“In the case you are suggesting, the choice would seem to lie between burial on the premises or dismemberment and dispersal of the fragments; and either method would be pretty certain to lead to discovery.”
“As illustrated by the remains of which you were speaking to Mr. Bellingham,” Jervis remarked.
“Exactly,” Thorndyke answered, “though we could hardly imagine a reasonably intelligent criminal adopting a watercress-bed as a hiding place.
“No. That was certainly an error of judgment. By the way, I thought it best to say nothing while you were talking to Bellingham, but I noticed that, in discussing the possibility of those being the bones of his brother, you made no comment on the absence of the third finger of the left hand. I am sure you didn’t overlook it, but isn’t it a point of some importance?”
“As to identification? Under the present circumstances, I think not. If there were a man missing who had lost that finger it would, of course, be an important fact. But I have not heard of any such man. Or, again, if there were any evidence that the finger had been removed before death, it would be highly important. But there is no such evidence. It may have been cut off after death, and that is where the real significance of its absence lies.”
“I don’t see quite what you mean,” said Jervis.
“I mean that, if there is no report of any missing man who had lost that particular finger, the probability is that the finger was removed after death. And then arises the interesting question of motive. Why should it have been removed? It could hardly have become detached accidentally. What do you suggest?”
“Well,” said Jervis, “it might have been a peculiar finger; a finger, for instance, with some characteristic deformity such as an ankylosed joint, which would be easy to identify.”
“Yes; but that explanation introduces the same difficulty. No person with a deformed or ankylosed finger has been reported as missing.”
Jervis puckered up his brows, and looked at me.
“I’m hanged if I see any other explanation,” he said. “Do you, Berkeley?”
I shook my head.
“Don’t forget which finger it is that is missing,” said Thorndyke. “The third finger of the left hand.”
“Oh, I see!” said Jervis. “The ring-finger. You mean that it may have been removed for the sake of a ring that wouldn’t come off.”
“Yes. It would not be the first instance of the kind. Fingers have been severed from dead hands—and even from living ones—for the sake of rings that were too tight to be drawn off. And the fact that it is the left hand supports the suggestion; for a ring that was inconveniently tight would be worn by preference on the left hand, as that is usually slightly smaller than the right. What is the matter, Berkeley?”
A sudden light had burst upon me, and I suppose my countenance betrayed the fact.
“I am a confounded fool!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, don’t say that,” said Jervis. “Give your friends a chance.”
“I ought to have seen this long ago and told you about it. John Bellingham did wear a ring, and it was so tight that, when once he had got it on, he could never get it off again.”
“Do you happen to know on which hand he wore it?” Thorndyke asked.
“Yes. It was on the left hand; because Miss Bellingham, who told me about it, said that he would never have been able to get the ring on at all but for the fact that his left hand was slightly smaller than his right.”
“There it is, then,” said Thorndyke. “With this new fact in our possession, the absence of the finger furnishes the starting-point of some very curious speculations.”
“As, for instance,” said Jervis.
“Ah, under the circumstances, I must leave you to pursue those speculations independently. I am now acting for Mr. Bellingham.”
Jervis grinned and was silent for awhile, refilling his pipe thoughtfully; but when he had got it alight he resumed.
“To return to the question of the disappearance; you don’t consider it highly improbable that Bellingham might have been murdered by Hurst?”
“Oh, don’t imagine I am making an accusation. I am considering the various probabilities merely in the abstract. The same reasoning applies to the Bellinghams. As to whether any of them did commit the murder, that is a question of personal character. I certainly do not suspect the Bellinghams after having seen them, and with regard to Hurst, I know nothing, or at least very little, to his disadvantage.”
“Do you know anything?” asked Jervis.
“Well,” Thorndyke said, with some hesitation, “it seems a thought unkind to rake up the little details of a man’s past, and yet it has to be done. I have, of course, made the usual routine inquiries concerning the parties to this affair, and this is what they have brought to light:
“Hurst, as you know, is a stockbroker—a man of good position and reputation; but, about ten years ago, he seems to have committed an indiscretion, to put it mildly, which nearly got him into rather serious difficulties. He appears to have speculated rather heavily and considerably beyond his means, for when a sudden spasm of the markets upset his calculations, it turned out that he had been employing his clients’ capital and securities. For a time it looked as if there was going to be serious trouble; then, quite unexpectedly, he managed to raise the necessary amount in some way and settle all claims. Whence he got the money has never been discovered to this day, which is a curious circumstance, seeing that the deficiency was rather over five thousand pounds; but the important fact is that he did get it and that he paid up all that he owed. So that he was only a potential defaulter, so to speak; and discreditable as the affair undoubtedly was, it does
