“But,” I objected, “the fact that he had the coin in his possession does not prove that he is the man who stole it.”
“Not by itself,” Thorndyke agreed. “But taken in conjunction with the crime, it is almost conclusive. You appear to be overlooking the striking similarity of the two crimes. Each was a violent murder committed by means of poison; and in each case, the poison selected was the most suitable one for the purpose. The one, aconitine, was calculated to escape detection; the other, hydrocyanic acid—the most rapidly acting of all poisons—was calculated to produce almost instant death in a man who was probably struggling and might have raised an alarm. I think we are fairly justified in assuming that the murderer of Van Zellen was the murderer of D’Arblay. If that is so, we have two groups of circumstances to investigate, two tracks by which to follow him; and, sooner or later, I feel confident, we shall be able to give him a name. Then if we have kept our own counsel, and he is unconscious of the pursuit, we shall be able to lay our hands on him. But here we are at the Foundling Hospital. It is time for each of us to get back to the routine of duty.”
VIII
Simon Bendelow, Deceased
It was near the close of my incumbency of Dr. Cornish’s practice—indeed, Cornish had returned on the previous evening—that my unsatisfactory attendance on Mr. Simon Bendelow came to an end. It had been a wearisome affair. In medical practice, perhaps even more than in most human activities, continuous effort calls for the sustenance of achievement. A patient who cannot be cured or even substantially relieved is of all patients the most depressing. Week after week I had made my fruitless visits, had watched the silent, torpid sufferer grow yet more shrivelled and wasted, speculating even a little impatiently on the possible duration of his long-drawn-out passage to the grave. But at last the end came.
“Good morning, Mrs. Morris,” I said as that grim female opened the door and surveyed me impassively, “and how is our patient today?”
“He isn’t our patient any longer,” she replied. “He’s dead.”
“Ha!” I exclaimed. “Well, it had to be, sooner or later. Poor Mr. Bendelow! When did he die?”
“Yesterday afternoon, about five,” she answered.
“H’m. If you had sent me a note I could have brought the certificate. However, I can post it to you. Shall I go up and have a look at him?”
“You can if you like,” she replied. “But the ordinary certificate won’t be enough in this case. He is going to be cremated.”
“Oh, indeed!” said I, once more unpleasantly conscious of my inexperience. “What sort of certificate is required for cremation?”
“Oh, all sorts of formalities have to be gone through,” she answered. “Just come into the drawing-room, and I will tell you what has to be done.”
She preceded me along the passage, and I followed meekly, anathematizing myself for my ignorance, and my instructors for having sent me forth crammed with academic knowledge, but with the practical business of my profession all to learn.
“Why are you having him cremated?” I asked, as we entered the room and shut the door.
“Because it is one of the provisions of his will,” she answered. “I may as well let you see it.”
She opened a bureau and took from it a foolscap envelope, from which she drew out a folded document. This she first unfolded and then re-folded, so that its concluding clauses were visible, and laid it on the flap of the bureau. Placing her finger on it, she said: “That is the cremation clause. You had better read it.”
I ran my eye over the clause, which read: “I desire that my body shall be cremated, and I appoint Sarah Elizabeth Morris, the wife of the aforesaid James Morris, to be the residuary legatee and sole executrix of this my will.” Then followed the attestation clause, underneath which was the shaky but characteristic signature of “Simon Bendelow,” and opposite this the signatures of the witnesses, Anne Dewsnep and Martha Bonington, both described as spinsters and both of a joint address which was hidden by the folding of the document.
“So much for that,” said Mrs. Morris, returning the will to its envelope; “and now as to the certificate. There is a special form for cremation which has to be signed by two doctors, and one of them must be a hospital doctor or a consultant. So I wrote off at once to Dr. Cropper, as he knew the patient, and I have had a telegram from him this morning saying that he will be here this evening at eight o’clock to examine the body and sign the certificate. Can you manage to meet him at that time?”
“Yes,” I replied, “fortunately I can, as Dr. Cornish is back.”
“Very well,” said she; “then in that case you needn’t go up now. You will be able to make the examination together. Eight o’clock, sharp, remember.”
With this she re-conducted me along the passage and—I had almost said ejected me; but she sped the parting guest with a businesslike directness that was perhaps accounted for by the presence opposite the door of one of those grim parcels-delivery vans in which undertakers distribute their wares, and from which a rough-looking coffin was at the moment being hoisted out by two men.
The extraordinary promptitude of this proceeding so impressed me that I remarked: “They haven’t been long making the coffin.”
“They didn’t have to make it,” she replied. “I ordered it a month ago. It’s no use leaving things to the last moment.”
I turned away with somewhat mixed feelings. There was certainly a horrible efficiency about this woman.
