He opened and peeped into a cupboard in which an overcoat surmounted by a felt hat hung from a peg like an attenuated suicide; he looked in all the corners and into the sitting-room, but no slippers were to be seen.
“Our friend seems to have had surprisingly little regard for comfort,” Thorndyke remarked. “Think of spending the winter evenings in damp boots by a gas fire!”
“Perhaps the opium-pipe compensated,” said I; “or he may have gone to bed early.”
“But he did not. The night porter used to see the light in his rooms at one o’clock in the morning. In the sitting-room, too, you remember. But he seems to have been in the habit of reading in bed—or perhaps smoking—for here is a candlestick with the remains of a whole dynasty of candles in it. As there is gas in the room, he couldn’t have wanted the candle to undress by. He used stearine candles, too; not the common paraffin variety. I wonder why he went to that expense.”
“Perhaps the smell of the paraffin candle spoiled the aroma of the opium,” I suggested; to which Thorndyke made no reply but continued his inspection of the room, pulling out the drawer of the washstand—which contained a single, worn-out nailbrush—and even picking up and examining the dry and cracked cake of soap in the dish.
“He seems to have had a fair amount of clothing,” said Thorndyke, who was now going through the chest of drawers, “though, by the look of it, he didn’t change very often, and the shirts have a rather yellow and faded appearance. I wonder how he managed about his washing. Why, here are a couple of pairs of boots in the drawer with his clothes! And here is his stock of candles. Quite a large box—though nearly empty now—of stearine candles, six to the pound.”
He closed the drawer and cast another inquiring look round the room.
“I think we have seen all now, Jervis,” he said, “unless there is anything more that you would like to look into?”
“No,” I replied. “I have seen all that I wanted to see and more than I am able to attach any meaning to. So we may as well go.”
I blew out the lamp and put it in my overcoat pocket, and, when we had turned out the gas in both rooms, we took our departure.
As we approached the lodge, we found our stout friend in the act of retiring in favour of the night porter. Thorndyke handed him the key of the chambers, and, after a few sympathetic inquiries, about his health—which was obviously very indifferent—said:
“Let me see; you were one of the witnesses to Mr. Blackmore’s will, I think?”
“I was, sir,” replied the porter.
“And I believe you read the document through before you witnessed the signature?”
“I did, sir.”
“Did you read it aloud?”
“Aloud, sir! Lor’ bless you, no, sir! Why should I? The other witness read it, and, of course, Mr. Blackmore knew what was in it, seeing that it was in his own handwriting. What should I want to read it aloud for?”
“No, of course you wouldn’t want to. By the way, I have been wondering how Mr. Blackmore managed about his washing.”
The porter evidently regarded this question with some disfavour, for he replied only with an interrogative grunt. It was, in fact, rather an odd question.
“Did you get it done for him,” Thorndyke pursued.
“No, certainly not, sir. He got it done for himself. The laundry people used to deliver the basket here at the lodge, and Mr. Blackmore used to take it in with him when he happened to be passing.”
“It was not delivered at his chambers, then?”
“No, sir. Mr. Blackmore was a very studious gentleman and he didn’t like to be disturbed. A studious gentleman would naturally not like to be disturbed.”
Thorndyke cordially agreed with these very proper sentiments and finally wished the porter “good night.” We passed out through the gateway into Wych Street, and, turning our faces eastward towards the Temple, set forth in silence, each thinking his own thoughts. What Thorndyke’s were I cannot tell, though I have no doubt that he was busily engaged in piecing together all that he had seen and heard and considering its possible application to the case in hand.
As to me, my mind was in a whirl of confusion. All this searching and examining seemed to be the mere flogging of a dead horse. The will was obviously a perfectly valid and regular will and there was an end of the matter. At least, so it seemed to me. But clearly that was not Thorndyke’s view. His investigations were certainly not purposeless; and, as I walked by his side trying to conceive some purpose in his actions, I only became more and more mystified as I recalled them one by one, and perhaps most of all by the cryptic questions that I had just heard him address to the equally mystified porter.
VIII
The Track Chart
As Thorndyke and I arrived at the main gateway of the Temple and he swung round into the narrow lane, it was suddenly borne in on me that I had made no arrangements for the night. Events had followed one another so continuously and each had been so engrossing that I had lost sight of what I may call my domestic affairs.
“We seem to be heading for your chambers, Thorndyke,” I ventured to remark. “It is a little late to think of it, but I have not yet settled where I am to put up tonight.”
“My dear fellow,” he replied, “you are going to put up in your own bedroom which has been waiting in readiness for you ever since you left it. Polton went up and inspected it as soon as you arrived. I take it that you will consider my chambers yours until such time as you may join the benedictine majority and set up a home for yourself.”
“That is very handsome of you,” said
