from fire as the back-bone, with the great dorsal muscles behind, and the whole mass of the viscera in front. Then look at the skull. Its appearance is quite inconsistent with the suggested facts. The bones of the face are bare and calcined and the orbits contain not a trace of the eyes or other structures; and yet there is a charred mass of what may or may not be scalp adhering to the crown. But the scalp, as the most exposed and the thinnest covering, would be the first to be destroyed, while the last to be consumed would be the structures about the jaws and the base, of which, you see, not a vestige is left.”
Here he lifted the skull carefully from the shell, and, peering in through the great foramen at the base, handed it to me.
“Look in,” he said, “through the Foramen Magnum—you will see better if you hold the orbits towards the skylight—and notice an even more extreme inconsistency with the supposed conditions. The brain and membranes have vanished without leaving a trace. The inside of the skull is as clean as if it had been macerated. But this is impossible. The brain is not only protected from the fire; it is also protected from contact with the air. But without access of oxygen, although it might become carbonised, it could not be consumed. No, Jervis; it won’t do.”
I replaced the skull in the coffin and looked at him in surprise. “What is it that you are suggesting?” I asked.
“I suggest that this was not a body at all, but merely a dry skeleton.”
“But,” I objected, “what about those masses of what looks like charred muscle adhering to the bones?”
“Yes,” he replied, “I have been noticing them. They do, as you say, look like masses of charred muscle. But they are quite shapeless and structureless; I cannot identify a single muscle or muscular group; and there is not a vestige of any of the tendons. Moreover, the distribution is false. For instance, will you tell me what muscle you think that is?”
He pointed to a thick, charred mass on the inner surface of the left tibia or shin-bone. “Now this portion of the bone—as many a hockey-player has had reason to realise—has no muscular covering at all. It lies immediately under the skin.”
“I think you are right, Thorndyke,” said I. “That lump of muscle in the wrong place gives the whole fraud away. But it was really a rather smart dodge. This fellow Bland must be an ingenious rascal.”
“Yes,” agreed Thorndyke; “but an unscrupulous villain too. He might have burned down half the street and killed a score of people. He’ll have to pay the piper for this little frolic.”
“What shall you do now? Are you going to notify the coroner?”
“No; that is not my business. I think we will verify our conclusions and then inform our clients and the police. We must measure the skull as well as we can without callipers, but it is, fortunately, quite typical. The short, broad, flat nasal bones, with the ‘Simian groove,’ and those large, strong teeth, worn flat by hard and gritty food, are highly characteristic.” He once more lifted out the skull, and, with a spring tape, made a few measurements, while I noted the lengths of the principal long bones and the width across the hips.
“I make the cranial-nasal index 55,” said he, as he replaced the skull, “and the cranial index about 72, which are quite representative numbers; and, as I see that your notes show the usual disproportionate length of arm and the characteristic curve of the tibia, we may be satisfied. But it is fortunate that the specimen is so typical. To the experienced eye, racial types have a physiognomy which is unmistakable on mere inspection. But you cannot transfer the experienced eye. You can only express personal conviction and back it up with measurements.
“And now we will go and look in on Stalker, and inform him that his office has saved three thousand pounds by employing us. After which it will be Westward Ho! for Scotland Yard, to prepare an unpleasant little surprise for Mr. Percival Bland.”
There was joy among the journalists on the following day. Each of the morning papers devoted an entire column to an unusually detailed account of the inquest on the late Percival Bland—who, it appeared, met his death by misadventure—and a verbatim report of the coroner’s eloquent remarks on the danger of solitary, fireside tippling, and the stupefying effects of port wine. An adjacent column contained an equally detailed account of the appearance of the deceased at Bow Street Police Court to answer complicated charges of arson, fraud and forgery; while a third collated the two accounts with gleeful commentaries.
Mr. Percival Bland, alias Robert Lindsay, now resides on the breezy uplands of Dartmoor, where, in his abundant leisure, he, no doubt, regrets his misdirected ingenuity. But he has not laboured in vain. To the Lord Chancellor he has furnished an admirable illustration of the danger of appointing lay coroners; and to me an unforgettable warning against the effects of suggestion.
A Christmas Capture
(Fred M. White)
The Slagburn Police Amateur Dramatic Society were giving their annual Christmas entertainment on Christmas Eve, and the rank and fashion of the great manufacturing town had gathered in support of that deserving quasi-charity in the town hall.
There were no professionals in the cast, even the feminine characters were taken by the men, and with marked success in one outstanding instance—Detective-Sergeant George Temperley.
"Pass for a woman anywhere, by gad," said his worship.
"Rather useful for a detective, what?" the chief chuckled as a programme-seller thrust a note into his hand. "Confound it, I have to see to something pressing. Good-night, Mr. Mayor. No peace for the wicked—and the police."
"Too bad," the great man murmured. "Nothing serious, I hope."
Martin smiled non-committally and vanished. He made his way under the orchestra to the back of the stage and thence into one of the dressing-rooms, where he found what looked like a fair-haired equestrienne of the upper classes arrayed for the chase. Quite a pretty, dainty girl, in fact, just touching up her lips and adding a dust of powder to her elegant nose. Without apology for his abrupt entrance the chief spoke.
"Afraid I shall have to cut your sketch out, Temperley," he said. "I want you at the office at once."
Detective-Sergeant George Temperley removed his blonde wig and swiftly took off his pink and white make-up.
A little later, in the seclusion of his private office, the chief handed his subordinate a letter to read. "What do you make of this, George?"
Temperley read the note, thus:—
17, Paston Crescent, Balham.
December 23rd, 19—.
"Dear Sir—
I am coming to Slagburn to-morrow afternoon by the London train arriving at 2.13, with the object of calling to interview Mr. Lean, of Magley Hall, Magley-road, with a view to some business connected with the stage. I am told that he is a gentleman of position, who is interested in theatrical matters financially. Will you kindly advise me by wire on this point, for which purpose I enclose postal order for two shillings.
I would not trouble you, but for the fact that I am out of a regular engagement, and am anxious
