Jablett, "is a alley,
and you goes into it through a archway. It turns out of Fetter Lane on
the right 'and as you goes up, oppersight Bream's Buildings."
I thanked Mrs. Jablett and went on my way, glad that the morning round
was nearly finished, and vaguely conscious of a growing appetite and of
a desire to wash in hot water.
The practice which I was conducting was not my own. It belonged to poor
Dick Barnard, an old St. Margaret's man of irrepressible spirits and
indifferent physique, who had started only the day before for a trip
down the Mediterranean on board a tramp engaged in the currant trade;
and this, my second morning's round, was in some sort a voyage of
geographical discovery.
I walked on briskly up Fetter Lane until a narrow, arched opening,
bearing the superscription "Nevill's Court," arrested my steps, and here
I turned to encounter one of those surprises that lie in wait for the
wanderer in London byways. Expecting to find the grey squalor of the
ordinary London court, I looked out from under the shadow of the arch
past a row of decent little shops through a vista full of light and
colour--a vista of ancient, warm-toned roofs and walls relieved by
sunlit foliage. In the heart of London a tree is always a delightful
surprise; but here were not only trees, but bushes and even flowers. The
narrow footway was bordered by little gardens, which, with their wooden
palings and well-kept shrubs, gave to the place an air of quaint and
sober rusticity; and even as I entered a bevy of work-girls, with
gaily-coloured blouses and hair aflame in the sunlight, brightened up
the quiet background like the wild flowers that spangle a summer
hedgerow.
In one of the gardens I noticed that the little paths were paved with
what looked like circular tiles, but which, on inspection, I found to be
old-fashioned stone ink-bottles, buried bottom upwards; and I was
meditating upon the quaint conceit of the forgotten scrivener who had
thus adorned his habitation--a law-writer perhaps, or an author, or
perchance even a poet--when I perceived the number that I was seeking
inscribed on a shabby door in a high wall. There was no bell or knocker,
so, lifting the latch, I pushed the door open and entered.
But if the court itself had been a surprise, this was a positive wonder,
a dream. Here, within earshot of the rumble of Fleet Street, I was in an
old-fashioned garden enclosed by high walls and, now that the gate was
shut, cut off from all sight and knowledge of the urban world that
seethed without. I stood and gazed in delighted astonishment. Sun-gilded
trees and flower-beds gay with blossom; lupins, snap-dragons,
nasturtiums, spiry foxgloves, and mighty hollyhocks formed the
foreground; over which a pair of sulphur-tinted butterflies flitted,
unmindful of a buxom and miraculously clean white cat which pursued
them, dancing across the borders and clapping her snowy paws fruitlessly
in mid-air. And the background was no less wonderful: a grand old house,
dark-eaved and venerable, that must have looked down on this garden when
ruffled dandies were borne in sedan chairs through the court, and gentle
Izaak Walton, stealing forth from his shop in Fleet Street, strolled up
Fetter Lane to "go a-angling" at Temple Mills.
So overpowered was I by this unexpected vision that my hand was on the
bottom knob of a row of bell-pulls before I recollected myself; and it
was not until a most infernal jangling from within recalled me to my
business that I observed underneath it a small brass plate inscribed
"Miss Oman."
The door opened with some suddenness, and a short, middle-aged woman
surveyed me hungrily.
"Have I rung the wrong bell?" I asked--foolishly enough, I must admit.
"How can I tell?" she demanded. "I expect you have. It's the sort of
thing a man would do--ring the wrong bell and then say he's sorry."
"I didn't go as far as that," I retorted. "It seems to have had the
desired effect, and I've made your acquaintance into the bargain."
"Whom do you want to see?" she asked.
"Mr. Bellingham."
"Are you the doctor?"
"I am _a_ doctor."
"Follow me upstairs," said Miss Oman, "and don't tread on the paint."
I crossed the spacious hall, and, preceded by my conductress, ascended a
noble oak staircase, treading carefully on a ribbon of matting that ran
up the middle. On the first-floor landing Miss Oman opened a door and,
pointing to the room, said: "Go in there and wait; I'll tell her you're
here."
"I said _Mr_. Bellingham--" I began; but the door slammed on me, and
Miss Oman's footsteps retreated rapidly down the stairs.
It was at once obvious to me that I was in a very awkward position. The
room into which I had been shown communicated with another, and though
the door of communication was shut, I was unpleasantly aware of a
conversation that was taking place in the adjoining room. At first,
indeed, only a vague mutter, with a few disjointed phrases, came through
the door, but suddenly an angry voice rang out clear and painfully
distinct:
"Yes, I did! And I say it again. Bribery! Collusion! That's what it
amounts to. You want to square me!"
"Nothing of the kind, Godfrey," was the reply in a lower tone; but at
this point I coughed emphatically and moved a chair, and the voices
subsided once more into an indistinct murmur.
To distract my attention from my unseen neighbours I glanced curiously
about the room and speculated upon the personalities of its occupants. A
very curious room it was, with its pathetic suggestion of decayed
splendour and old-world dignity: a room full of interest and character
and of contrasts and perplexing contradictions. For the most part it
spoke of unmistakable though decent poverty. It was nearly bare of
furniture, and what little there was was of the cheapest--a small
kitchen table and three Windsor chairs (two of them with arms); a
threadbare string carpet on the floor, and a cheap cotton cloth on the
table; these, with a set of bookshelves, frankly constructed of grocer's
boxes, formed the entire suite. And yet, despite its poverty, the place
exhaled an air of homely if rather ascetic comfort, and the taste was
irreproachable. The quiet russet of the tablecloth struck a pleasant
harmony with the subdued bluish green of the worn carpet; the Windsor
chairs and the legs of the table had been carefully denuded of their
glaring varnish and stained a sober brown; and the austerity of the
whole was relieved by a ginger-jar filled with fresh-cut flowers and set
in the middle of the table.
But the contrasts of which I have spoken were most singular and
puzzling. There were the bookshelves, for instance, home-made and
stained at the cost of a few pence, but filled with recent and costly
works on archaeology and ancient art. There were the objects on the
mantelpiece: a facsimile in bronze--not bronzed plaster--of the
beautiful head of Hypnos and a pair of fine Ushabti figures. There were
the decorations of the walls, a number of etchings--signed proofs, every
one of them--of Oriental subjects, and a splendid facsimile reproduction
of an Egyptian papyrus. It was incongruous in the extreme, this mingling
of costly refinements with the barest and shabbiest necessaries of life,
of fastidious culture with manifest poverty. I could make nothing of it.
What manner of man, I wondered, was this new patient of mine? Was he a
miser, hiding himself and his wealth in this obscure court? An eccentric
savant? A philosopher? Or--more probably--a crank? But at this point my
meditations were interrupted by the voice from the adjoining room, once
more raised in anger.
"But I say that you _are_ making an accusation! You are implying that I
made away with him."
"Not at all," was the reply; "but I repeat that it is your business to
ascertain what has become of him. The responsibility rests upon you."
"Upon me!" rejoined the first voice. "And what about you? Your position
is a pretty fishy one if it comes to that."
"What!" roared the other. "Do you insinuate that I murdered my own
brother?"
During this amazing colloquy I had stood gaping with sheer astonishment.
Suddenly I recollected myself, and, dropping into a chair, set my elbows
on my knees and slapped my hands over my ears; and thus I must have
remained for a full minute when I became aware of the closing of a door
behind me.
I sprang to my feet and turned in some embarrassment (for I must have
looked unspeakably ridiculous) to confront the sombre figure of a rather
tall and strikingly handsome girl, who, as she stood with her hand on
the knob of the door, saluted me with a formal bow. In an instantaneous
glance I noted how perfectly she matched her strange surroundings.
Black-robed, black-haired, with black-grey eyes and a grave, sad face of
ivory pallor, she stood, like one of old Terborch's portraits, a harmony
in tones so low as to be but a step removed from monochrome. Obviously a
lady in spite of the worn and rusty dress, and something in the poise of
the head and the set of the straight brows hinted at a spirit that
adversity had hardened rather than broken.
"I must ask you to forgive me for keeping you waiting," she said; and as
she spoke a certain softening at the corners of the austere mouth
reminded me of the absurd position in which she had found me.
I murmured that the trifling delay was of no consequence whatever; that
I had, in fact, been rather glad of the rest; and I was beginning
somewhat vaguely to approach the subject of the invalid when the voice
from the adjoining room again broke forth with hideous distinctness.
"I tell you I'll do nothing of the kind! Why, confound you, it's
nothing less than a conspiracy that you're proposing!"
Miss Bellingham--as I assumed her to be--stepped quickly across the
floor, flushing angrily, as well she might; but, as she reached the
door, it flew open and a small, spruce, middle-aged man burst into the
room.
"Your father is mad, Ruth!" he exclaimed; "absolutely stark mad! And I
refuse to hold any further communication with him."
"The present interview was not of his seeking," Miss Bellingham replied
coldly.
"No, it was not," was the wrathful rejoinder; "it was my mistaken
generosity. But there--what is the use of talking? I've done my best for
you and I'll do no more. Don't trouble to let me out; I can find my way.
Good morning." With a stiff bow and a quick glance at me, the speaker
strode out of the room, banging the door after him.
"I must apologise for this extraordinary reception," said Miss
Bellingham; "but I believe medical men are not easily astonished. I will
introduce you to your patient now." She opened the door and, as I
followed her into the adjoining room, she said: "Here is another visitor
for you, dear. Doctor--"
"Berkeley," said I. "I am acting for my friend Doctor Barnard."
The invalid, a fine-looking man of about fifty-five, who sat propped up
in bed with a pile of pillows, held out an excessively shaky hand, which
I grasped cordially, making a mental note of the tremor.
"How do you do, sir?" said Mr. Bellingham. "I hope Doctor Barnard is not
ill."