“Very well!” the coroner agreed good-humouredly, “call it what you like. Perhaps we may refer to it as the remains.”

  “Ye may,” replied the witness, “and mighty small remains, by the same token. But such as they are, I have examined them with the greatest care.”

  “And did your examination enable you to form any opinion as to the cause of death?”

  “It did not.”

  “Did you find any injuries or signs of violence?”

  “I did not.”

  “Were any of the bones fractured or injured in any way?”

  “They were not.”

  “Can you give us no suggestion as to the probable cause of death?”

  “I would suggest, sir, that a twenty-foot drop into a gravel-pit is a mighty probable cause of death.”

  “No doubt,” said the coroner. “But that is hardly a matter of medical evidence.”

  “’Tis none the worse for that,” the witness replied cheerfully.

  “Can you say, definitely, that the deceased did not meet his death by any kind of homicidal violence?”

  “I can not. When a body is reduced to a skeleton, all traces of violence are lost so long as there has been no breaking of bones. He might have been strangled or smothered or stabbed or had his throat cut without leaving any marks on the skeleton. I can only say that I found no indications of any kind of homicidal violence or any violence whatsoever.”

  “The inspector has suggested that the deceased met his death by accident – that is by the effects of the fall, and that appears to be your opinion too. Now, if that were the case, what would probably be the immediate cause of death?”

  “There are several possible causes, but the most probable would be shock, contusion of the brain, or dislocation of the neck.”

  “Would any of those conditions leave recognizable traces?”

  “Contusion of the brain and dislocation of the neck could be recognized in the fresh body but not in a skeleton like this. Of course, if the dislocation were accompanied – as it very often is – by fracture of the little neck-bone known as the odontoid process of the axis, that could be seen in the skeleton. But there is no such fracture in the skeleton of the deceased. I looked for it particularly.”

  “Then we understand that you found nothing definite to indicate the cause of death?”

  “That is so, sir.”

  “Do you consider that the appearance of the body, in a medical sense, is consistent with a belief that the deceased was killed by the effects of the fall?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Then,” said the coroner, “that seems to be about all that we can say as to the cause of death. Do the jury wish to put any questions to the medical witness? If not, we need not detain the doctor any longer.”

  As Dr M’Alarney picked up an uncommonly smart hat and retired, the coroner glanced quickly over his notes and then proceeded to address the jury.

  “I need not occupy your time, gentlemen, with a long summing-up. You have heard the evidence and probably have already arrived at your conclusions. There are certain mysterious circumstances in the case, as, for instance, how the deceased came to be wandering about in the wood at night. But these questions do not concern us. We have to consider only how the deceased met his death, and as the doctor justly remarked, the fact that the body was found at the bottom of a gravel-pit, having evidently fallen some eighteen or twenty feet, offers a pretty obvious explanation. The only suspicious circumstance was that the deceased had clearly been robbed either before or after death. But you have heard the opinion of a very able and experienced police inspector, and the excellent reasons that he gave for that opinion. So I need say no more, but will now leave you to consider your verdict.”

  During the short interval occupied by the discussions of the jurymen among themselves, two members of the audience were engaged busily in reviewing the evidence in its relation to the almost inevitable verdict. To Thorndyke the proceedings offered an interesting study in the perverting effect upon the judgment of an unconscious bias, engendered by the suggestive power of a known set of circumstances. All the evidence that had been given was true. All the inferences from that evidence were sound and proper inferences, so far as they went. Yet the final conclusion which was going to be arrived at would be wildly erroneous, for the simple reason that all the parties to the inquiry had come to it already convinced as to the principal fact – the identity of the deceased person – which had accordingly been left unverified.

  As to Pottermack, his state of mind at the close of the inquiry was one of astonished relief. All through the proceedings he had sat in tremulous expectancy, with a furtive eye on the strange lawyer, wondering when that lawyer’s turn would come to give his evidence and what he would have to say. That the stranger had detected some part, at least, of the fraud he had at first little doubt, and he expected no less than to hear the identity of the body challenged. But, as the time ran on and witness after witness came forward guilelessly and disgorged the bait for the nourishment of the jury, his fears gradually subsided and his confidence began to revive. And now that the inquiry was really over and they had all gobbled the bait and got it comfortably into their gizzards; now that it was evident that this lawyer had nothing to say, after all, in spite of his preposterous porings over those admirable shoes, Mr Pottermack was disposed just a little to despise himself for having been so easily frightened. The “superiority complex” began to reassert itself. Here he sat, looking upon a thoroughly bamboozled assembly, including a most experienced police inspector, a coroner, a lawyer, and a doctor. He alone of all that assembly, indeed of the whole world, knew all about it.

  But perhaps his alarm had been excusable. We get into the habit of attaching too much importance to these lawyers and doctors. We credit them with knowing a great deal more than they do. But, at any rate, in this case it was all to the good. And as Mr Pottermack summed up in this satisfactory fashion, the foreman of the jury announced that the verdict had been agreed on.

  “And what is your finding, gentlemen, on the evidence that you have heard?” the coroner asked.

  “We find that the deceased, James Lewson, met his death on the night of the twenty-third of last July by falling into a gravel-pit in Potter’s Wood.”

  “Yes,” said the coroner. “That amounts to a verdict of Death by Misadventure. And a very proper verdict, too, in my opinion. I must thank you, gentlemen, for your attendance and for the careful consideration which you have given to this inquiry, and I may take this opportunity of telling you what I am sure you will be glad to hear, that the directors of Perkins’s Bank have generously undertaken to have the funeral conducted at their expense.”

  As the hall slowly emptied, Thorndyke lingered by the table to exchange a few rather colourless comments on the case with the coroner. At length, after a cordial handshake, he took his departure, and, joining the last stragglers, made his way slowly out of the main doorway, glancing among the dispersing crowd as he emerged; and presently his roving glance alighted on Mr Pottermack at the outskirts of the throng, loitering irresolutely as if undecided which way to go.

  The truth is that the elation at the triumphant success of his plan had begotten in that gentleman a spirit of mischief. Under the influence of the “superiority complex” he was possessed with a desire to exchange a few remarks with the strange lawyer; perhaps to “draw” him on the subject of the inquest; possibly even to “pull his leg” – not hard, of course, which would be a liberty, but just a gentle and discreet tweak. Accordingly he hovered about opposite the hall, waiting to see which way the lawyer should go; and as Thorndyke unostentatiously steered in his direction, the meeting came about quite naturally, just as the lawyer was turning – rather to Mr Pottermack’s surprise – away from the direction of the station.

  “I don’t suppose you remember me,” he began. But Thorndyke interrupted promptly: “Of course I remember you, Mr Pottermack, and am very pleased to meet you again.”

  Pottermack, considerably taken aback by the mention of his name, shook the proffered hand and cogitated rapidly. How the deuce did the fellow know that his name was Pottermack? He hadn’t told him.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I am very pleased, too, and rather surprised. But perhaps you are professionally interested in this inquiry.”

  “Not officially,” replied Thorndyke. “I saw a notice in the paper of what looked like an interesting case, and, being in the neighbourhood, I dropped in to see and hear what was going on.”

  “And did you find it an interesting case?” Pottermack asked.

  “Very. Didn’t you?”

  “Well,” replied Pottermack, “I didn’t bring an expert eye to it as you did, so I may have missed some of the points. But there did seem to be some rather queer features in it. I wonder which of them in particular you found so interesting?”

  This last question he threw out by way of a tentative preliminary to the process of “drawing” the lawyer, and he waited expectantly for the reply.

  Thorndyke reflected a few moments before answering it. At length he replied:

  “There was such a wealth of curious matter that I find it difficult to single out any one point in particular. The case interested me as a whole, and especially by reason of the singular parallelism that it presented to another most remarkable case which was related to me in great detail by a legal friend of mine, in whose practice it occurred.”

  “Indeed,” said Mr Pottermack, still intent on tractive operations; “and what were the special features in that case?”

  “There were many very curious features in that case,” Thorndyke replied in a reminiscent tone. “Perhaps the most remarkable was an ingenious fraud perpetrated by one of the parties, who dressed an Egyptian mummy in a recognizable suit of clothes and deposited it in a gravel-pit.”

  “Good gracious!” gasped Pottermack, and the “superiority complex” died a sudden death.

  “Yes,” Thorndyke continued with the same reminiscent air, observing that his companion was for the moment speechless, “it was a most singular case. My legal friend used to refer to it, in a whimsical fashion, as the case of the dead man who was alive and the live man who was dead.”

  “B-but,” Pottermack stammered, with chattering teeth, “that sounds like a c-contradiction.”

  “It does,” Thorndyke agreed, “and of course it is. What he actually meant was that it was a case of a living man who was believed to be dead, and a dead man who was believed to be alive – until the mummy came to light.”

  Pottermack made no rejoinder. He was still dumb with amazement and consternation. He had a confused feeling of unreality as if he were walking in a dream. With a queer sort of incredulous curiosity he looked up at the calm, inscrutable face of the tall stranger who walked by his side and asked himself who and what this man could be. Was he, in truth, a lawyer – or was he the Devil? Stranger as he certainly was, he had some intimate knowledge of his – Pottermack’s – most secret actions; knowledge which could surely be possessed by no mere mortal. It seemed beyond belief.

  With a violent effort he pulled himself together and made an attempt to continue the conversation. For it was borne in on him that he must, at all costs, find out what those cryptic phrases meant and how much this person – lawyer or devil – really knew. After all, he did not seem to be a malignant or hostile devil.

  “That must have been a most extraordinary case,” he observed at length. “I am – er – quite intrigued by what you have told me. Would it be possible or admissible for you to give me a few details?”

  “I don’t know why not,” said Thorndyke, “excepting that it is rather a long story, and I need not say highly confidential. But if you know of some place where we could discuss it in strict privacy, I should be pleased to tell you the story as it was told to me. I am sure it would interest you. But I make one stipulation.”

  “What is that?” Pottermack asked.

  “It is that you, too, shall search your memory, and if you can recall any analogous circumstances as having arisen within your experience or knowledge, you shall produce them so that we can make comparisons.”

  Pottermack reflected for a few moments, but only a few. For his native common sense told him that neither secrecy nor reservation was going to serve him.

  “Very well,” he said, “I agree; though until I have heard your story I cannot judge how far I shall be able to match it from my limited experience. But if you will come and take tea with me in my garden, where we shall be quite alone, I will do my best to set my memory to work when I have heard what you have to tell.”

  “Excellent,” said Thorndyke. “I accept your invitation with great pleasure. And I observe that some common impulse seems to have directed us towards your house, and even towards the very gate at which I had the good fortune to make your acquaintance.”

  In effect, as they had been talking, they had struck into the footpath and now approached the gate of the walled garden.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dr Thorndyke Relates a Queer Case

  Mr Pottermack inserted the small, thin key into the Yale lock of the gate and turned it while Thorndyke watched him with a faint smile.

  “Admirable things, these Yale locks,” the latter remarked as he followed his host in through the narrow gateway and cast a comprehensive glance round the walled garden, “so long as you don’t lose the key. It is a hopeless job trying to pick one.”

  “Did you ever try?” asked Pottermack.

  “Yes, and had to give it up. But I see you appreciate their virtues. That looks like one on the farther gate.”

  “It is,” Pottermack admitted. “I keep this part of the garden for my own sole use and I like to be secure from interruption.”

  “I sympathize with you,” said Thorndyke. “Security from interruption is always pleasant, and there are occasions when it is indispensable.”

  Pottermack looked at him quickly but did not pursue the topic.

  “If you will excuse me for a minute,” he said, “I will run and tell my housekeeper to get us some tea. You would rather have it out here than in the house, wouldn’t you?”

  “Much rather,” replied Thorndyke. “We wish to be private, and here we are with two good Yale locks to keep eavesdroppers at bay.”

  While his host was absent he paced slowly up and down the lawn, observing everything with keen interest but making no particular inspections. Above the yew hedge he could see the skylighted roof of what appeared to be a studio or workshop, and in the opposite corner of the garden a roomy, comfortable summer-house. From these objects he turned his attention to the sundial, looking it over critically and strolling round it to read the motto. He was thus engaged when his host returned with the news that tea was being prepared and would follow almost immediately.

  “I was admiring your sundial, Mr Pottermack,” said Thorndyke. “It is a great adornment to the garden and a singularly happy and appropriate one; for the flowers, like the dial, number only the sunny hours. And it will look still better when time has softened the contrast between the old pillar and the new base.”

  “Yes,” Pottermack agreed, a trifle uneasily, “the base will be all the better for a little weathering. How do you like the motto?”

  “Very much,” replied Thorndyke. “A pleasant, optimistic motto, and new to me. I don’t think I have ever met with it before. But it is a proper sundial motto: ‘Hope in the morning, Peace at eventide.’ Most of us have known the first and all of us look forward to the last. Should I be wrong if I were to assume that there is a well underneath?”

  “N-no,” stammered Pottermack, “you would not. It is an old well that had been disused and covered up. I discovered it by accident when I was levelling the ground for the sundial and very nearly fell into it. So I decided to put the sundial over it to prevent any accidents in the future. And mighty glad I was to see it safely covered up.”

  “You must have been,” said Thorndyke. “While it was uncovered it must have been a constant anxiety to you.”

  “It was,” Pottermack agreed, with a nervous glance at his guest.

  “That would be about the latter part of last July,” Thorndyke suggested with the air of one recalling a half-forgotten event; and Mr Pottermack breathlessly admitted that it probably was.

  Here they were interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Gadby, for whom the gate had been left open, followed by a young maid, both laden with the materials for tea on a scale suggestive of a Sunday School treat. The housekeeper glanced curiously at the tall, imposing stranger, wondering inwardly why he could not come to the dining-room like a Christian. In due course the load of provisions was transferred to the somewhat inadequate table in the summer-house and the two servants then retired, Mrs Gadby ostentatiously shutting the gate behind her. As its lock clicked, Mr Pottermack ushered his guest into the summer-house, offering him the chair once occupied by James Lewson and since studiously avoided by its owner.

  When the hospitable preliminaries had been disposed of and the tea poured out, Thorndyke opened the actual proceedings with only the briefest preamble.

  “I expect, Mr Pottermack, you are impatient to hear about that case which seemed to pique your curiosity so much, and as the shadow is creeping round your dial, we mustn’t waste time, especially as there is a good deal to tell. I will begin with an outline sketch of the case, in the form of a plain narrative, which will enable you to judge whether anything at all like it has ever come to your knowledge.

  “The story as told to me by my legal friend dealt with the histories of two men, whom we will call respectively Mr Black and Mr White. At the beginning of the story they appear to have been rather intimate friends, and both were employed at a bank, which we will call Alsop’s Bank. After they had been there some time – I don’t know exactly how long – a series of forgeries occurred, evidently committed by some member of the staff of the bank. I need not go into details. For our purpose the important fact is that suspicion fell upon Mr White. The evidence against him was striking, and, if genuine, convincing and conclusive. But to my friend it appeared decidedly unsatisfactory. He was strongly disposed to suspect that the crime was actually committed by Mr Black and that he fabricated the evidence against Mr White. But, however that may have been, the Court accepted the evidence. The jury found Mr White guilty and the judge sentenced him to five years’ penal servitude.