The Mystery of Lincoln's Inn
CHAPTER XVII
Never had there been a more baffling mystery.
Morris Thornton, the missing millionaire, had not been murdered eitherby Cooper Silwood or the mysterious workman, either of whom might havebeen thought guilty of the crime; medical testimony, based on thescientific accuracy of an autopsy, was conclusive on this point. The manhad fallen a victim to heart-disease, and there was no getting away fromthe fact. But a great deal about the case called loudly for explanation.
Amongst others were such queries being put as: How did Thornton come tobe in Silwood's rooms? Had he gone there of his own volition? If so,with what object? And once there, what had taken place prior to hisdeath? And who had locked the door upon him? And did any one besidesSilwood have a key to the rooms?
It was a curiously tangled skein: would it ever be unravelled? or wouldit take its place among the many unsolved mysteries of London? TheThornton Mystery continued to be the talk, the question, of the day, andmany keen brains set to work upon it. The popular imagination, too, waspowerfully impressed by the pathos of the idea of Thornton, after yearsof striving and success in the land of his exile, coming home only tomeet his death in this strange fashion in the midst of suchextraordinary surroundings.
As for the inquest itself, its wholly unexpected result filled thegeneral public with astonishment. In some minds it excited a feeling ofalarm, because it showed how possible it was for a man to pass out ofsight, to be lost and swallowed up, even to die, and all this take placewithout the police, the guardians of the great city's peace and safety,being aware of it.
Both the amazement and the alarm were evident in that unerring reflexand register of opinion, the Press of the country. Not a newspaperthroughout the land but commented at length on the subject. They were attremendous pains to set forth the whole dark story with the utmostminuteness. Some even attempted a solution of the problems it disclosed.And in one instance, at least, this led to a further development.
The _Morning Call_, a well-known London journal, had secretly changedhands; it had a new editor and for the most part a new staff; every manon it tingled and burned to distinguish himself and cover his paper withglory. The general line taken by the _Call_ was the sensational, and theThornton Mystery was just the sort of thing out of which it calculatedto make fresh capital. From its point of view, the tame finding of thejury at the inquest was overwhelmingly disappointing. Westgate, a memberof its staff, who had been present at it, told his chief, that theresult was "simply disgusting." And his chief, with a smile, hadsympathized with him.
Westgate had come from a rival paper known as the _Morning Light_, andwas a very smart and capable journalist. From his natural bent, as wellas from his training, he had made himself an expert of no mean standingon all matters connected with crime. He would have been an excellentdetective, but the detective service, which is not recruited from themost intelligent classes in the world, gave no sufficient salary for aman of his stamp. As a journalist, he earned twelve hundred a year, andwas well worth every penny of it. Inspector Gale, the best detective inEngland, did not get five pounds a week.
Westgate's chief, who had been editor of the _Morning Light_, knew andappreciated the speciality of his subordinate. Discussing the case afterthe verdict, he asked him what he thought of it.
"I don't know quite what to think," replied Westgate, "but I am notsatisfied. There is something in the affair that does not meet the eye;there is something behind it all. For one thing, I feel as certain as Iam of being alive that the solution of the mystery rests with CooperSilwood. It turns on him as on a pivot. I take no stock in the tramp'sstory of his seeing a workman coming out of Lincoln's Inn on the nightof Thornton's disappearance. If the tramp was in Chancery Lane at thetime he said he was, how was it he saw nothing of Morris Thornton?Morris Thornton was undoubtedly in the Lane--at least it is altogetherlikely--at or about the time the tramp said he was there. But, in anycase, who would trust the story of a tramp by itself? Why, you can pickup a waster of the same kind any night of the year you like, and he'llpitch you any yarn he thinks you want. No, the case turns on Silwood."
"Well, suppose I grant you that, what then? If the solution lies withSilwood, it will continue to rest with him, as he is dead. You run yourhead up against a stone wall, Westgate. Silwood's death ends the thingpretty finally."
"Silwood dead!" cried Westgate, pursuing his own train of thought. "Justthink of it! Isn't it the strangest thing in the world? In the way ofcoincidence it beats anything I ever heard of. Consider, for a second.Suppose, for the sake of argument, it had been proved that Thornton wasmurdered, and that the murder was committed by Silwood, what a fortunateevent Silwood's dying at this precise juncture would be for Silwood! Yousee that, don't you?"
"Of course, the coincidence is remarkable, but what more can you sayabout it? Silwood is dead, and that settles everything--so far as it canbe settled. There does not seem to be much more to say."
"Though it does not appear to be much good," persisted Westgate, "still,the key of the situation, as I said before, lies with Silwood. I wish Iknew more about that man. Personally, I feel certain that Silwood, whenhe went off for his holiday that Saturday morning, locked the door onthe dead body of Thornton."
"How you harp on this, Westgate! You have no evidence for what you say,either."
"There is a strong presumption, however."
"The exact time of Thornton's death is not known, yet you are arguing asif it was. You cannot say for certain that Thornton was dead thatmorning at all."
"The doctors agreed that Thornton had been dead about fifteen days whenthe body was found. That brings his death pretty well, or, at any rate,very close, to the time of his disappearance."
"Still there might be a gap of a good many hours."
"I doubt it," said Westgate, stubbornly. "Let me tell you what happened,as it seems to me. On leaving the Law Courts Hotel, Thornton went toChancery Lane, got somehow or other into Silwood's rooms, and died theresuddenly a short while afterwards. I am convinced that he saw Silwoodwhen he got into the room, and that something occurred between him andSilwood--I don't even attempt to guess what it was--which produced suchan effect upon his weak heart that he dropped dead from the shock."
"Your explanation is plausible, but it suffers from your not beingcertain that Silwood was there with Thornton at the time of the latter'sdeath. In assuming Silwood's presence, you assume too much. But go onwith your mapping out of what happened. Suppose we take yoursuppositions as certainties, what next?"
"When Silwood saw that Thornton was dead, he would ask himself what hewas to do," Westgate resumed. "There was the body in the room, and itsbeing there had to be accounted for somehow. Silwood, I am positive,shrank from saying anything about it--shrank to such an extent that hemade up his mind to fly rather than appear to have any connectionwhatever with it."
The chief of the _Call_ shook his head.
"This," said he, "is just where your building up of the case tumbles topieces. Suppose Thornton died in Silwood's presence, why on earth shouldnot Silwood have said so boldly? Why should he have run away as youconjecture he did? Would it not have been far easier, safer, better forhim to have at once summoned a policeman and told him what hadhappened?"
"But he didn't call a policeman!" exclaimed Westgate, eagerly; "don'tyou see where that lands you? Why did he not call a policeman--why?Because he had some strong reason for not doing so. If everything hadbeen absolutely all right, he would, as a matter of course, havesummoned a policeman, and there would be no Thornton Mystery atall--only the pathos of the story of a man's career ending in such swifttragedy; that would have been all. No! Again I say that, for some reasonor other, Silwood did not care to face the world and tell it what tookplace in his room that night. Instead of staying to face the music as anhonest man would, he resolved on flight, and did accordingly fly thecountry the following morning. Mind you, I do not say that Silwood knewThornton died from heart failure--that is another aspect of the thing;he may
have believed that he had something to do physically withbringing about the death of Thornton. Still, that is not the main thing.The main thing is that he had some good reason for flight, and that hedid fly."
The chief said nothing, though a pause on Westgate's part gave him anopportunity of speaking.
"It is absurd," said the chief at last. "Silwood belongs to one of thebest firms in London. His partner, Eversleigh, stands at the head of hisprofession. You saw him at the inquest."
"Yes; he sat beside Miss Thornton. I thought it rather strange that sheshould be present at the inquest, but it was evident she was muchattached to Mr. Eversleigh in a daughterly way. They say she is engagedto his son."
"Well, Westgate, how does that fit in with your theories about Silwood,Eversleigh's partner?"
"Not very well, I admit, but we are only making guesses and trying topiece things out a bit. And I have not yet told you all that is in mymind."
"Go on," said the editor, as Westgate looked at him for permission.
"I paid very careful attention to the statement made by Inspector Gale.Now, he's not a great detective, but he's shrewd."
The chief nodded assent.
"In his statement, Gale never once spoke as if he thought Silwood wasdead."
"What do you say?" cried the other, aroused at last. "Did not speak asif he thought Silwood was dead! By Jove, that's a horse of anothercolour."
In a flash he saw that, if Silwood was not dead, then the theories ofWestgate were likely to become substantialities.
"Gale wanted an open verdict; he actually recommended the jury to bringone in. He spoke of the murder being the work of either Silwood or themysterious workman--that was before the medical men knocked the idea ofmurder into thin air--Gale was not prepared for that, I'll swear--but henever once spoke of Silwood as if he thought of Silwood as dead. Inoticed that most particularly. Now, to go on with our supposings," saidWestgate, with even greater eagerness than he already exhibited, "let ussee where we are. Silwood is announced to have died of cholera at someoutlandish place in the north of Italy. Perhaps he did, and perhaps hedidn't. Say he did not, and that the whole thing is a plant, a put-upjob?"
Westgate paused abruptly, and looked at his chief.
"Of course, I see your point," responded the editor. "You would say,following out your theories, that after locking the dead body ofThornton into his room, Silwood went to Italy, and has somehow or otherhad a false announcement of his death sent to England, hoping in thisway to cover up his tracks effectually. But, once more, Westgate, myboy, where is the motive for all this astonishing business?"
"That, I confess, I do not know. But if Silwood is alive, why then, heis to be found----"
He broke off and gazed suggestively at the other.
"And you are the man to find him! Eh, is that it?" asked the editor, asquick as lightning.
"If you say the word!"
Perceval, chief of the _Call_, leaned back in his chair, lost in debatewithin himself for a minute. As a rule, it did not take nearly so longas that for him to make up his mind.
"All right," he said. "You can go. First, of course, you will go to thisplace in Italy and ascertain if Silwood died, was buried, and all therest of it. That may be the end of your search; but if it is not, whythen go ahead, Westgate. You'll start without delay, and let me know assoon as possible what you are doing."
And Westgate went from the presence of his chief, rejoicing exceedinglyon being sent on a mission after his own heart.
It was therefore more than annoying that almost the first person he sawon his arrival in Genoa was Sub-inspector Brydges, Gale's under-study atScotland Yard. As soon as he saw him he guessed that Gale had despatchedhis subordinate to Italy, to make inquiries about Silwood's death, anda brief conversation with the officer, whom he often met and knewperfectly, made this a certainty.
Brydges made no secret of his errand. He had already wired Gale that hewas satisfied Silwood was dead, and had been buried at Camajore, just asthe inspector had been informed by the Eversleighs. And he saw no reasonfor concealing this from Westgate, after they had had some talk togetherin which both of them, metaphorically speaking, put their cards, or mostof them, on the table.
"You can take it from me," concluded Brydges, "that Mr. Silwood is asdead--as dead as Queen Anne."
But Westgate was not satisfied.
So he went to Camajore, saw the Syndic, the doctor, the nurses, andevery one besides from whom he could get any information. The result wasalways the same. Silwood had died. The polite Syndic even took him tosee the mound of earth under which lay Silwood's remains.
"It was no good?" asked the chief of Westgate on his return to theoffice of the _Call_.
"No good at all," said Westgate, much crestfallen.