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Title: The Echo of a Mutiny
   [Story #3 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: 5 July 2018
Date last updated: 5 July 2018
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1545

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.






THE ECHO OF A MUTINY

by R. Austin Freeman





I. DEATH ON THE GIRDLER


Popular belief ascribes to infants and the lower animals certain occult
powers of divining character denied to the reasoning faculties of the
human adult; and is apt to accept their judgment as finally over-riding
the pronouncements of mere experience.

Whether this belief rests upon any foundation other than the universal
love of paradox it is unnecessary to inquire. It is very generally
entertained, especially by ladies of a certain social status; and by
Mrs. Thomas Solly it was loyally maintained as an article of faith.

"Yes," she moralised, "it's surprisin' how they know, the little
children and the dumb animals. But they do. There's no deceivin' _them_.
They can tell the gold from the dross in a moment, they can, and they
reads the human heart like a book. Wonderful, I call it. I suppose it's
instinct."

Having delivered herself of this priceless gem of philosophic thought,
she thrust her arms elbow-deep into the foaming wash-tub and glanced
admiringly at her lodger as he sat in the doorway, supporting on one
knee an obese infant of eighteen months and on the other a fine tabby
cat.

James Brown was an elderly sea-faring man, small and slight in build and
in manner suave, insinuating and perhaps a trifle sly. But he had all
the sailor's love of children and animals, and the sailor's knack of
making himself acceptable to them, for, as he sat with an empty pipe
wobbling in the grasp of his toothless gums, the baby beamed with humid
smiles, and the cat, rolled into a fluffy ball and purring like a
stocking-loom, worked its fingers ecstatically as if it were trying on a
new pair of gloves.

"It must be mortal lonely out at the lighthouse," Mrs. Solly resumed.
"Only three men and never a neighbour to speak to; and, Lord! what a
muddle they must be in with no woman to look after them and keep 'em
tidy. But you won't be overworked, Mr. Brown, in these long days;
daylight till past nine o'clock. I don't know what you'll do to pass the
time."

"Oh, I shall find plenty to do, I expect," said Brown, "what with
cleanin' the lamps and glasses and paintin' up the ironwork. And that
reminds me," he added, looking round at the clock, "that time's getting
on. High water at half-past ten, and here it's gone eight o'clock."

Mrs. Solly, acting on the hint, began rapidly to fish out the washed
garments and wring them out into the form of short ropes. Then, having
dried her hands on her apron, she relieved Brown of the protesting baby.

"Your room will be ready for you, Mr. Brown," said she, "when your turn
comes for a spell ashore; and main glad me and Tom will be to see you
back."

"Thank you, Mrs. Solly, ma'am," answered Brown, tenderly placing the cat
on the floor; "you won't be more glad than what I will." He shook hands
warmly with his landlady, kissed the baby, chucked the cat under the
chin, and, picking up his little chest by its becket, swung it on to his
shoulder and strode out of the cottage.

His way lay across the marshes, and, like the ships in the offing, he
shaped his course by the twin towers of Reculver that stood up
grotesquely on the rim of the land; and as he trod the springy turf, Tom
Solly's fleecy charges looked up at him with vacant stares and
valedictory bleatings. Once, at a dyke-gate, he paused to look back at
the fair Kentish landscape: at the grey tower of St. Nicholas-at-Wade
peeping above the trees and the far-away mill at Sarre, whirling slowly
in the summer breeze; and, above all, at the solitary cottage where, for
a brief spell in his stormy life, he had known the homely joys of
domesticity and peace. Well, that was over for the present, and the
lighthouse loomed ahead. With a half-sigh he passed through the gate and
walked on towards Reculver.

Outside the whitewashed cottages with their official black chimneys a
petty-officer of the coast-guard was adjusting the halyards of the
flagstaff. He looked round as Brown approached, and hailed him cheerily.

"Here you are, then," said he, "all figged out in your new togs, too.
But we're in a bit of a difficulty, d'ye see. We've got to pull up to
Whitstable this morning, so I can't send a man out with you and I can't
spare a boat."

"Have I got to swim out, then?" asked Brown.

The coast-guard grinned. "Not in them new clothes, mate," he answered.
"No, but there's old Willett's boat; he isn't using her to-day; he's
going over to Minster to see his daughter, and he'll let us have the
loan of the boat. But there's no one to go with you, and I'm responsible
to Willett."

"Well, what about it?" asked Brown, with the deep-sea sailor's (usually
misplaced) confidence in his power to handle a sailing-boat. "D'ye think
I can't manage a tub of a boat? Me what's used the sea since I was a kid
of ten?"

"Yes," said the coast-guard; "but who's to bring her back?"

"Why, the man that I'm going to relieve," answered Brown. "He don't want
to swim no more than what I do."

The coast-guard reflected with his telescope pointed at a passing barge.
"Well, I suppose it'll be all right," he concluded; "but it's a pity
they couldn't send the tender round. However, if you undertake to send
the boat back, we'll get her afloat. It's time you were off."

He strolled away to the back of the cottages, whence he presently
returned with two of his mates, and the four men proceeded along the
shore to where Willett's boat lay just above high-water mark.

The _Emily_ was a beamy craft of the type locally known as a "half-share
skiff," solidly built of oak, with varnished planking and fitted with
main and mizzen lugs. She was a good handful for four men, and, as she
slid over the soft chalk rocks with a hollow rumble, the coast-guards
debated the advisability of lifting out the bags of shingle with which
she was ballasted. However, she was at length dragged down, ballast and
all, to the water's edge, and then, while Brown stepped the mainmast,
the petty-officer gave him his directions. "What you've got to do," said
he, "is to make use of the flood-tide. Keep her nose nor'-east, and with
this trickle of nor'-westerly breeze you ought to make the lighthouse in
one board. Anyhow, don't let her get east of the lighthouse, or, when
the ebb sets in, you'll be in a fix."

To these admonitions Brown listened with jaunty indifference as he
hoisted the sails and watched the incoming tide creep over the level
shore. Then the boat lifted on the gentle swell. Putting out an oar, he
gave a vigorous shove off that sent the boat, with a final scrape, clear
of the beach, and then, having dropped the rudder on to its pintles, he
seated himself and calmly belayed the main-sheet.

"There he goes," growled the coast-guard; "makin' fast his sheet. They
_will_ do it" (he invariably did it himself), "and that's how accidents
happen. I hope old Willett'll see his boat back all right."

He stood for some time watching the dwindling boat as it sidled across
the smooth water; then he turned and followed his mates towards the
station.

Out on the south-western edge of the Girdler Sand, just inside the
two-fathom line, the spindle-shanked lighthouse stood a-straddle on its
long screw-piles like some uncouth red-bodied wading-bird. It was now
nearly half-flood tide. The highest shoals were long since covered, and
the lighthouse rose above the smooth sea as solitary as a slaver
becalmed in the "middle passage."

On the gallery outside the lantern were two men, the entire staff of the
building, of whom one sat huddled in a chair with his left leg propped
up with pillows on another, while his companion rested a telescope on
the rail and peered at the faint grey line of the distant land and the
two tiny points that marked the twin spires of Reculver.

"I don't see any signs of the boat, Harry," said he.

The other man groaned. "I shall lose the tide," he complained, "and then
there's another day gone."

"They can pull you down to Birchington and put you in the train," said
the first man.

"I don't want no trains," growled the invalid. "The boat'll be bad
enough. I suppose there's nothing coming our way, Tom?"

Tom turned his face eastward and shaded his eyes. "There's a brig coming
across the tide from the north," he said. "Looks like a collier." He
pointed his telescope at the approaching vessel, and added: "She's got
two new cloths in her upper fore top-sail, one on each leech."

The other man sat up eagerly. "What's her trysail like, Tom?" he asked.

"Can't see it," replied Tom. "Yes, I can, now: it's tanned. Why, that'll
be the old _Utopia_, Harry; she's the only brig I know that's got a
tanned trysail."

"Look here, Tom," exclaimed the other, "if that's the _Utopia_, she's
going to my home and I'm going aboard of her. Captain Mockett'll give me
a passage, I know."

"You oughtn't to go until you're relieved, you know, Barnett," said Tom
doubtfully; "it's against regulations to leave your station."

"Regulations be blowed!" exclaimed Barnett. "My leg's more to me than
the regulations. I don't want to be a cripple all my life. Besides, I'm
no good here, and this new chap, Brown, will be coming out presently.
You run up the signal, Tom, like a good comrade, and hail the brig."

"Well, it's your look-out," said Tom, "and I don't mind saying that if I
was in your place I should cut off home and see a doctor, if I got the
chance." He sauntered off to the flag-locker, and, selecting the two
code-flags, deliberately toggled them on to the halyards. Then, as the
brig swept up within range, he hoisted the little balls of bunting to
the flagstaff-head and jerked the halyards, when the two flags blew out
making the signal "Need assistance."

Promptly a coal-soiled answering pennant soared to the brig's
main-truck; less promptly the collier went about, and, turning her nose
down stream, slowly drifted stern-forwards towards the lighthouse. Then
a boat slid out through her gangway, and a couple of men plied the oars
vigorously.

"Lighthouse ahoy!" roared one of them, as the boat came within hail.
"What's amiss?"

"Harry Barnett has broke his leg," shouted the lighthouse keeper, "and
he wants to know if Captain Mockett will give him a passage to
Whitstable."

The boat turned back to the brig, and after a brief and bellowed
consultation, once more pulled towards the lighthouse.

"Skipper says yus," roared the sailor, when he was within ear-shot, "and
he says look alive, 'cause he don't want to miss his tide."

The injured man heaved a sigh of relief. "That's good news," said he,
"though, how the blazes I'm going to get down the ladder is more than I
can tell. What do you say, Jeffreys?"

"I say you'd better let me lower you with the tackle," replied Jeffreys.
"You can sit in the bight of a rope and I'll give you a line to steady
yourself with."

"Ah, that'll do, Tom," said Barnett; "but, for the Lord's sake, pay out
the fall-rope gently."

The arrangements were made so quickly that by the time the boat was fast
alongside everything was in readiness, and a minute later the injured
man, dangling like a gigantic spider from the end of the tackle, slowly
descended, cursing volubly to the accompaniment of the creaking of the
blocks. His chest and kit-bag followed, and, as soon as these were
unhooked from the tackle, the boat pulled off to the brig, which was now
slowly creeping stern-foremost past the lighthouse. The sick man was
hoisted up the side, his chest handed up after him, and then the brig
was put on her course due south across the Kentish Flats.

Jeffreys stood on the gallery watching the receding vessel and listening
to the voices of her crew as they grew small and weak in the increasing
distance. Now that his gruff companion was gone, a strange loneliness
had fallen on the lighthouse. The last of the homeward-bound ships had
long since passed up the Princes Channel and left the calm sea desolate
and blank. The distant buoys, showing as tiny black dots on the glassy
surface, and the spindly shapes of the beacons which stood up from
invisible shoals, but emphasised the solitude of the empty sea, and the
tolling of the bell buoy on the Shivering Sand, stealing faintly down
the wind, sounded weird and mournful. The day's work was already done.
The lenses were polished, the lamps had been trimmed, and the little
motor that worked the fog-horn had been cleaned and oiled. There were
several odd jobs, it is true, waiting to be done, as there always are in
a lighthouse; but, just now, Jeffreys was not in a working humour. A new
comrade was coming into his life to-day, a stranger with whom he was to
be shut up alone, night and day, for a month on end, and whose temper
and tastes and habits might mean for him pleasant companionship or
jangling and discord without end. Who was this man Brown? What had he
been? and what was he like? These were the questions that passed,
naturally enough, through the lighthouse-keeper's mind and distracted
him from his usual thoughts and occupations.

Presently a speck on the landward horizon caught his eye. He snatched up
the telescope eagerly to inspect it. Yes, it was a boat; but not the
coast-guard's cutter, for which he was looking. Evidently a fisherman's
boat and with only one man in it. He laid down the telescope with a sigh
of disappointment, and, filling his pipe, leaned on the rail with a
dreamy eye bent on the faint grey line of the land.

Three long years had he spent in this dreary solitude, so repugnant to
his active, restless nature: three blank, interminable years, with
nothing to look back on but the endless succession of summer calms,
stormy nights and the chilly fogs of winter, when the unseen steamers
hooted from the void and the fog-horn bellowed its hoarse warning.

Why had he come to this God-forgotten spot? and why did he stay, when
the wide world called to him? And then memory painted him a picture on
which his mind's eye had often looked before and which once again arose
before him, shutting out the vision of the calm sea and the distant
land. It was a brightly-coloured picture. It showed a cloudless sky
brooding over the deep blue tropic sea; and in the middle of the
picture, see-sawing gently on the quiet swell, a white-painted barque.

Her sails were clewed up untidily, her swinging yards jerked at the
slack braces and her untended wheel revolved to and fro to the
oscillations of the rudder.

She was not a derelict, for more than a dozen men were on her deck; but
the men were all drunk and mostly asleep, and there was never an officer
among them.

Then he saw the interior of one of her cabins. The chart-rack, the
tell-tale compass and the chronometers marked it as the captain's cabin.
In it were four men, and two of them lay dead on the deck. Of the other
two, one was a small, cunning-faced man, who was, at the moment,
kneeling beside one of the corpses to wipe a knife upon its coat. The
fourth man was himself.

Again, he saw the two murderers stealing off in a quarter-boat, as the
barque with her drunken crew drifted towards the spouting surf of a
river-bar. He saw the ship melt away in the surf like an icicle in the
sunshine; and, later, two shipwrecked mariners, picked up in an open
boat and set ashore at an American port.

That was why he was here. Because he was a murderer. The other
scoundrel, Amos Todd, had turned Queen's Evidence and denounced him, and
he had barely managed to escape. Since then he had hidden himself from
the great world, and here he must continue to hide, not from the
law--for his person was unknown now that his shipmates were dead--but
from the partner of his crime. It was the fear of Todd that had changed
him from Jeffrey Rorke to Tom Jeffreys and had sent him to the Girdler,
a prisoner for life. Todd might die--might even now be dead--but he
would never hear of it: would never hear the news of his release.

He roused himself and once more pointed his telescope at the distant
boat. She was considerably nearer now and seemed to be heading out
towards the lighthouse. Perhaps the man in her was bringing a message;
at any rate, there was no sign of the coast-guard's cutter.

He went in, and, betaking himself to the kitchen, busied himself with a
few simple preparations for dinner. But there was nothing to cook, for
there remained the cold meat from yesterday's cooking, which he would
make sufficient, with some biscuit in place of potatoes. He felt
restless and unstrung; the solitude irked him, and the everlasting wash
of the water among the piles jarred on his nerves.

When he went out again into the gallery the ebb-tide had set in strongly
and the boat was little more than a mile distant; and now, through the
glass, he could see that the man in her wore the uniform cap of the
Trinity House. Then the man must be his future comrade, Brown; but this
was very extraordinary. What were they to do with the boat? There was no
one to take her back.

The breeze was dying away. As he watched the boat, he saw the man lower
the sail and take to his oars; and something of hurry in the way the man
pulled over the gathering tide, caused Jeffreys to look round the
horizon. And then, for the first time, he noticed a bank of fog creeping
up from the east and already so near that the beacon on the East Girdler
had faded out of sight. He hastened in to start the little motor that
compressed the air for the fog-horn and waited awhile to see that the
mechanism was running properly. Then, as the deck vibrated to the roar
of the horn, he went out once more into the gallery.

The fog was now all round the lighthouse and the boat was hidden from
view. He listened intently. The enclosing wall of vapour seemed to have
shut out sound as well as vision. At intervals the horn bellowed its
note of warning, and then all was still save the murmur of the water
among the piles below, and, infinitely faint and far away, the mournful
tolling of the bell on the Shivering Sand.

At length there came to his ear the muffled sound of oars working in the
tholes; then, at the very edge of the circle of grey water that was
visible, the boat appeared through the fog, pale and spectral, with a
shadowy figure pulling furiously. The horn emitted a hoarse growl; the
man looked round, perceived the lighthouse and altered his course
towards it.

Jeffreys descended the iron stairway, and, walking along the lower
gallery, stood at the head of the ladder earnestly watching the
approaching stranger. Already he was tired of being alone. The yearning
for human companionship had been growing ever since Barnett left. But
what sort of comrade was this stranger who was coming into his life? And
coming to occupy so dominant a place in it. It was a momentous question.

The boat swept down swiftly athwart the hurrying tide. Nearer it came
and yet nearer: and still Jeffreys could catch no glimpse of his new
comrade's face. At length it came fairly alongside and bumped against
the fender-posts; the stranger whisked in an oar and grabbed a rung of
the ladder, and Jeffreys dropped a coil of rope into the boat. And still
the man's face was hidden.

Jeffreys leaned out over the ladder and watched him anxiously, as he
made fast the rope, unhooked the sail from the traveller and unstepped
the mast. When he had set all in order, the stranger picked up a small
chest, and, swinging it over his shoulder, stepped on to the ladder.
Slowly, by reason of his encumbrance, he mounted, rung by rung, with
never an upward glance, and Jeffreys gazed down at the top of his head
with growing curiosity. At last he reached the top of the ladder and
Jeffreys stooped to lend him a hand. Then, for the first time, he looked
up, and Jeffreys started back with a blanched face.

"God Almighty!" he gasped; "it's Amos Todd!"

As the newcomer stepped on the gallery, the fog-horn emitted a roar like
that of some hungry monster. Jeffreys turned abruptly without a word,
and walked to the stairs, followed by Todd, and the two men ascended
with never a sound but the hollow clank of their footsteps on the iron
plates. Silently Jeffreys stalked into the living-room and, as his
companion followed, he turned and motioned to the latter to set down his
chest.

"You ain't much of a talker, mate," said Todd, looking round the room in
some surprise; "ain't you going to say 'good-morning'? We're going to be
good comrades, I hope. I'm Jim Brown, the new hand, I am; what might
your name be?"

Jeffreys turned on him suddenly and led him to the window. "Look at me
carefully, Amos Todd," he said sternly, "and then ask yourself what my
name is."

At the sound of his voice Todd looked up with a start and turned pale as
death. "It can't be," he whispered, "it can't be Jeff Rorke!"

The other man laughed harshly, and, leaning forward, said in a low
voice: "Hast thou found me, O mine enemy!"

"Don't say that!" exclaimed Todd. "Don't call me your enemy, Jeff. Lord
knows but I'm glad to see you, though I'd never have known you without
your beard, and with that grey hair. I've been to blame, Jeff, and I
know it; but it ain't no use raking up old grudges. Let bygones be
bygones, Jeff, and let us be pals as we used to be." He wiped his face
with his handkerchief and watched his companion apprehensively.

"Sit down," said Rorke, pointing to a shabby rep-covered arm-chair; "sit
down and tell us what you've done with all that money. You've blued it
all, I suppose, or you wouldn't be here."

"Robbed, Jeff," answered Todd; "robbed of every penny. Ah! that was an
unfortunate affair, that job on board the old _Sea-flower_. But it's
over and done with and we'd best forget it. They're all dead but us,
Jeff, so we're safe enough so long as we keep our mouths shut; all at
the bottom of the sea--and the best place for 'em, too."

"Yes," Rorke replied fiercely, "that's the best place for your shipmates
when they know too much; at the bottom of the sea or swinging at the end
of a rope." He paced up and down the little room with rapid strides, and
each time that he approached Todd's chair the latter shrank back with an
expression of alarm.

"Don't sit there staring at me," said Rorke. "Why don't you smoke or do
something?"

Todd hastily produced a pipe from his pocket, and having filled it from
a moleskin pouch, stuck it in his mouth while he searched for a match.
Apparently he carried his matches loose in his pocket, for he presently
brought one forth--a red-headed match, which, when he struck it on the
wall, lighted with a pale-blue flame. He applied it to his pipe, sucking
in his cheeks while he kept his eyes fixed on his companion. Rorke,
meanwhile, halted in his walk to cut some shavings from a cake of hard
tobacco with a large clasp-knife; and, as he stood, he gazed with
frowning abstraction at Todd.

"This pipe's stopped," said the latter, sucking ineffectually at the
mouth-piece. "Have you got such a thing as a piece of wire, Jeff?"

"No, I haven't," replied Rorke; "not up here. I'll get a bit from the
store presently. Here, take this pipe till you can clean your own: I've
got another in the rack there." The sailor's natural hospitality
overcoming for the moment his animosity, he thrust the pipe that he had
just filled towards Todd, who took it with a mumbled "Thank you" and an
anxious eye on the open knife. On the wall beside the chair was a
roughly-carved pipe-rack containing several pipes, one of which Rorke
lifted out; and, as he leaned over the chair to reach it, Todd's face
went several shades paler.

"Well, Jeff," he said, after a pause, while Rorke cut a fresh "fill" of
tobacco, "are we going to be pals same as what we used to be?"

Rorke's animosity lighted up afresh. "Am I going to be pals with the man
that tried to swear away my life?" he said sternly; and after a pause he
added: "That wants thinking about, that does; and meantime I must go and
look at the engine."

When Rorke had gone the new hand sat, with the two pipes in his hands,
reflecting deeply. Abstractedly he stuck the fresh pipe into his mouth,
and, dropping the stopped one into the rack, felt for a match. Still
with an air of abstraction he lit the pipe, and, having smoked for a
minute or two, rose from the chair and began softly to creep across the
room, looking about him and listening intently. At the door he paused to
look out into the fog, and then, having again listened attentively, he
stepped on tip-toe out on to the gallery and along towards the stairway.
Of a sudden the voice of Rorke brought him up with a start.

"Hallo, Todd! where are you off to?"

"I'm just going down to make the boat secure," was the reply.

"Never you mind about the boat," said Rorke. "I'll see to her."

"Right O, Jeff," said Todd, still edging towards the stairway. "But I
say, mate, where's the other man--the man that I'm to relieve?"

"There ain't any other man," replied Rorke; "he went off aboard a
collier."

Todd's face suddenly became grey and haggard. "Then, there's no one here
but us two!" he gasped; and then, with an effort to conceal his fear, he
asked: "But who's going to take the boat back?"

"We'll see about that presently," replied Rorke; "you get along in and
unpack your chest."

He came out on the gallery as he spoke, with a lowering frown on his
face. Todd cast a terrified glance at him, and then turned and ran for
his life towards the stairway.

"Come back!" roared Rorke, springing forward along the gallery; but
Todd's feet were already clattering down the iron steps. By the time
Rorke reached the head of the stairs, the fugitive was near the bottom;
but here, in his haste, he stumbled, barely saving himself by the
handrail, and when he recovered his balance Rorke was upon him. Todd
darted to the head of the ladder, but, as he grasped the stanchion, his
pursuer seized him by the collar. In a moment he had turned with his
hand under his coat. There was a quick blow, a loud curse from Rorke, an
answering yell from Todd, and a knife fell spinning through the air and
dropped into the fore-peak of the boat below.

"You murderous little devil!" said Rorke in an ominously quiet voice,
with his bleeding hand gripping his captive by the throat. "Handy with
your knife as ever, eh? So you were off to give information, were you?"

"No, I wasn't, Jeff," replied Todd in a choking voice; "I wasn't, s'elp
me God. Let go, Jeff. I didn't mean no harm. I was only----" With a
sudden wrench he freed one hand and struck out frantically at his
captor's face. But Rorke warded off the blow, and, grasping the other
wrist, gave a violent push and let go. Todd staggered backward a few
paces along the staging, bringing up at the extreme edge; and here, for
a sensible time, he stood with wide-open mouth and starting eye-balls,
swaying and clutching wildly at the air. Then, with a shrill scream, he
toppled backwards and fell, striking a pile in his descent and
rebounding into the water.

In spite of the audible thump of his head on the pile, he was not
stunned, for, when he rose to the surface, he struck out vigorously,
uttering short, stifled cries for help. Rorke watched him with set teeth
and quickened breath, but made no move. Smaller and still smaller grew
the head with its little circle of ripples, swept away on the swift
ebb-tide, and fainter the bubbling cries that came across the smooth
water. At length as the small black spot began to fade in the fog, the
drowning man, with a final effort, raised his head clear of the surface
and sent a last, despairing shriek towards the lighthouse. The fog-horn
sent back an answering bellow; the head sank below the surface and was
seen no more; and in the dreadful stillness that settled down upon the
sea there sounded faint and far away the muffled tolling of a bell.

Rorke stood for some minutes immovable, wrapped in thought. Presently
the distant hoot of a steamer's whistle aroused him. The ebb-tide
shipping was beginning to come down and the fog might lift at any
moment; and there was the boat still alongside. She must be disposed of
at once. No one had seen her arrive and no one must see her made fast to
the lighthouse. Once get rid of the boat and all traces of Todd's visit
would be destroyed.

He ran down the ladder and stepped into the boat. It was perfectly
simple. She was heavily ballasted and would go down like a stone if she
filled.

He shifted some of the bags of shingle, and, lifting the bottom boards,
pulled out the plug. Instantly a large jet of water spouted up into the
bottom. Rorke looked at it critically, and, deciding that it would fill
her in a few minutes, replaced the bottom boards; and having secured the
mast and sail with a few turns of the sheet round a thwart, to prevent
them from floating away, he cast off the mooring-rope and stepped on the
ladder.

As the released boat began to move away on the tide, he ran up and
mounted to the upper gallery to watch her disappearance. Suddenly he
remembered Todd's chest. It was still in the room below. With a hurried
glance around into the fog, he ran down to the room, and snatching up
the chest, carried it out on the lower gallery. After another nervous
glance around to assure himself that no craft was in sight, he heaved
the chest over the handrail, and, when it fell with a loud splash into
the sea, he waited to watch it float away after its owner and the sunken
boat. But it never rose; and presently he returned to the upper gallery.

The fog was thinning perceptibly now, and the boat remained plainly
visible as she drifted away. But she sank more slowly than he had
expected, and presently as she drifted farther away, he fetched the
telescope and peered at her with growing anxiety. It would be
unfortunate if any one saw her; if she should be picked up here, with
her plug out, it would be disastrous.

He was beginning to be really alarmed. Through the glass he could see
that the boat was now rolling in a sluggish, water-logged fashion, but
she still showed some inches of free-board, and the fog was thinning
every moment.

Presently the blast of a steamer's whistle sounded close at hand. He
looked round hurriedly and, seeing nothing, again pointed the telescope
eagerly at the dwindling boat. Suddenly he gave a gasp of relief. The
boat had rolled gunwale under; had staggered back for a moment and then
rolled again, slowly, finally, with the water pouring in over the
submerged gunwale.

In a few more seconds she had vanished. Rorke lowered the telescope and
took a deep breath. Now he was safe. The boat had sunk unseen. But he
was better than safe: he was free.

His evil spirit, the standing menace of his life, was gone, and the wide
world, the world of life, of action, of pleasure, called to him.

In a few minutes the fog lifted. The sun shone brightly on the
red-funnelled cattle-boat whose whistle had startled him just now, the
summer blue came back to sky and sea, and the land peeped once more over
the edge of the horizon.

He went in, whistling cheerfully, and stopped the motor; returned to
coil away the rope that he had thrown to Todd; and, when he had hoisted
a signal for assistance, he went in once more to eat his solitary meal
in peace and gladness.




II. "THE SINGING BONE"

(Related by Christopher Jervis, M.D.)


To every kind of scientific work a certain amount of manual labour
naturally appertains, labour that cannot be performed by the scientist
himself, since art is long but life is short. A chemical analysis
involves a laborious "clean up" of apparatus and laboratory, for which
the chemist has no time; the preparation of a skeleton--the maceration,
bleaching, "assembling," and riveting together of bones--must be carried
out by someone whose time is not too precious. And so with other
scientific activities. Behind the man of science with his outfit of
knowledge is the indispensable mechanic with his outfit of manual skill.

Thorndyke's laboratory assistant, Polton, was a fine example of the
latter type; deft, resourceful, ingenious and untiring. He was somewhat
of an inventive genius, too; and it was one of his inventions that
connected us with the singular case that I am about to record.

Though by trade a watchmaker, Polton was, by choice, an optician.
Optical apparatus was the passion of his life; and when, one day, he
produced for our inspection an improved prism for increasing the
efficiency of gas-buoys, Thorndyke at once brought the invention to the
notice of a friend at the Trinity House.

As a consequence, we three--Thorndyke, Polton and I--found ourselves
early on a fine July morning making our way down Middle Temple Lane
bound for the Temple Pier. A small oil-launch lay alongside the pontoon,
and, as we made our appearance, a red-faced, white-whiskered gentleman
stood up in the cockpit.

"Here's a delightful morning, doctor," he sang out in a fine, brassy,
resonant, sea-faring voice; "sort of day for a trip to the lower river,
hey? Hallo, Polton! Coming down to take the bread out of our mouths, are
you? Ha, ha!" The cheery laugh rang out over the river and mingled with
the throb of the engine as the little launch moved off from the pier.

Captain Grumpass was one of the Elder Brethren of the Trinity House.
Formerly a client of Thorndyke's, he had subsided, as Thorndyke's
clients were apt to do, into the position of a personal friend, and his
hearty regard included our invaluable assistant.

"Nice state of things," continued the captain, with a chuckle, "when a
body of nautical experts have got to be taught their business by a
parcel of lawyers or doctors, what? I suppose trade's slack and 'Satan
findeth mischief still,' hey, Polton?"

"There isn't much doing on the civil side, sir," replied Polton, with a
quaint, crinkly smile, "but the criminals are still going strong."

"Ha! mystery department still flourishing, what? And, by Jove! talking
of mysteries, doctor, our people have got a queer problem to work out;
something quite in your line--quite. Yes, and, by the Lord Moses, since
I've got you here, why shouldn't I suck your brains?"

"Exactly," said Thorndyke. "Why shouldn't you?"

"Well, then, I will," said the captain, "so here goes, All hands to the
pump!" He lit a cigar, and, after a few preliminary puffs, began: "The
mystery, shortly stated, is this: one of our lighthousemen has
disappeared--vanished off the face of the earth and left no trace. He
may have bolted, he may have been drowned accidentally or he may have
been murdered. But I'd better give you the particulars in order. At the
end of last week a barge brought into Ramsgate a letter from the
screw-pile lighthouse on the Girdler. There are only two men there, and
it seems that one of them, a man named Barnett, had broken his leg, and
he asked that the tender should be sent to bring him ashore. Well, it
happened that the local tender, the _Warden_, was up on the slip in
Ramsgate Harbour, having a scrape down, and wouldn't be available for a
day or two, so, as the case was urgent the officer at Ramsgate sent a
letter to the lighthouse by one of the pleasure steamers saying that the
man should be relieved by boat on the following morning, which was
Saturday. He also wrote to a new hand who had just been taken on, a man
named James Brown, who was lodging near Reculver, waiting his turn,
telling him to go out on Saturday morning in the coast-guard's boat; and
he sent a third letter to the coast-guard at Reculver asking him to take
Brown out to the lighthouse and bring Barnett ashore. Well, between
them, they made a fine muddle of it. The coast-guard couldn't spare
either a boat or a man, so they borrowed a fisherman's boat, and in this
the man Brown started off alone, like an idiot, on the chance that
Barnett would be able to sail the boat back in spite of his broken leg.

"Meanwhile Barnett, who is a Whitstable man, had signalled a collier
bound for his native town, and got taken off; so that the other keeper,
Thomas Jeffreys, was left alone until Brown should turn up.

"But Brown never did turn up. The coast-guard helped him to put off and
saw him well out to sea, and the keeper, Jeffreys, saw a sailing-boat
with one man in her, making for the lighthouse. Then a bank of fog came
up and hid the boat, and when the fog cleared she was nowhere to be
seen. Man and boat had vanished and left no sign."

"He may have been run down in the fog," Thorndyke suggested.

"He may," agreed the captain, "but no accident has been reported. The
coast-guards think he may have capsized in a squall--they saw him make
the sheet fast. But there weren't any squalls: the weather was quite
calm."

"Was he all right and well when he put off?" inquired Thorndyke.

"Yes," replied the captain, "the coast-guards' report is highly
circumstantial; in fact, it's full of silly details that have no bearing
on anything. This is what they say." He pulled out an official letter
and read: "'When last seen, the missing man was seated in the boat's
stern to windward of the helm. He had belayed the sheet. He was holding
a pipe and tobacco-pouch in his hands and steering with his elbow. He
was filling the pipe from the tobacco-pouch.' There! 'He was holding the
pipe in his hand,' mark you! not with his toes; and he was filling it
from a tobacco-pouch, whereas you'd have expected him to fill it from a
coal-scuttle or a feeding-bottle. Bah!" The captain rammed the letter
back in his pocket and puffed scornfully at his cigar.

"You are hardly fair to the coast-guard," said Thorndyke, laughing at
the captain's vehemence. "The duty of a witness is to give _all_ the
facts, not a judicious selection."

"But, my dear sir," said Captain Grumpass, "what the deuce can it matter
what the poor devil filled his pipe from?"

"Who can say?" answered Thorndyke. "It may turn out to be a highly
material fact. One never knows beforehand. The value of a particular
fact depends on its relation to the rest of the evidence."

"I suppose it does," grunted the captain; and he continued to smoke in
reflective silence until we opened Blackwall Point, when he suddenly
stood up.

"There's a steam trawler alongside our wharf," he announced. "Now what
the deuce can she be doing there?" He scanned the little steamer
attentively, and continued: "They seem to be landing something, too.
Just pass me those glasses, Polton. Why, hang me! it's a dead body! But
why on earth are they landing it on our wharf? They must have known you
were coming, doctor."

As the launch swept alongside the wharf, the captain sprang up lightly
and approached the group gathered round the body. "What's this?" he
asked. "Why have they brought this thing here?"

The master of the trawler, who had superintended the landing, proceeded
to explain.

"It's one of your men, sir," said he. "We saw the body lying on the edge
of the South Shingles Sand, close to the beacon, as we passed at low
water, so we put off the boat and fetched it aboard. As there was
nothing to identify the man by, I had a look in his pockets and found
this letter." He handed the captain an official envelope addressed to
"Mr. J. Brown, c/o Mr. Solly, Shepherd, Reculver, Kent."

"Why, this is the man we were speaking about, doctor," exclaimed Captain
Grumpass. "What a very singular coincidence. But what are we to do with
the body?"

"You will have to write to the coroner," replied Thorndyke. "By the way,
did you turn out all the pockets?" he asked, turning to the skipper of
the trawler.

"No, sir," was the reply. "I found the letter in the first pocket that I
felt in, so I didn't examine any of the others. Is there anything more
that you want to know, sir?"

"Nothing but your name and address, for the coroner," replied Thorndyke,
and the skipper, having given this information and expressed the hope
that the coroner would not keep him "hanging about," returned to his
vessel and pursued his way to Billingsgate.

"I wonder if you would mind having a look at the body of this poor
devil, while Polton is showing us his contraptions," said Captain
Grumpass.

"I can't do much without a coroner's order," replied Thorndyke; "but if
it will give you any satisfaction, Jervis and I will make a preliminary
inspection with pleasure."

"I should be glad if you would," said the captain. "We should like to
know that the poor beggar met his end fairly."

The body was accordingly moved to a shed, and, as Polton was led away,
carrying the black bag that contained his precious model, we entered the
shed and commenced our investigation.

The deceased was a small, elderly man, decently dressed in a somewhat
nautical fashion. He appeared to have been dead only two or three days,
and the body, unlike the majority of seaborne corpses, was uninjured by
fish or crabs. There were no fractured bones or other gross injuries,
and no wounds, excepting a ragged tear in the scalp at the back of the
head.

"The general appearance of the body," said Thorndyke, when he had noted
these particulars, "suggests death by drowning, though, of course, we
can't give a definite opinion until a _post mortem_ has been made."

"You don't attach any significance to that scalp-wound, then?" I asked.

"As a cause of death? No. It was obviously inflicted during life, but it
seems to have been an oblique blow that spent its force on the scalp,
leaving the skull uninjured. But it is very significant in another way."

"In what way?" I asked.

Thorndyke took out his pocket-case and extracted a pair of forceps.
"Consider the circumstances," said he. "This man put off from the shore
to go to the lighthouse, but never arrived there. The question is, where
did he arrive?" As he spoke he stooped over the corpse and turned back
the hair round the wound with the beak of the forceps. "Look at those
white objects among the hair, Jervis, and inside the wound. They tell us
something, I think."

I examined, through my lens, the chalky fragments to which he pointed.
"These seem to be bits of shells and the tubes of some marine worm," I
said.

"Yes," he answered; "the broken shells are evidently those of the acorn
barnacle, and the other fragments are mostly pieces of the tubes of the
common serpula. The inference that these objects suggest is an important
one. It is that this wound was produced by some body encrusted by acorn
barnacles and serpul; that is to say, by a body that is periodically
submerged. Now, what can that body be, and how can the deceased have
knocked his head against it?"

"It might be the stem of a ship that ran him down," I suggested.

"I don't think you would find many serpul on the stem of a ship," said
Thorndyke. "The combination rather suggests some stationary object
between tide-marks, such as a beacon. But one doesn't see how a man
could knock his head against a beacon, while, on the other hand, there
are no other stationary objects out in the estuary to knock against
except buoys, and a buoy presents a flat surface that could hardly have
produced this wound. By the way, we may as well see what there is in his
pockets, though it is not likely that robbery had anything to do with
his death."

"No," I agreed, "and I see his watch is in his pocket; quite a good
silver one," I added, taking it out. "It has stopped at 12.13."

"That may be important," said Thorndyke, making a note of the fact; "but
we had better examine the pockets one at a time, and put the things back
when we have looked at them."

The first pocket that we turned out was the left hip-pocket of the
monkey jacket. This was apparently the one that the skipper had rifled,
for we found in it two letters, both bearing the crest of the Trinity
House. These, of course, we returned without reading, and then passed on
to the right pocket. The contents of this were commonplace enough,
consisting of a briar pipe, a moleskin pouch and a number of loose
matches.

"Rather a casual proceeding, this," I remarked, "to carry matches loose
in the pocket, and a pipe with them, too."

"Yes," agreed Thorndyke; "especially with these very inflammable
matches. You notice that the sticks had been coated at the upper end
with sulphur before the red phosphorus heads were put on. They would
light with a touch, and would be very difficult to extinguish; which, no
doubt, is the reason that this type of match is so popular among seamen,
who have to light their pipes in all sorts of weather." As he spoke he
picked up the pipe and looked at it reflectively, turning it over in his
hand and peering into the bowl. Suddenly he glanced from the pipe to the
dead man's face and then, with the forceps, turned back the lips to look
into the mouth.

"Let us see what tobacco he smokes," said he.

I opened the sodden pouch and displayed a mass of dark, fine-cut
tobacco. "It looks like shag," I said.

"Yes, it is shag," he replied; "and now we will see what is in the pipe.
It has been only half smoked out." He dug out the "dottle" with his
pocket-knife on to a sheet of paper, and we both inspected it. Clearly
it was not shag, for it consisted of coarsely-cut shreds and was nearly
black.

"Shavings from a cake of 'hard,'" was my verdict, and Thorndyke agreed
as he shot the fragments back into the pipe.

The other pockets yielded nothing of interest, except a pocket-knife,
which Thorndyke opened and examined closely. There was not much money,
though as much as one would expect, and enough to exclude the idea of
robbery.

"Is there a sheath-knife on that strap?" Thorndyke asked, pointing to a
narrow leather belt. I turned back the jacket and looked.

"There is a sheath," I said, "but no knife. It must have dropped out."

"That is rather odd," said Thorndyke. "A sailor's sheath-knife takes a
deal of shaking out as a rule. It is intended to be used in working on
the rigging when the man is aloft, so that he can get it out with one
hand while he is holding on with the other. It has to be and usually is
very secure, for the sheath holds half the handle as well as the blade.
What makes one notice the matter in this case is that the man, as you
see, carried a pocket-knife; and, as this would serve all the ordinary
purposes of a knife, it seems to suggest that the sheath-knife was
carried for defensive purposes: as a weapon, in fact. However, we can't
get much further in the case without a _post mortem_, and here comes the
captain."

Captain Grumpass entered the shed and looked down commiseratingly at the
dead seaman.

"Is there anything, doctor, that throws any light on the man's
disappearance?" he asked.

"There are one or two curious features in the case," Thorndyke replied;
"but, oddly enough, the only really important point arises out of that
statement of the coast-guard's, concerning which you were so scornful."

"You don't say so!" exclaimed the captain.

"Yes," said Thorndyke; "the coast-guard states that when last seen
deceased was filling his pipe from his tobacco-pouch. Now his pouch
contains shag; but the pipe in his pocket contains hard cut."

"Is there no cake tobacco in any of the pockets?"

"Not a fragment. Of course, it is possible that he might have had a
piece and used it up to fill the pipe; but there is no trace of any on
the blade of his pocket-knife, and you know how this juicy black cake
stains a knife-blade. His sheath-knife is missing, but he would hardly
have used that to shred tobacco when he had a pocket-knife."

"No," assented the captain; "but are you sure he hadn't a second pipe?"

"There was only one pipe," replied Thorndyke, "and that was not his
own."

"Not his own!" exclaimed the captain, halting by a huge, chequered buoy
to stare at my colleague; "how do you know it was not his own?"

"By the appearance of the vulcanite mouth-piece," said Thorndyke. "It
showed deep tooth-marks; in fact, it was nearly bitten through. Now a
man who bites through his pipe usually presents certain definite
physical peculiarities, among which is, necessarily, a fairly good set
of teeth. But the dead man had not a tooth in his head."

The captain cogitated a while, and then remarked: "I don't quite see the
bearing of this."

"Don't you?" said Thorndyke. "It seems to me highly suggestive. Here is
a man who, when last seen, was filling his pipe with a particular kind
of tobacco. He is picked up dead, and his pipe contains a totally
different kind of tobacco. Where did that tobacco come from? The obvious
suggestion is that he had met some one."

"Yes, it does look like it," agreed the captain.

"Then," continued Thorndyke, "there is the fact that his sheath-knife is
missing. That may mean nothing, but we have to bear it in mind. And
there is another curious circumstance: there is a wound on the back of
the head caused by a heavy bump against some body that was covered with
acorn barnacles and marine worms. Now there are no piers or stages out
in the open estuary. The question is, what could he have struck?"

"Oh, there is nothing in that," said the captain. "When a body has been
washing about in a tideway for close on three days----"

"But this is not a question of a body," Thorndyke interrupted. "The
wound was made during life."

"The deuce it was!" exclaimed the captain. "Well, all I can suggest is
that he must have fouled one of the beacons in the fog, stove in his
boat and bumped his head, though, I must admit, that's rather a lame
explanation." He stood for a minute gazing at his toes with a cogitative
frown and then looked up at Thorndyke.

"I have an idea," he said. "From what you say, this matter wants looking
into pretty carefully. Now, I am going down on the tender to-day to make
inquiries on the spot. What do you say to coming with me as adviser--as
a matter of business, of course--you and Dr. Jervis? I shall start about
eleven; we shall be at the lighthouse by three o'clock, and you can get
back to town to-night, if you want to. What do you say?"

"There's nothing to hinder us," I put in eagerly, for even at Bugsby's
Hole the river looked very alluring on this summer morning.

"Very well," said Thorndyke, "we will come. Jervis is evidently
hankering for a sea-trip, and so am I, for that matter."

"It's a business engagement, you know," the captain stipulated.

"Nothing of the kind," said Thorndyke; "it's unmitigated pleasure; the
pleasure of the voyage and your high well-born society."

"I didn't mean that," grumbled the captain, "but, if you are coming as
guests, send your man for your night-gear and let us bring you back
to-morrow evening."

"We won't disturb Polton," said my colleague; "we can take the train
from Blackwall and fetch our things ourselves. Eleven o'clock, you
said?"

"Thereabouts," said Captain Grumpass; "but don't put yourselves out."

The means of communication in London have reached an almost undesirable
state of perfection. With the aid of the snorting train and the
tinkling, two-wheeled "gondola," we crossed and re-crossed the town with
such celerity that it was barely eleven when we reappeared on Trinity
Wharf with a joint Gladstone and Thorndyke's little green case.

The tender had hauled out of Bow Creek, and now lay alongside the wharf
with a great striped can buoy dangling from her derrick, and Captain
Grumpass stood at the gangway, his jolly, red face beaming with
pleasure. The buoy was safely stowed forward, the derrick hauled up to
the mast, the loose shrouds rehooked to the screw-lanyards, and the
steamer, with four jubilant hoots, swung round and shoved her sharp nose
against the incoming tide.

For near upon four hours the ever-widening stream of the "London River"
unfolded its moving panorama. The smoke and smell of Woolwich Reach gave
place to lucid air made soft by the summer haze; the grey huddle of
factories fell away and green levels of cattle-spotted marsh stretched
away to the high land bordering the river valley. Venerable training
ships displayed their chequered hulls by the wooded shore, and whispered
of the days of oak and hemp, when the tall three-decker, comely and
majestic, with her soaring heights of canvas, like towers of ivory, had
not yet given place to the mud-coloured saucepans that fly the white
ensign nowadays and devour the substance of the British taxpayer: when a
sailor was a sailor and not a mere sea-faring mechanic. Sturdily
breasting the flood-tide, the tender threaded her way through the
endless procession of shipping; barges, billy-boys, schooners, brigs;
lumpish Black-seamen, blue-funnelled China tramps, rickety Baltic
barques with twirling windmills, gigantic liners, staggering under a
mountain of top-hamper. Erith, Purfleet, Greenhithe, Grays greeted us
and passed astern. The chimneys of Northfleet, the clustering roofs of
Gravesend, the populous anchorage and the lurking batteries, were left
behind, and, as we swung out of the Lower Hope, the wide expanse of sea
reach spread out before us like a great sheet of blue-shot satin.

About half-past twelve the ebb overtook us and helped us on our way, as
we could see by the speed with which the distant land slid past, and the
freshening of the air as we passed through it.

But sky and sea were hushed in a summer calm. Balls of fleecy cloud hung
aloft, motionless in the soft blue; the barges drifted on the tide with
drooping sails, and a big, striped bell buoy--surmounted by a staff and
cage and labelled "Shivering Sand"--sat dreaming in the sun above its
motionless reflection, to rouse for a moment as it met our wash, nod its
cage drowsily, utter a solemn ding-dong, and fall asleep again.

It was shortly after passing the buoy that the gaunt shape of a
screw-pile lighthouse began to loom up ahead, its dull-red paint turned
to vermilion by the early afternoon sun. As we drew nearer, the name
_Girdler_, painted in huge, white letters, became visible, and two men
could be seen in the gallery around the lantern, inspecting us through a
telescope.

"Shall you be long at the lighthouse, sir?" the master of the tender
inquired of Captain Grumpass; "because we're going down to the
North-East Pan Sand to fix this new buoy and take up the old one."

"Then you'd better put us off at the lighthouse and come back for us
when you've finished the job," was the reply. "I don't know how long we
shall be."

The tender was brought to, a boat lowered, and a couple of hands pulled
us across the intervening space of water.

"It will be a dirty climb for you in your shore-going clothes," the
captain remarked--he was as spruce as a new pin himself--"but the stuff
will all wipe off." We looked up at the skeleton shape. The falling tide
had exposed some fifteen feet of the piles, and piles and ladder alike
were swathed in sea-grass and encrusted with barnacles and worm-tubes.
But we were not such town-sparrows as the captain seemed to think, for
we both followed his lead without difficulty up the slippery ladder,
Thorndyke clinging tenaciously to his little green case, from which he
refused to be separated even for an instant.

"These gentlemen and I," said the captain, as we stepped on the stage at
the head of the ladder, "have come to make inquiries about the missing
man, James Brown. Which of you is Jeffreys?"

"I am, sir," replied a tall, powerful, square-jawed, beetle-browed man,
whose left hand was tied up in a rough bandage.

"What have you been doing to your hand?" asked the captain.

"I cut it while I was peeling some potatoes," was the reply. "It isn't
much of a cut, sir."

"Well, Jeffreys," said the captain, "Brown's body has been picked up and
I want particulars for the inquest. You'll be summoned as a witness, I
suppose, so come in and tell us all you know."

We entered the living-room and seated ourselves at the table. The
captain opened a massive pocket-book, while Thorndyke, in his attentive,
inquisitive fashion, looked about the odd, cabin-like room as if making
a mental inventory of its contents.

Jeffreys' statement added nothing to what we already knew. He had seen a
boat with one man in it making for the lighthouse. Then the fog had
drifted up and he had lost sight of the boat. He started the fog-horn
and kept a bright look-out, but the boat never arrived. And that was all
he knew. He supposed that the man must have missed the lighthouse and
been carried away on the ebb-tide, which was running strongly at the
time.

"What time was it when you last saw the boat?" Thorndyke asked.

"About half-past eleven," replied Jeffreys.

"What was the man like?" asked the captain.

"I don't know, sir: he was rowing, and his back was towards me."

"Had he any kit-bag or chest with him?" asked Thorndyke.

"He'd got his chest with him," said Jeffreys.

"What sort of chest was it?" inquired Thorndyke.

"A small chest, painted green, with rope beckets."

"Was it corded?"

"It had a single cord round, to hold the lid down."

"Where was it stowed?"

"In the stern-sheets, sir."

"How far off was the boat when you last saw it?"

"About half-a-mile."

"Half-a-mile!" exclaimed the captain. "Why, how the deuce could you see
what the chest was like half-a-mile away?"

The man reddened and cast a look of angry suspicion at Thorndyke. "I was
watching the boat through the glass, sir," he replied sulkily.

"I see," said Captain Grumpass. "Well, that will do, Jeffreys. We shall
have to arrange for you to attend the inquest. Tell Smith I want to see
him."

The examination concluded, Thorndyke and I moved our chairs to the
window, which looked out over the sea to the east. But it was not the
sea or the passing ships that engaged my colleague's attention. On the
wall, beside the window, hung a rudely-carved pipe-rack containing five
pipes. Thorndyke had noted it when we entered the room, and now, as we
talked, I observed him regarding it from time to time with speculative
interest.

"You men seem to be inveterate smokers," he remarked to the keeper,
Smith, when the captain had concluded the arrangements for the "shift."

"Well, we do like our bit of 'baccy, sir, and that's a fact," answered
Smith. "You see, sir," he continued, "it's a lonely life, and tobacco's
cheap out here."

"How is that?" asked Thorndyke.

"Why, we get it given to us. The small craft from foreign, especially
the Dutchmen, generally heave us a cake or two when they pass close.
We're not ashore, you see, so there's no duty to pay."

"So you don't trouble the tobacconists much? Don't go in for cut
tobacco?"

"No, sir; we'd have to buy it, and then the cut stuff wouldn't keep. No,
it's hard tack to eat out here and hard tobacco to smoke."

"I see you've got a pipe-rack, too, quite a stylish affair."

"Yes," said Smith, "I made it in my off-time. Keeps the place tidy and
looks more ship-shape than letting the pipes lay about anywhere."

"Someone seems to have neglected his pipe," said Thorndyke, pointing to
one at the end of the rack which was coated with green mildew.

"Yes; that's Parsons, my mate. He must have left it when we went off
near a month ago. Pipes do go mouldy in the damp air out here."

"How soon does a pipe go mouldy if it is left untouched?" Thorndyke
asked.

"It's according to the weather," said Smith. "When it's warm and damp
they'll begin to go in about a week. Now here's Barnett's pipe that he's
left behind--the man that broke his leg, you know, sir--it's just
beginning to spot a little. He couldn't have used it for a day or two
before he went."

"And are all these other pipes yours?"

"No, sir. This here one is mine. The end one is Jeffreys', and I suppose
the middle one is his too, but I don't know it."

"You're a demon for pipes, doctor," said the captain, strolling up at
this moment; "you seem to make a special study of them."

"'The proper study of mankind is man,'" replied Thorndyke, as the keeper
retired, "and 'man' includes those objects on which his personality is
impressed. Now a pipe is a very personal thing. Look at that row in the
rack. Each has its own physiognomy which, in a measure, reflects the
peculiarities of the owner. There is Jeffreys' pipe at the end, for
instance. The mouth-piece is nearly bitten through, the bowl scraped to
a shell and scored inside and the brim battered and chipped. The whole
thing speaks of rude strength and rough handling. He chews the stem as
he smokes, he scrapes the bowl violently, and he bangs the ashes out
with unnecessary force. And the man fits the pipe exactly: powerful,
square-jawed and, I should say, violent on occasion."

"Yes, he looks a tough customer, does Jeffreys," agreed the captain.

"Then," continued Thorndyke, "there is Smith's pipe, next to it; 'coked'
up until the cavity is nearly filled and burnt all round the edge; a
talker's pipe, constantly going out and being relit. But the one that
interests me most is the middle one."

"Didn't Smith say that that was Jeffreys' too?" I said.

"Yes," replied Thorndyke, "but he must be mistaken. It is the very
opposite of Jeffreys' pipe in every respect. To begin with, although it
is an old pipe, there is not a sign of any toothmark on the mouth-piece.
It is the only one in the rack that is quite unmarked. Then the brim is
quite uninjured: it has been handled gently, and the silver band is
jet-black, whereas the band on Jeffreys' pipe is quite bright."

"I hadn't noticed that it had a band," said the captain. "What has made
it so black?"

Thorndyke lifted the pipe out of the rack and looked at it closely.
"Silver sulphide," said he, "the sulphur no doubt derived from something
carried in the pocket."

"I see," said Captain Grumpass, smothering a yawn and gazing out of the
window at the distant tender. "Incidentally it's full of tobacco. What
moral do you draw from that?"

Thorndyke turned the pipe over and looked closely at the mouth-piece.
"The moral is," he replied, "that you should see that your pipe is clear
before you fill it." He pointed to the mouth-piece, the bore of which
was completely stopped up with fine fluff.

"An excellent moral too," said the captain, rising with another yawn.
"If you'll excuse me a minute I'll just go and see what the tender is up
to. She seems to be crossing to the East Girdler." He reached the
telescope down from its brackets and went out on to the gallery.

As the captain retreated, Thorndyke opened his pocket-knife, and,
sticking the blade into the bowl of the pipe, turned the tobacco out
into his hand.

"Shag, by Jove!" I exclaimed.

"Yes," he answered, poking it back into the bowl. "Didn't you expect it
to be shag?"

"I don't know that I expected anything," I admitted. "The silver band
was occupying my attention."

"Yes, that is an interesting point," said Thorndyke, "but let us see
what the obstruction consists of." He opened the green case, and, taking
out a dissecting needle, neatly extracted a little ball of fluff from
the bore of the pipe. Laying this on a glass slide, he teased it out in
a drop of glycerine and put on a cover-glass while I set up the
microscope.

"Better put the pipe back in the rack," he said, as he laid the slide on
the stage of the instrument. I did so and then turned, with no little
excitement, to watch him as he examined the specimen. After a brief
inspection he rose and waved his hand towards the microscope.

"Take a look at it, Jervis," he said, "and let us have your learned
opinion."

I applied my eye to the instrument, and, moving the slide about,
identified the constituents of the little mass of fluff. The ubiquitous
cotton fibre was, of course, in evidence, and a few fibres of wool, but
the most remarkable objects were two or three hairs--very minute hairs
of a definite zigzag shape and having a flat expansion near the free end
like the blade of a paddle.

"These are the hairs of some small animal," I said; "not a mouse or rat
or any rodent, I should say. Some small insectivorous animal, I fancy.
Yes! Of course! They are the hairs of a mole." I stood up, and, as the
importance of the discovery flashed on me, I looked at my colleague in
silence.

"Yes," he said, "they are unmistakable; and they furnish the keystone of
the argument."

"You think that this is really the dead man's pipe, then?" I said.

"According to the law of multiple evidence," he replied, "it is
practically a certainty. Consider the facts in sequence. Since there is
no sign of mildew on it, this pipe can have been here only a short time,
and must belong either to Barnett, Smith, Jeffreys or Brown. It is an
old pipe, but it has no tooth-marks on it. Therefore it has been used by
a man who has no teeth. But Barnett, Smith and Jeffreys all have teeth
and mark their pipes, whereas Brown had no teeth. The tobacco in it is
shag. But these three men do not smoke shag, whereas Brown had shag in
his pouch. The silver band is encrusted with sulphide; and Brown carried
sulphur-tipped matches loose in his pocket with his pipe. We find hairs
of a mole in the bore of the pipe; and Brown carried a moleskin pouch in
the pocket in which he appears to have carried his pipe. Finally,
Brown's pocket contained a pipe which was obviously not his and which
closely resembled that of Jeffreys; it contained tobacco similar to that
which Jeffreys smokes and different from that in Brown's pouch. It
appears to me quite conclusive, especially when we add to this evidence
the other items that are in our possession."

"What items are they?" I asked.

"First there is the fact that the dead man had knocked his head heavily
against some periodically submerged body covered with acorn barnacles
and serpul. Now the piles of this lighthouse answer to the description
exactly, and there are no other bodies in the neighbourhood that do: for
even the beacons are too large to have produced that kind of wound. Then
the dead man's sheath-knife is missing, and Jeffreys has a knife-wound
on his hand. You must admit that the circumstantial evidence is
overwhelming."

At this moment the captain bustled into the room with the telescope in
his hand. "The tender is coming up towing a strange boat," he said. "I
expect it's the missing one, and, if it is, we may learn something.
You'd better pack up your traps and get ready to go on board."

We packed the green case and went out into the gallery, where the two
keepers were watching the approaching tender; Smith frankly curious and
interested, Jeffreys restless, fidgety and noticeably pale. As the
steamer came opposite the lighthouse, three men dropped into the boat
and pulled across, and one of them--the mate of the tender--came
climbing up the ladder.

"Is that the missing boat?" the captain sang out.

"Yes, sir," answered the officer, stepping on to the staging and wiping
his hands on the reverse aspect of his trousers, "we saw her lying on
the dry patch of the East Girdler. There's been some hanky-panky in this
job, sir."

"Foul play, you think, hey?"

"Not a doubt of it, sir. The plug was out and lying loose in the bottom,
and we found a sheath-knife sticking into the kelson forward among the
coils of the painter. It was stuck in hard as if it had dropped from a
height."

"That's odd," said the captain. "As to the plug, it might have got out
by accident."

"But it hadn't, sir," said the mate. "The ballast-bags had been shifted
along to get the bottom boards up. Besides, sir, a seaman wouldn't let
the boat fill; he'd have put the plug back and baled out."

"That's true," replied Captain Grumpass; "and certainly the presence of
the knife looks fishy. But where the deuce could it have dropped from,
out in the open sea? Knives don't drop from the clouds--fortunately.
What do you say, doctor?"

"I should say that it is Brown's own knife, and that it probably fell
from this staging."

Jeffreys turned swiftly, crimson with wrath. "What d'ye mean?" he
demanded. "Haven't I said that the boat never came here?"

"You have," replied Thorndyke; "but if that is so how do you explain the
fact that your pipe was found in the dead man's pocket and that the dead
man's pipe is at this moment in your pipe-rack?"

The crimson flush on Jeffreys' face faded as quickly as it had come. "I
don't know what you're talking about," he faltered.

"I'll tell you," said Thorndyke. "I will relate what happened and you
shall check my statements. Brown brought his boat alongside and came up
into the living-room, bringing his chest with him. He filled his pipe
and tried to light it, but it was stopped and wouldn't draw. Then you
lent him a pipe of yours and filled it for him. Soon afterwards you came
out on this staging and quarrelled. Brown defended himself with his
knife, which dropped from his hand into the boat. You pushed him off the
staging and he fell, knocking his head on one of the piles. Then you
took the plug out of the boat and sent her adrift to sink, and you flung
the chest into the sea. This happened about ten minutes past twelve. Am
I right?"

Jeffreys stood staring at Thorndyke, the picture of amazement and
consternation; but he uttered no word in reply.

"Am I right?" Thorndyke repeated.

"Strike me blind!" muttered Jeffreys. "Was you here, then? You talk as
if you had been. Anyhow," he continued, recovering somewhat, "you seem
to know all about it. But you're wrong about one thing. There was no
quarrel. This chap, Brown, didn't take to me and he didn't mean to stay
out here. He was going to put off and go ashore again and I wouldn't let
him. Then he hit out at me with his knife and I knocked it out of his
hand and he staggered backwards and went overboard."

"And did you try to pick him up?" asked the captain.

"How could I," demanded Jeffreys, "with the tide racing down and me
alone on the station? I'd never have got back."

"But what about the boat, Jeffreys? Why did you scuttle her?"

"The fact is," replied Jeffreys, "I got in a funk, and I thought the
simplest plan was to send her to the cellar and know nothing about it.
But I never shoved him over. It was an accident, sir; I swear it!"

"Well, that sounds a reasonable explanation," said the captain. "What do
you say, doctor?"

"Perfectly reasonable," replied Thorndyke, "and, as to its truth, that
is no affair of ours."

"No. But I shall have to take you off, Jeffreys, and hand you over to
the police. You understand that?"

"Yes, sir, I understand," answered Jeffreys.

                 *        *        *        *        *

"That was a queer case, that affair on the Girdler," remarked Captain
Grumpass, when he was spending an evening with us some six months later.
"A pretty easy let off for Jeffreys, too--eighteen months, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was a very queer case indeed," said Thorndyke. "There was
something behind that 'accident,' I should say. Those men had probably
met before."

"So I thought," agreed the captain. "But the queerest part of it to me
was the way you nosed it all out. I've had a deep respect for briar
pipes since then. It was a remarkable case," he continued. "The way in
which you made that pipe tell the story of the murder seems to me like
sheer enchantment."

"Yes," said I; "it spoke like the magic pipe--only that wasn't a
tobacco-pipe--in the German folk-story of the 'Singing Bone.' Do you
remember it? A peasant found the bone of a murdered man and fashioned it
into a pipe. But when he tried to play on it, it burst into a song of
its own--

    'My brother slew me and buried my bones
    Beneath the sand and under the stones.'"

"A pretty story," said Thorndyke, "and one with an excellent moral. The
inanimate things around us have each of them a song to sing to us if we
are but ready with attentive ears."






[End of The Echo of a Mutiny, by R. Austin Freeman]
