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Title: Percival Bland's Proxy
   [Story #6 of "The Famous Cases of Dr. Thorndyke"]
Author: Freeman, R. Austin [Richard Austin] (1862-1943)
Date of first publication in this form: July 1929
   ["The Famous Cases of Dr. Thorndyke"]
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1952
   [reprint of the 1929 omnibus]
Date first posted: 11 July 2018
Date last updated: 11 July 2018
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1548

This ebook was produced by
Delphine Lettau, Mark Akrigg, Jen Haines
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.





PERCIVAL BLAND'S PROXY

by R. Austin Freeman





PART I


Mr. Percival Bland was a somewhat uncommon type of criminal. In the
first place he really had an appreciable amount of common-sense. If he
had only had a little more, he would not have been a criminal at all. As
it was, he had just sufficient judgment to perceive that the
consequences of unlawful acts accumulate as the acts are repeated; to
realise that the criminal's position must, at length, become untenable;
and to take what he considered fair precautions against the inevitable
catastrophe.

But in spite of these estimable traits of character and the precautions
aforesaid, Mr. Bland found himself in rather a tight place and with a
prospect of increasing tightness. The causes of this uncomfortable
tension do not concern us, and may be dismissed with the remark, that,
if one perseveringly distributes flash Bank of England notes among the
money-changers of the Continent, there will come a day of reckoning when
those notes are tendered to the exceedingly knowing old lady who lives
in Threadneedle Street.

Mr. Bland considered uneasily the approaching storm-cloud as he raked
over the "miscellaneous property" in the Sale-rooms of Messrs. Plimpton.
He was a confirmed frequenter of auctions, as was not unnatural; for the
criminal is essentially a gambler. And criminal and auction-frequenter
have one quality in common: each hopes to get something of value without
paying the market price for it.

So Percival turned over the dusty oddments and his own difficulties at
one and the same time. The vital questions were: When would the storm
burst? And would it pass by the harbour of refuge that he had been at
such pains to construct? Let us inspect that harbour of refuge.

A quiet flat in the pleasant neighbourhood of Battersea bore a
name-plate inscribed, Mr. Robert Lindsay; and the tenant was known to
the porter and the char-woman who attended to the flat, as a fair-haired
gentleman who was engaged in the book trade as a travelling agent, and
was consequently a good deal away from home. Now Mr. Robert Lindsay bore
a distinct resemblance to Percival Bland; which was not surprising
seeing that they were first cousins (or, at any rate, they said they
were; and we may presume that they knew). But they were not very much
alike. Mr. Lindsay had flaxen, or rather sandy, hair; Mr. Bland's hair
was black. Mr. Bland had a mole under his left eye; Mr. Lindsay had no
mole under his eye--but carried one in a small box in his waistcoat
pocket.

At somewhat rare intervals the cousins called on one another; but they
had the very worst of luck, for neither of them ever seemed to find the
other at home. And what was even more odd was that whenever Mr. Bland
spent an evening at home in his lodgings over the oil shop in
Bloomsbury, Mr. Lindsay's flat was empty; and as sure as Mr. Lindsay was
at home in his flat so surely were Mr. Bland's lodgings vacant for the
time being. It was a queer coincidence, if anyone had noticed it; but
nobody ever did.

However, if Percival saw little of his cousin, it was not a case of "out
of sight, out of mind." On the contrary; so great was his solicitude for
the latter's welfare that he not only had made a will constituting him
his executor and sole legatee, but he had actually insured his life for
no less a sum than three thousand pounds; and this will, together with
the insurance policy, investment securities and other necessary
documents, he had placed in the custody of a highly respectable
solicitor. All of which did him great credit. It isn't every man who is
willing to take so much trouble for a mere cousin.

Mr. Bland continued his perambulations, pawing over the miscellaneous
raffle from sheer force of habit, reflecting on the coming crisis in his
own affairs, and on the provisions that he had made for his cousin
Robert. As for the latter, they were excellent as far as they went, but
they lacked definiteness and perfect completeness. There was the
contingency of a "stretch," for instance; say fourteen years' penal
servitude. The insurance policy did not cover that. And, meanwhile, what
was to become of the estimable Robert?

He had bruised his thumb somewhat severely in a screw-cutting lathe, and
had abstractedly turned the handle of a bird-organ until politely
requested by an attendant to desist, when he came upon a series of boxes
containing, according to the catalogue, "a collection of surgical
instruments the property of a lately deceased practitioner." To judge by
the appearance of the instruments, the practitioner must have commenced
practice in his early youth and died at a very advanced age. They were
an uncouth set of tools, of no value whatever excepting as testimonials
to the amazing tenacity of life of our ancestors; but Percival fingered
them over according to his wont, working the handle of a complicated
brass syringe and ejecting a drop of greenish fluid on to the
shirt-front of a dressy Hebrew (who requested him to "point the dam'
thing at thomeone elth nectht time"), opening musty leather cases,
clicking off spring scarifiers and feeling the edges of strange,
crooked-bladed knives. Then he came upon a largish black box, which,
when he raised the lid, breathed out an ancient and fish-like aroma and
exhibited a collection of bones, yellow, greasy-looking and spotted in
places with mildew. The catalogue described them as "a complete set of
human osteology"; but they were not an ordinary "student's set," for the
bones of the hands and feet, instead of being strung together on
cat-gut, were united by their original ligaments and were of an
unsavoury brown colour.

"I thay, misther," expostulated the Hebrew, "shut that bocth. Thmellth
like a blooming inquetht."

But the contents of the black box seemed to have a fascination for
Percival. He looked in at those greasy remnants of mortality, at the
brown and mouldy hands and feet and the skull that peeped forth eerily
from the folds of a flannel wrapping; and they breathed out something
more than that stale and musty odour. A suggestion--vague and general at
first, but rapidly crystallising into distinct shape--seemed to steal
out of the black box into his consciousness; a suggestion that somehow
seemed to connect itself with his estimable cousin Robert.

For upwards of a minute he stood motionless, as one immersed in reverie,
the lid poised in his hand and a dreamy eye fixed on the half-uncovered
skull. A stir in the room roused him. The sale was about to begin. The
members of the knock-out and other habitus seated themselves on benches
around a long, baize-covered table; the attendants took possession of
the first lots and opened their catalogues as if about to sing an
introductory chorus; and a gentleman with a waxed moustache and a
striking resemblance to his late Majesty, the third Napoleon, having
ascended to the rostrum bespoke the attention of the assembly by a
premonitory tap with his hammer.

How odd are some of the effects of a guilty conscience! With what absurd
self-consciousness do we read into the minds of others our own
undeclared intentions, when those intentions are unlawful! Had Percival
Bland wanted a set of human bones for any legitimate purpose--such as
anatomical study--he would have bought it openly and unembarrassed. Now,
he found himself earnestly debating whether he should not bid for some
of the surgical instruments, just for the sake of appearances; and there
being little time in which to make up his mind--for the deceased
practitioner's effects came first in the catalogue--he was already the
richer by a set of cupping-glasses, a tooth-key, and an instrument of
unknown use and diabolical aspect, before the fateful lot was called.

At length the black box was laid on the table, an object of obscene
mirth to the knockers-out, and the auctioneer read the entry:

"Lot seventeen; a complete set of human osteology. A very useful and
valuable set of specimens, gentlemen."

He looked round at the assembly majestically, oblivious of sundry
inquiries as to the identity of the deceased and the verdict of the
coroner's jury, and finally suggested five shillings.

"Six," said Percival.

An attendant held the box open, and, chanting the mystic word
"Loddlemen!" (which, being interpreted, meant "Lot, gentlemen"), thrust
it under the rather bulbous nose of the smart Hebrew; who remarked that
"they 'ummed a bit too much to thoot him" and pushed it away.

"Going at six shillings," said the auctioneer, reproachfully; and as
nobody contradicted him, he smote the rostrum with his hammer and the
box was delivered into the hands of Percival on the payment of that
modest sum.

Having crammed the cupping-glasses, the tooth-key and the unknown
instrument into the box, Percival obtained from one of the attendants a
length of cord, with which he secured the lid. Then he carried his
treasure out into the street, and, chartering a four-wheeler, directed
the driver to proceed to Charing Cross Station. At the station he booked
the box in the cloak-room (in the name of Simpson) and left it for a
couple of hours; at the expiration of which he returned, and, employing
a different porter, had it conveyed to a hansom, in which it was borne
to his lodgings over the oil-shop in Bloomsbury. There he, himself,
carried it, unobserved, up the stairs, and, depositing it in a large
cupboard, locked the door and pocketed the key.

And thus was the curtain rung down on the first act.

The second act opened only a couple of days later, the office of
call-boy--to pursue the metaphor to the bitter end--being discharged by
a Belgian police official who emerged from the main entrance to the Bank
of England. What should have led Percival Bland into so unsafe a
neighbourhood it is difficult to imagine, unless it was that strange
fascination that seems so frequently to lure the criminal to places
associated with his crime. But there he was within a dozen paces of the
entrance when the officer came forth, and mutual recognition was
instantaneous. Almost equally instantaneous was the self-possessed
Percival's decision to cross the road.

It is not a nice road to cross. The old-fashioned horse-driver would
condescend to shout a warning to the indiscreet wayfarer. Not so the
modern chauffeur, who looks stonily before him and leaves you to get out
of the way of Juggernaut. He knows his "exonerating" coroner's jury. At
the moment, however, the procession of Juggernauts was at rest; but
Percival had seen the presiding policeman turn to move away and he
darted across the fronts of the vehicles even as they started. The
foreign officer followed. But in that moment the whole procession had
got in motion. A motor omnibus thundered past in front of him; another
was bearing down on him relentlessly. He hesitated, and sprang back; and
then a taxi-cab, darting out from behind, butted him heavily, sending
him sprawling in the road, whence he scrambled as best he could back on
to the pavement.

Percival, meanwhile, had swung himself lightly on to the footboard of
the first omnibus just as it was gathering speed. A few seconds saw him
safely across at the Mansion House, and in a few more, he was whirling
down Queen Victoria Street. The danger was practically over, though he
took the precaution to alight at St. Paul's, and, crossing to Newgate
Street, board another west-bound omnibus.

That night he sat in his lodgings turning over his late experience. It
had been a narrow shave. That sort of thing mustn't happen again. In
fact, seeing that the law was undoubtedly about to be set in motion, it
was high time that certain little plans of his should be set in motion,
too. Only, there was a difficulty; a serious difficulty. And as Percival
thought round and round that difficulty his brows wrinkled and he hummed
a soft refrain.

    "Then is the time for disappearing,
    Take a header--down you go----"

A tap at the door cut his song short. It was his landlady, Mrs. Brattle;
a civil woman, and particularly civil just now. For she had a little
request to make.

"It was about Christmas Night, Mr. Bland," said Mrs. Brattle. "My
husband and me thought of spending the evening with his brother at
Hornsey, and we were going to let the maid go home to her mother's for
the night, if it wouldn't put you out."

"Wouldn't put me out in the least, Mrs. Brattle," said Percival.

"You needn't sit up for us, you see," pursued Mrs. Brattle, "if you'd
just leave the side door unbolted. We shan't be home before two or
three; but we'll come in quiet not to disturb you."

"You won't disturb me," Percival replied with a genial laugh. "I'm a
sober man in general; but 'Christmas comes but once a year.' When once
I'm tucked up in bed, I shall take a bit of waking on Christmas Night."

Mrs. Brattle smiled indulgently. "And you won't feel lonely, all alone
in the house?"

"Lonely!" exclaimed Percival. "Lonely! With a roaring fire, a jolly
book, a box of good cigars and a bottle of sound port--ah, and a second
bottle if need be. Not I."

Mrs. Brattle shook her head. "Ah," said she, "you bachelors! Well, well.
It's a good thing to be independent," and with this profound reflection
she smiled herself out of the room and descended the stairs.

As her footsteps died away Percival sprang from his chair and began
excitedly to pace the room. His eyes sparkled and his face was wreathed
with smiles. Presently he halted before the fireplace, and, gazing into
the embers, laughed aloud.

"Damn funny!" said he. "Deuced rich! Neat! Very neat! Ha! Ha!" And here
he resumed his interrupted song:

    "When the sky above is clearing,
    When the sky above is clearing,
    Bob up serenely, bob up serenely,
    Bob up serenely from below!"

Which may be regarded as closing the first scene, of the second act.

During the few days that intervened before Christmas Percival went
abroad but little; and yet he was a busy man. He did a little
surreptitious shopping, venturing out as far as Charing Cross Road; and
his purchases were decidedly miscellaneous. A porridge saucepan, a
second-hand copy of "Gray's Anatomy," a rabbit skin, a large supply of
glue and upwards of ten pounds of shin of beef seems a rather odd
assortment; and it was a mercy that the weather was frosty, for
otherwise Percival's bedroom, in which these delicacies were deposited
under lock and key, would have yielded odorous traces of its wealth.

But it was in the long evenings that his industry was most conspicuous;
and then it was that the big cupboard with the excellent lever lock,
which he himself had fixed on, began to fill up with the fruits of his
labours. In those evenings the porridge saucepan would simmer on the hob
with a rich lading of good Scotch glue, the black box of the deceased
practitioner would be hauled forth from its hiding-place, and the
well-thumbed "Gray" laid open on the table.

It was an arduous business though; a stiffer task than he had bargained
for. The right and left bones were so confoundedly alike, and the bones
that joined were so difficult to fit together. However, the plates in
"Gray" were large and very clear, so it was only a question of taking
enough trouble.

His method of work was simple and practical. Having fished a bone out of
the box, he would compare it with the illustrations in the book until he
had identified it beyond all doubt, when he would tie on it a paper
label with its name and side--right or left. Then he would search for
the adjoining bone, and, having fitted the two together, would secure
them with a good daub of glue and lay them in the fender to dry. It was
a crude and horrible method of articulation that would have made a
museum curator shudder. But it seemed to answer Percival's
purpose--whatever that may have been--for gradually the loose "items"
came together into recognisable members such as arms and legs, the
vertebr--which were, fortunately, strung in their order on a thick
cord--were joined up into a solid back-bone, and even the ribs, which
were the toughest job of all, fixed on in some semblance of a thorax. It
was a wretched performance. The bones were plastered with gouts of glue
and yet would have broken apart at a touch. But, as we have said,
Percival seemed satisfied, and as he was the only person concerned,
there was nothing more to be said.

In due course, Christmas Day arrived. Percival dined with the Brattles
at two, dozed after dinner, woke up for tea, and then, as Mrs. Brattle,
in purple and fine raiment, came in to remove the tea-tray, he spread
out on the table the materials for the night's carouse. A quarter of an
hour later, the side-door slammed, and, peering out of the window, he
saw the shopkeeper and his wife hurrying away up the gas-lit street
towards the nearest omnibus route.

Then Mr. Percival Bland began his evening's entertainment; and a most
remarkable entertainment it was, even for a solitary bachelor, left
alone in a house on Christmas Night. First, he took off his clothing and
dressed himself in a fresh suit. Then, from the cupboard, he brought
forth the reconstituted "set of osteology," and, laying the various
members on the table, returned to the bedroom, whence he presently
reappeared with a large, unsavoury parcel which he had disinterred from
a trunk. The parcel, being opened, revealed his accumulated purchases in
the matter of shin of beef.

With a large knife, providently sharpened beforehand, he cut the beef
into large, thin slices which he proceeded to wrap around the various
bones that formed the "complete set"; whereby their nakedness was
certainly mitigated though their attractiveness was by no means
increased. Having thus "clothed the dry bones," he gathered up the
scraps of offal that were left, to be placed presently inside the trunk.
It was an extraordinary proceeding, but the next was more extraordinary
still.

Taking up the newly clothed members one by one, he began very carefully
to insinuate them into the garments that he had recently shed. It was a
ticklish business, for the glued joints were as brittle as glass. Very
cautiously the legs were separately inducted, first into underclothing
and then into trousers, the skeleton feet were fitted with the cast-off
socks and delicately persuaded into the boots. The arms, in like manner,
were gingerly pressed into their various sleeves and through the
arm-holes of the waistcoat; and then came the most difficult task of
all--to fit the garments on the trunk. For the skull and ribs, secured
to the back-bone with mere spots of glue, were ready to drop off at a
shake; and yet the garments had to be drawn over them with the arms
enclosed in the sleeves. But Percival managed it at last by resting his
"restoration" in the big, padded arm-chair and easing the garments on
inch by inch.

It now remained only to give the finishing touch; which was done by
cutting the rabbit-skin to the requisite shape and affixing it to the
skull with a thin coat of stiff glue; and when the skull had thus been
finished with a sort of crude, makeshift wig, its appearance was so
appalling as even to disturb the nerves of the matter-of-fact Percival.
However, this was no occasion for cherishing sentiment. A skull in an
extemporised wig or false scalp might be, and in fact was, a highly
unpleasant object; but so was a Belgian police officer.

Having finished the "restoration," Percival fetched the water-jug from
his bedroom, and, descending to the shop, the door of which had been
left unlocked, tried the taps of the various drums and barrels until he
came to the one which contained methylated spirit; and from this he
filled his jug and returned to the bedroom. Pouring the spirit out into
the basin, he tucked a towel round his neck and filling his sponge with
spirit proceeded very vigorously to wash his hair and eyebrows; and as,
by degrees, the spirit in the basin grew dark and turbid, so did his
hair and eyebrows grow lighter in colour until, after a final energetic
rub with a towel, they had acquired a golden or sandy hue
indistinguishable from that of the hair of his cousin Robert. Even the
mole under his eye was susceptible to the changing conditions, for when
he had wetted it thoroughly with spirit, he was able, with the blade of
a penknife, to peel it off as neatly as if it had been stuck on with
spirit-gum. Having done which, he deposited it in a tiny box which he
carried in his waistcoat pocket.

The proceedings which followed were unmistakable as to their object.
First he carried the basin of spirit through into the sitting-room and
deliberately poured its contents on to the floor by the arm-chair. Then,
having returned the basin to the bedroom, he again went down to the
shop, where he selected a couple of galvanised buckets from the stock,
filled them with paraffin oil from one of the great drums and carried
them upstairs. The oil from one bucket he poured over the arm-chair and
its repulsive occupant; the other bucket he simply emptied on the
carpet, and then went down to the shop for a fresh supply.

When this proceeding had been repeated once or twice the entire floor
and all the furniture were saturated, and such a reek of paraffin filled
the air of the room that Percival thought it wise to turn out the gas.
Returning to the shop, he poured a bucketful of oil over the stack of
bundles of firewood, another over the counter and floor and a third over
the loose articles on the walls and hanging from the ceiling. Looking up
at the latter he now perceived a number of greasy patches where the oil
had soaked through from the floor above, and some of these were
beginning to drip on to the shop floor.

He now made his final preparations. Taking a bundle of "Wheel"
firelighters, he made a small pile against the stack of firewood. In the
midst of the firelighters he placed a ball of string saturated in
paraffin; and in the central hole of the ball he stuck a half-dozen
diminutive Christmas candles. This mine was now ready. Providing himself
with a stock of firelighters, a few balls of paraffined string and a
dozen or so of the little candles, he went upstairs to the sitting-room,
which was immediately above the shop. Here, by the glow of the fire, he
built up one or two piles of firelighters around and partly under the
arm-chair, placed the balls of string on the piles and stuck two or
three bundles in each ball. Everything was now ready. Stepping into the
bedroom, he took from the cupboard a spare overcoat, a new hat and a new
umbrella--for he must leave his old hats, coat and umbrella in the hall.
He put on the coat and hat, and, with the umbrella in his hand, returned
to the sitting-room.

Opposite the arm-chair he stood awhile, irresolute, and a pang of horror
shot through him. It was a terrible thing that he was going to do; a
thing the consequences of which no one could foresee. He glanced
furtively at the awful shape that sat huddled in the chair, its horrible
head all awry and its rigid limbs sprawling in hideous grotesque
deformity. It was but a dummy, a mere scarecrow; but yet, in the dim
firelight, the grisly face under that horrid wig seemed to leer
intelligently, to watch him with secret malice out of its shadowy
eye-sockets, until he looked away with clammy skin and a shiver of
half-superstitious terror.

But this would never do. The evening had run out, consumed by these
engrossing labours; it was nearly eleven o'clock, and high time for him
to be gone. For if the Brattles should return prematurely he was lost.
Pulling himself together with an effort, he struck a match and lit the
little candles one after the other. In a quarter of an hour or so, they
would have burned down to the balls of string, and then----

He walked quickly out of the room; but, at the door, he paused for a
moment to look back at the ghastly figure, seated rigidly in the chair
with the lighted candles at its feet, like some foul fiend appeased by
votive fires. The unsteady flames threw flickering shadows on its face
that made it seem to mow and gibber and grin in mockery of all his care
and caution. So he turned and tremblingly ran down the stairs--opening
the staircase window as he went. Running into the shop, he lit the
candles there and ran out again, shutting the door after him.

Secretly and guiltily he crept down the hall, and opening the door a few
inches peered out. A blast of icy wind poured in with a light powdering
of dry snow. He opened his umbrella, flung open the door, looked up and
down the empty street, stepped out, closed the door softly and strode
away over the whitening pavement.




PART II

(Related by Christopher Jervis, M.D.)


It was one of the axioms of medico-legal practice laid down by my
colleague, John Thorndyke, that the investigator should be constantly on
his guard against the effect of suggestion. Not only must all prejudices
and preconceptions be avoided, but when information is received from
outside, the actual, undeniable facts must be carefully sifted from the
inferences which usually accompany them. Of the necessity for this
precaution our insurance practice furnished an excellent instance in the
case of the fire at Mr. Brattle's oil-shop.

The case was brought to our notice by Mr. Stalker of the "Griffin" Fire
and Life Insurance Society a few days after Christmas. He dropped in,
ostensibly to wish us a Happy New Year, but a discreet pause in the
conversation on Thorndyke's part elicited a further purpose.

"Did you see the account of that fire in Bloomsbury?" Mr. Stalker asked.

"The oil-shop? Yes. But I didn't note any details, excepting that a man
was apparently burnt to death and that the affair happened on the
twenty-fifth of December."

"Yes, I know," said Mr. Stalker. "It seems uncharitable, but one can't
help looking a little askance at these quarter-day fires. And the date
isn't the only doubtful feature in this one; the Divisional Officer of
the Fire Brigade, who has looked over the ruins, tells me that there are
some appearances suggesting that the fire broke out in two different
places--the shop and the first-floor room over it. Mind you, he doesn't
say that it actually did. The place is so thoroughly gutted that very
little is to be learned from it; but that is his impression; and it
occurred to me that if you were to take a look at the ruins, your
radiographic eye might detect something that he had overlooked."

"It isn't very likely," said Thorndyke. "Every man to his trade. The
Divisional Officer looks at a burnt house with an expert eye, which I do
not. My evidence would not carry much weight if you were contesting the
claim."

"Perhaps not," replied Mr. Stalker, "and we are not anxious to contest
the claim unless there is manifest fraud. Arson is a serious matter."

"It is wilful murder in this case," remarked Thorndyke.

"I know," said Stalker. "And that reminds me that the man who was burnt
happens to have been insured in our office, too. So we stand a double
loss."

"How much?" asked Thorndyke.

"The dead man, Percival Bland, had insured his life for three thousand
pounds."

Thorndyke became thoughtful. The last statement had apparently made more
impression on him than the former ones.

"If you want me to look into the case for you," said he, "you had better
let me have all the papers connected with it, including the proposal
forms."

Mr. Stalker smiled. "I thought you would say that--know you of old, you
see--so I slipped the papers in my pocket before coming here."

He laid the documents on the table and asked: "Is there anything that
you want to know about the case?"

"Yes," replied Thorndyke. "I want to know all that you can tell me."

"Which is mighty little," said Stalker; "but such as it is, you shall
have it."

"The oil-shop man's name is Brattle and the dead man, Bland, was his
lodger. Bland appears to have been a perfectly steady, sober man in
general; but it seems that he had announced his intention of spending a
jovial Christmas Night and giving himself a little extra indulgence. He
was last seen by Mrs. Brattle at about half-past six, sitting by a
blazing fire, with a couple of unopened bottles of port on the table and
a box of cigars. He had a book in his hand and two or three newspapers
lay on the floor by his chair. Shortly after this, Mr. and Mrs. Brattle
went out on a visit to Hornsey, leaving him alone in the house."

"Was there no servant?" asked Thorndyke.

"The servant had the day and night off duty to go to her mother's. That,
by the way, looks a trifle fishy. However, to return to the Brattles;
they spent the evening at Hornsey and did not get home until past three
in the morning, by which time their house was a heap of smoking ruins.
Mrs. Brattle's idea is that Bland must have drunk himself sleepy, and
dropped one of the newspapers into the fender, where a chance cinder may
have started the blaze. Which may or may not be the true explanation. Of
course, an habitually sober man can get pretty mimsey on two bottles of
port."

"What time did the fire break out?" asked Thorndyke.

"It was noticed about half-past eleven that flames were issuing from one
of the chimneys, and the alarm was given at once. The first engine
arrived ten minutes later, but, by that time, the place was roaring like
a furnace. Then the water-plugs were found to be frozen hard, which
caused some delay; in fact, before the engines were able to get to work
the roof had fallen in, and the place was a mere shell. You know what an
oil-shop is, when once it gets a fair start."

"And Mr. Bland's body was found in the ruins, I suppose?"

"Body!" exclaimed Mr. Stalker; "there wasn't much body! Just a few
charred bones, which they dug out of the ashes next day."

"And the question of identity?"

"We shall leave that to the coroner. But there really isn't any
question. To begin with, there was no one else in the house; and then
the remains were found mixed up with the springs and castors of the
chair that Bland was sitting in when he was last seen. Moreover, there
were found, with the bones, a pocket-knife, a bunch of keys and a set of
steel waistcoat buttons, all identified by Mrs. Brattle as belonging to
Bland. She noticed the cut steel buttons on his waistcoat when she
wished him 'good-night.'"

"By the way," said Thorndyke, "was Bland reading by the light of an oil
lamp?"

"No," replied Stalker. "There was a two-branch gasalier with a porcelain
shade to one burner, and he had that burner alight when Mrs. Brattle
left."

Thorndyke reflectively picked up the proposal form, and, having glanced
through it, remarked: "I see that Bland is described as unmarried. Do
you know why he insured his life for this large amount?"

"No; we assumed that it was probably in connection with some loan that
he had raised. I learn from the solicitor who notified us of the death,
that the whole of Bland's property is left to a cousin--a Mr. Lindsay, I
think. So the probability is that this cousin had lent him money. But it
is not the life claim that is interesting us. We must pay that in any
case. It is the fire claim that we want you to look into."

"Very well," said Thorndyke; "I will go round presently and look over
the ruins, and see if I can detect any substantial evidence of fraud."

"If you would," said Mr. Stalker, rising to take his departure, "we
should be very much obliged. Not that we shall probably contest the
claim in any case."

When he had gone, my colleague and I glanced through the papers, and I
ventured to remark: "It seems to me that Stalker doesn't quite
appreciate the possibilities of this case."

"No," Thorndyke agreed. "But, of course, it is an insurance company's
business to pay, and not to boggle at anything short of glaring fraud.
And we specialists, too," he added with a smile, "must beware of seeing
too much. I suppose that, to a rhinologist, there is hardly such a thing
as a healthy nose--unless it is his own--and the uric acid specialist is
very apt to find the firmament studded with dumb-bell crystals. We
mustn't forget that normal cases do exist, after all."

"That is true," said I; "but, on the other hand, the rhinologist's
business is with the unhealthy nose, and our concern is with abnormal
cases."

Thorndyke laughed. "'A Daniel come to judgment,'" said he. "But my
learned friend is quite right. Our function is to pick holes. So let us
pocket the documents and wend Bloomsbury way. We can talk the case over
as we go."

We walked at an easy pace, for there was no hurry, and a little
preliminary thought was useful. After a while, as Thorndyke made no
remark, I reopened the subject.

"How does the case present itself to you?" I asked.

"Much as it does to you, I expect," he replied. "The circumstances
invite inquiry, and I do not find myself connecting them with the
shopkeeper. It is true that the fire occurred on quarter-day; but there
is nothing to show that the insurance will do more than cover the loss
of stock, chattels and the profits of trade. The other circumstances are
much more suggestive. Here is a house burned down and a man killed. That
man was insured for three thousand pounds, and, consequently, some
person stands to gain by his death to that amount. The whole set of
circumstances is highly favourable to the idea of homicide. The man was
alone in the house when he died; and the total destruction of both the
body and its surroundings seems to render investigation impossible. The
cause of death can only be inferred; it cannot be proved; and the most
glaring evidence of a crime will have vanished utterly. I think that
there is a quite strong _prima facie_ suggestion of murder. Under the
known conditions, the perpetration of a murder would have been easy, it
would have been safe from detection, and there is an adequate motive.

"On the other hand, suicide is not impossible. The man might have set
fire to the house and then killed himself by poison or otherwise. But it
is intrinsically less probable that a man should kill himself for
another person's benefit than that he should kill another man for his
own benefit.

"Finally, there is the possibility that the fire and the man's death
were the result of accident; against which is the official opinion that
the fire started in two places. If this opinion is correct, it
establishes, in my opinion, a strong presumption of murder against some
person who may have obtained access to the house."

This point in the discussion brought us to the ruined house, which stood
at the corner of two small streets. One of the firemen in charge
admitted us, when we had shown our credentials, through a temporary door
and down a ladder into the basement, where we found a number of men
treading gingerly, ankle deep in white ash, among a litter of charred
wood-work, fused glass, warped and broken china, and more or less
recognisable metal objects.

"The coroner and the jury," the fireman explained; "come to view the
scene of the disaster." He introduced us to the former, who bowed
stiffly and continued his investigations.

"These," said the other fireman, "are the springs of the chair that the
deceased was sitting in. We found the body--or rather the bones--lying
among them under a heap of hot ashes; and we found the buttons of his
clothes and the things from his pockets among the ashes, too. You'll see
them in the mortuary with the remains."

"It must have been a terrific blaze," one of the jurymen remarked. "Just
look at this, sir," and he handed to Thorndyke what looked like part of
a gas-fitting, of which the greater part was melted into shapeless lumps
and the remainder encrusted into fused porcelain.

"That," said the fireman, "was the gasalier of the first-floor room,
where Mr. Bland was sitting. Ah! you won't turn that tap, sir; nobody'll
ever turn that tap again."

Thorndyke held the twisted mass of brass towards me in silence, and,
glancing up the blackened walls, remarked: "I think we shall have to
come here again with the Divisional Officer, but meanwhile, we had
better see the remains of the body. It is just possible that we may
learn something from them."

He applied to the coroner for the necessary authority to make the
inspection, and, having obtained a rather ungracious and grudging
permission to examine the remains when the jury had "viewed" them, began
to ascend the ladder.

"Our friend would have liked to refuse permission," he remarked when we
had emerged into the street, "but he knew that I could and should have
insisted."

"So I gathered from his manner," said I. "But what is he doing here?
This isn't his district."

"No; he is acting for Bettsford, who is laid up just now; and a very
poor substitute he is. A non-medical coroner is an absurdity in any
case, and a coroner who is hostile to the medical profession is a public
scandal. By the way, that gas-tap offers a curious problem. You noticed
that it was turned off?"

"Yes."

"And consequently that the deceased was sitting in the dark when the
fire broke out. I don't see the bearing of the fact, but it is certainly
rather odd. Here is the mortuary. We had better wait and let the jury go
in first."

We had not long to wait. In a couple of minutes or so the "twelve good
men and true" made their appearance with a small attendant crowd of
ragamuffins. We let them enter first, and then we followed. The mortuary
was a good-sized room, well lighted by a glass roof, and having at its
centre a long table on which lay the shell containing the remains. There
was also a sheet of paper on which had been laid out a set of blackened
steel waistcoat buttons, a bunch of keys, a steel-handled pocket-knife,
a steel-cased watch on a partly-fused rolled-gold chain, and a pocket
corkscrew. The coroner drew the attention of the jury to these objects,
and then took possession of them, that they might be identified by
witnesses. And meanwhile the jurymen gathered round the shell and stared
shudderingly at its gruesome contents.

"I am sorry, gentlemen," said the coroner, "to have to subject you to
this painful ordeal. But duty is duty. We must hope, as I think we may,
that this poor creature met a painless if in some respects a rather
terrible death."

At this point, Thorndyke, who had drawn near to the table, cast a long
and steady glance down into the shell; and immediately his ordinarily
rather impassive face seemed to congeal; all expression faded from it,
leaving it as immovable and uncommunicative as the granite face of an
Egyptian statue. I knew the symptom of old and began to speculate on its
present significance.

"Are you taking any medical evidence?" he asked.

"Medical evidence!" the coroner repeated, scornfully. "Certainly not,
sir! I do not waste the public money by employing so-called experts to
tell the jury what each of them can see quite plainly for himself. I
imagine," he added, turning to the foreman, "that you will not require a
learned doctor to explain to you how that poor fellow mortal met his
death?" And the foreman, glancing askance at the skull, replied, with a
pallid and sickly smile, that "he thought not."

"Do you, sir," the coroner continued, with a dramatic wave of the hand
towards the plain coffin, "suppose that we shall find any difficulty in
determining how that man came by his death?"

"I imagine," replied Thorndyke, without moving a muscle, or, indeed,
appearing to have any muscles to move, "I imagine you will find no
difficulty whatever."

"So do I," said the coroner.

"Then," retorted Thorndyke, with a faint, inscrutable smile, "we are,
for once, in complete agreement."

As the coroner and jury retired, leaving my colleague and me alone in
the mortuary, Thorndyke remarked:

"I suppose this kind of farce will be repeated periodically so long as
these highly technical medical inquiries continue to be conducted by lay
persons."

I made no reply, for I had taken a long look into the shell, and was
lost in astonishment.

"But my dear Thorndyke!" I exclaimed; "what on earth does it mean? Are
we to suppose that a woman can have palmed herself off as a man on the
examining medical officer of a London Life Assurance Society?"

Thorndyke shook his head. "I think not," said he. "Our friend, Mr.
Bland, may conceivably have been a woman in disguise, but he certainly
was not a negress."

"A negress!" I gasped. "By Jove! So it is. I hadn't looked at the skull.
But that only makes the mystery more mysterious. Because, you remember,
the body was certainly dressed in Bland's clothes."

"Yes, there seems to be no doubt about that. And you may have noticed,
as I did," Thorndyke continued dryly, "the remarkably fire-proof
character of the waistcoat buttons, watch-case, knife-handle, and other
identifiable objects."

"But what a horrible affair!" I exclaimed. "The brute must have gone out
and enticed some poor devil of a negress into the house, have murdered
her in cold blood and then deliberately dressed the corpse in his own
clothes! It is perfectly frightful!"

Again Thorndyke shook his head. "It wasn't as bad as that, Jervis," said
he, "though I must confess that I feel strongly tempted to let your
hypothesis stand. It would be quite amusing to put Mr. Bland on trial
for the murder of an unknown negress, and let him explain the facts
himself. But our reputation is at stake. Look at the bones again and a
little more critically. You very probably looked for the sex first; then
you looked for racial characters. Now carry your investigations a step
farther."

"There is the stature," said I. "But that is of no importance, as these
are not Bland's bones. The only other point that I notice is that the
fire seems to have acted very unequally on the different parts of the
body."

"Yes," agreed Thorndyke, "and that is _the_ point. Some parts are more
burnt than others; and the parts which are burnt most are the wrong
parts. Look at the back-bone, for instance. The vertebr are as white as
chalk. They are mere masses of bone ash. But, of all parts of the
skeleton, there is none so completely protected 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 55.1," 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.






[End of Percival Bland's Proxy, by R. Austin Freeman]
