The Eye of Osiris Page 5

  CHAPTER V

  THE WATERCRESS-BED

  Barnard's practise, like most others, was subject to those fluctuationsthat fill the struggling practitioner alternately with hope anddespair. The work came in paroxysms with intervals of almost completestagnation. One of these intermissions occurred on the day after myvisit to Nevill's Court, with the result that by half-past eleven Ifound myself wondering what I should do with the remainder of the day.The better to consider this weighty problem, I strolled down to theEmbankment, and, leaning on the parapet, contemplated the view acrossthe river; the gray stone bridge with its perspective of arches, thepicturesque pile of the shot-towers, and beyond, the shadowy shapes ofthe Abbey and St. Stephen's.

  It was a pleasant scene, restful and quiet, with a touch of life and ahint of sober romance, when a barge swept down through the middle archof the bridge with a lugsail hoisted to a jury mast and a white-apronedwoman at the tiller. Dreamily I watched the craft creep by upon themoving tide, noted the low freeboard, almost awash, the carefulhelmswoman, and the dog on the forecastle yapping at the distantshore--and thought of Ruth Bellingham.

  What was there about this strange girl that had made so deep animpression on me? That was the question that I propounded to myself,and not for the first time. Of the fact itself there was no doubt.But what was the explanation? Was it her unusual surroundings? Heroccupation and rather recondite learning? Her striking personality andexceptional good looks? Or her connection with the dramatic mystery ofher lost uncle?

  I concluded that it was all of these. Everything connected with herwas unusual and arresting; but over and above these circumstances therewas a certain sympathy and personal affinity of which I was stronglyconscious and of which I dimly hoped that she, perhaps, was a littleconscious too. At any rate, I was deeply interested in her; of thatthere was no doubt whatever. Short as our acquaintance had been, sheheld a place in my thoughts that had never been held by any other woman.

  From Ruth Bellingham my reflections passed by a natural transition tothe curious story that her father had told me. It was a queer affair,that ill-drawn will, with the baffled lawyer protesting in thebackground. It almost seemed as if there must be something behind itall, especially when I remembered Mr. Hurst's very singular proposal.But it was out of my depth; it was a case for a lawyer, and to a lawyerit should go. This very night, I resolved, I would go to Thorndyke andgive him the whole story as it had been told to me.

  And then there happened one of those coincidences at which we allwonder when they occur, but which are so frequent as to have becomeenshrined in a proverb. For even as I formed the resolution, Iobserved two men approaching from the direction of Blackfriars, andrecognized in them my quondam teacher and his junior.

  "I was just thinking about you," I said as they came up.

  "Very flattering," replied Jervis; "but I thought you had to talk ofthe devil."

  "Perhaps," suggested Thorndyke, "he was talking to himself. But whywere you thinking of us, and what was the nature of your thoughts?"

  "My thoughts had reference to the Bellingham case. I spent the wholeof last evening at Nevill's Court."

  "Ha! And are there any fresh developments?"

  "Yes, by Jove! there are. Bellingham gave me a full detaileddescription of the will; and a pretty document it seems to be."

  "Did he give you permission to repeat the details to me?"

  "Yes. I asked specifically if I might, and he had no objectionwhatever."

  "Good. We are lunching at Soho to-day as Polton has his hands full.Come with us and share our table and tell us your story as we go. Willthat suit you?"

  It suited me admirably in the present state of the practise, and Iaccepted the invitation with undissembled glee.

  "Very well," said Thorndyke; "then let us walk slowly and finish withmatters confidential before we plunge into the maddening crowd."

  We set forth at a leisurely pace along the broad pavement and Icommenced my narration. As well as I could remember, I related thecircumstances that had led up to the present disposition of theproperty and then proceeded to the actual provisions of the will; toall of which my two friends listened with rapt interest, Thorndykeoccasionally stopping me to jot down a memorandum in his pocket-book.

  "Why, the fellow must have been a stark lunatic!" Jervis exclaimed,when I had finished. "He seems to have laid himself out with the mostdevilish ingenuity to defeat his own ends."

  "That is not an uncommon peculiarity with testators," Thorndykeremarked. "A direct and perfectly intelligible will is rather theexception. But we can hardly judge until we have seen the actualdocument. I suppose Bellingham hasn't a copy?"

  "I don't know," said I; "but I will ask him."

  "If he has one, I should like to look through it," said Thorndyke."The provisions are very peculiar, and, as Jervis says, admirablycalculated to defeat the testator's wishes if they have been correctlyreported. And, apart from that, they have a remarkable bearing on thecircumstances of the disappearance. I daresay you noticed that."

  "I noticed that it is very much to Hurst's advantage that the body hasnot been found."

  "Yes, of course. But there are some other points that are verysignificant. However, it would be premature to discuss the terms ofthe will until we have seen the actual document or a certified copy."

  "If there is a copy extant," I said, "I will try to get hold of it.But Bellingham is terribly afraid of being suspected of a desire to getprofessional advice gratis."

  "That," said Thorndyke, "is natural enough, and not discreditable. Butyou must overcome his scruples somehow. I expect you will be able to.You are a plausible young gentleman, as I remember of old, and you seemto have established yourself as quite the friend of the family."

  "They are rather interesting people," I explained; "very cultivated andwith a strong leaning toward archeology. It seems to be in the blood."

  "Yes," said Thorndyke; "a family tendency, probably due to contact andcommon surroundings rather than heredity. So you like GodfreyBellingham?"

  "Yes. He is a trifle peppery and impulsive but quite an agreeable,genial old buffer."

  "And the daughter," said Jervis, "what is she like?"

  "Oh, she is a learned lady; works up bibliographies and references atthe Museum."

  "Ah!" Jervis exclaimed, with disfavor, "I know the breed. Inkyfingers; no chest to speak of; all side and spectacles."

  I rose artlessly at the gross and palpable bait.

  "You're quite wrong," I exclaimed indignantly, contrasting Jervis'shideous presentment with the comely original. "She is an exceedinglygood-looking girl, and her manners all that a lady's should be. Alittle stiff, perhaps, but then I am only an acquaintance--almost astranger."

  "But," Jervis persisted, "what is she like, in appearance I mean.Short? fat? sandy? Give us intelligible details."

  I made a rapid mental inventory, assisted by my recent cogitations.

  "She is about five feet seven, slim but rather plump, very erect incarriage and graceful in movements; black hair, loosely parted in themiddle and falling very prettily away from the forehead; pale, clearcomplexion, dark gray eyes, straight eyebrows, straight, well-shapednose, short mouth, rather full; round chin--what the deuce are yougrinning at, Jervis?" For my friend had suddenly unmasked hisbatteries and now threatened, like the Cheshire cat, to dissolve into amere abstraction of amusement.

  "If there is a copy of that will, Thorndyke," he said, "we shall getit. I think you agree with me, reverend senior?"

  "I have already said," was the reply, "that I put my trust in Berkeley.And now let us dismiss professional topics. This is our hostelry."

  He pushed open an unpretentious glazed door, and we followed him intothe restaurant, whereof the atmosphere was pervaded by an appetizingmeatiness mingled with less agreeable suggestions of the destructivedistillation of fat.

  It was some two hours later when I wished my friends adieu under thegolden-leaved plane tre
es of King's Bench Walk.

  "I won't ask you to come in now," said Thorndyke, "as we have someconsultations this afternoon. But come in and see us soon; don't waitfor that copy of the will."

  "No," said Jervis. "Drop in in the evening when your work is done;unless, of course, there is more attractive society elsewhere. Oh, youneedn't turn that color, my dear child; we have all been young once;there is even a tradition that Thorndyke was young some time back inthe pre-dynastic period."

  "Don't take any notice of him, Berkeley," said Thorndyke. "Theegg-shell is sticking to his head still. He'll know better when he ismy age."

  "Methuselah!" exclaimed Jervis. "I hope I shan't have to wait as longas that!"

  Thorndyke smiled benevolently at his irrepressible junior, and, shakingmy hand cordially, turned into the entry.

  From the Temple I wended northward, to the adjacent College ofSurgeons, where I spent a couple of profitable hours examining the"pickles" and refreshing my memory on the subjects of pathology andanatomy; marveling afresh (as every practical anatomist must marvel) atthe incredibly perfect technique of the dissections, and inwardlypaying tribute to the founder of the collection. At length the warningof the clock, combined with an increasing craving for tea, drove meforth and bore me toward the scene of my not very strenuous labors. Mymind was still occupied with the contents of the cases and the greatglass jars, so that I found myself at the corner of Fetter Lane withouta very clear idea of how I had got there. But at that point I wasaroused from my reflections rather abruptly by a raucous voice in myear.

  "'Orrible discovery at Sidcup!"

  I turned wrathfully--for a London street-boy's yell, let off atpoint-blank range, is, in effect, like the smack of an open hand--butthe inscription on the staring yellow poster that was held up for myinspection changed my anger to curiosity.

  "Horrible discovery in a watercress-bed!"

  Now, let prigs deny it if they will, but there is something veryattractive in a "horrible discovery." It hints at tragedy, at mystery,at romance. It promises to bring into our gray and commonplace lifethat element of the dramatic which is the salt that our existence issavored withal. "In a watercress-bed," too! The rusticity of thebackground seemed to emphasize the horror of the discovery, whatever itmight be.

  I bought a copy of the paper, and, tucking it under my arm, hurried onto the surgery, promising myself a mental feast of watercress; but as Iopened the door I found myself confronted by a corpulent woman ofpiebald and pimply aspect who saluted me with a deep groan. It was thelady from the coal shop in Fleur-de-Lys Court.

  "Good evening, Mrs. Jablett," I said briskly; "not come about yourself,I hope."

  "Yes, I have," she answered, rising and following me gloomily into theconsulting-room; and then, when I had seated her in the patient's chairand myself at the writing table, she continued: "It's my inside, youknow, doctor."

  The statement lacked anatomical precision and merely excluded thedomain of the skin specialist. I accordingly waited for enlightenmentand speculated on the watercress-beds, while Mrs. Jablett regarded meexpectantly with a dim and watery eye.

  "Ah!" I said at length; "it's your--your inside, is it, Mrs. Jablett?"

  "Yus. _And_ my 'ead," she added, with a voluminous sigh that filledthe apartment with odorous reminiscences of "unsweetened."

  "Your head aches, does it?"

  "Somethink chronic!" said Mrs. Jablett. "Feels as if it was a-openingand a-shutting, a-opening and a-shutting, and when I sit down I feel asif I should _bust_."

  This picturesque description of her sensations--not wholly inconsistentwith her figure--gave the clue to Mrs. Jablett's sufferings. Resistinga frivolous impulse to reassure her as to the elasticity of the humanintegument, I considered her case in exhaustive detail, coastingdelicately round the subject of "unsweetened" and finally sent heraway, revived in spirits and grasping a bottle of Mist. Sodae cumBismutho from Barnard's big stock-jar. Then I went back to investigatethe Horrible Discovery; but before I could open the paper, anotherpatient arrived (_Impetigo contagiosa_, this time, affecting the "wideand arched-front sublime" of a juvenile Fetter Laner), and then yetanother, and so on through the evening until at last I forgot thewatercress-beds altogether. It was only when I had purified myselffrom the evening consultations with hot water and a nail-brush and wasabout to sit down to a frugal supper, that I remembered the newspaperand fetched it from the drawer of the consulting-room table, where ithad been hastily thrust out of sight. I folded it into a convenientform, and, standing it upright against the water-jug, read the reportat my ease as I supped.

  There was plenty of it. Evidently the reporter had regarded it as a"scoop," and the editor had backed him up with ample space andhair-raising head-lines.

  "HORRIBLE DISCOVERY IN A WATERCRESS-BED AT SIDCUP!"

  "A startling discovery was made yesterday afternoon in the course ofclearing out a watercress-bed near the erstwhile rural village ofSidcup in Kent; a discovery that will occasion many a disagreeablequalm to those persons who have been in the habit of regalingthemselves with this refreshing esculent. But before proceeding to adescription of the circumstances of the actual discovery or of theobjects found--which, however, it may be stated at once, are nothingmore or less than the fragments of a dismembered human body--it will beinteresting to trace the remarkable chain of coincidences by virtue ofwhich the discovery was made.

  "The beds in question have been laid out in a small artificial lake fedby a tiny streamlet which forms one of the numerous tributaries of theRiver Cray. Its depth is greater than usual in the watercress-beds,otherwise the gruesome relics could never have been concealed beneathits surface, and the flow of water through it, though continuous isslow. The tributary streamlet meanders through a succession of pasturemeadows, in one of which the beds themselves are situated, and herethroughout most of the year the fleecy victims of the human carnivorecarry on the industry of converting grass into mutton. Now it happenedsome years ago that the sheep frequenting these pastures becameaffected with the disease known as 'liver-rot'; and here we must make ashort digression into the domain of pathology.

  "'Liver-rot' is a disease of quite romantic antecedents. Its cause isa small, flat worm--the liver-fluke--which infests the liver andbile-ducts of the affected sheep.

  "Now how does the worm get into the sheep's liver? That is where theromance comes in. Let us see.

  "The cycle of transformation begins with the deposit of the eggs of thefluke in some shallow stream or ditch running through pasture lands.Now each egg has a sort of lid, which presently opens and lets out aminute, hairy creature who swims away in search of a particular kind ofwater-snail--the kind called by naturalists _Limnoea truncatula_. Ifhe finds a snail, he bores his way into its flesh and soon begins togrow and wax fat. Then he brings forth a family--of tiny worms quiteunlike himself, little creatures called _rediae_, which soon give birthto families of young _rediae_. So they go on for several generations,but at last there comes a generation of _rediae_ which, instead ofgiving birth to fresh _rediae_, produce families of totally differentoffspring; big-headed, long-tailed creatures like miniature tadpoles,called by the learned _cercariae_. The _cercariae_ soon wriggle theirway out of the body of the snail, and then complications arise: for itis the habit of this particular snail to leave the water occasionallyand take a stroll in the fields. Thus the _cercariae_, escaping fromthe snail find themselves on the grass whereupon they promptly droptheir tails and stick themselves to the grass-blades. Then comes theunsuspecting sheep to take his frugal meal, and, cropping the grassswallows it, _cercariae_ and all. But the latter, when they findthemselves in the sheep's stomach, make their way straight to thebile-ducts, up which they travel to the liver. Here, in a few weeks,they grow up into full-blown flukes and begin the important business ofproducing eggs.

  "Such is the pathological romance of the 'liver-rot'; and now what isits connection with this mysterious discovery? It is this. After theoutbreak of 'liver-
rot' above referred to, the ground landlord, a Mr.John Bellingham, instructed his solicitor to insert a clause in thelease of the beds directing that the latter should be periodicallycleared and examined by an expert to make sure that they were free fromthe noxious water-snails. The last lease expired about two years ago,and since then the beds have been out of cultivation; but, for thesafety of the adjacent pastures, it was considered necessary to makethe customary periodical inspection, and it was in the course ofcleaning the beds for this purpose that the present discovery was made.

  "The operation began two days ago. A gang of three men proceededsystematically to grub up the plants and collect the multitudes ofwater-snails that they might be examined by the expert to see if anyobnoxious species were present. They had cleared nearly half of thebeds when, yesterday afternoon, one of the men working in the deepestpart came upon some bones, the appearance of which excited hissuspicion. Thereupon he called his mates, and they carefully pickedaway the plants piece-meal, a process that soon laid bare anunmistakable human hand lying on the mud amongst the roots.Fortunately they had the wisdom not to disturb the remains, but at oncesent off a message to the police. Very soon, an inspector and asergeant, accompanied by the divisional surgeon, arrived on the scene,and were able to view the remains lying as they had been found. Andnow another very strange fact came to light; for it was seen that thehand--a left one--lying on the mud was minus its third finger. This isregarded by the police as a very important fact as bearing on thequestion of identification, seeing that the number of persons havingthe third finger of the left hand missing must be quite small. After athorough examination on the spot, the bones were carefully collectedand conveyed to the mortuary, where they now lie awaiting furtherinquiries.

  "The divisional surgeon, Dr. Brandon, in an interview with ourrepresentative, made the following statements:

  "'The bones are those of the left arm of a middle-aged or elderly manabout five feet eight inches in height. All the bones of the arm arepresent, including the scapula, or shoulder-blade, and the clavicle, orcollar-bone, but the three bones of the third finger are missing.'

  "'Is this a deformity or has the finger been cut off?' ourcorrespondent asked.

  "'The finger has been amputated,' was the reply. 'If it had beenabsent from birth, the corresponding hand bone, or metacarpal, wouldhave been wanting or deformed, whereas it is present and quite normal.'

  "'How long have the bones been in the water?' was the next question.

  "'More than a year, I should say. They are quite clean; there is not avestige of the soft structures left.'

  "Have you any theory as to how the arm came to be deposited where itwas found?'

  "'I should rather not answer that question,' was the guarded response.

  "'One more question,' our correspondent urged. 'The ground landlord,Mr. John Bellingham; is he not the gentleman who disappeared somysteriously some time ago?'

  "'So I understand,' Dr. Brandon replied.

  "'Can you tell me if Mr. Bellingham had lost the third finger of hisleft hand?'

  "'I cannot say,' said Dr. Brandon; and he added with a smile, 'you hadbetter ask the police.'

  "That is how the matter stands at present. But we understand that thepolice are making active inquiries for any missing man who has lost thethird finger of his left hand, and if any of our readers know of such aperson, they are earnestly requested to communicate at once, eitherwith us or the authorities.

  "Also we believe that a systematic search is to be made for furtherremains."

  I laid the newspaper down and fell into a train of reflection. It wascertainly a most mysterious affair. The thought that had evidentlycome to the reporter's mind stole naturally into mine. Could theseremains be those of John Bellingham? It was obviously possible, thoughI could not but see that the fact of the bones having been found on hisland, while it undoubtedly furnished the suggestion, did not in any wayadd to its probability. The connection was accidental and in nowiserelevant.

  Then, too, there was the missing finger. No reference to any suchdeformity had been made in the original report of the disappearance,though it could hardly have been overlooked. But it was useless tospeculate without facts. I should be seeing Thorndyke in the course ofthe next few days, and, undoubtedly, if the discovery had any bearingupon the disappearance of John Bellingham, I should hear of it. Withsuch a reflection I rose from the table, and, adopting the advicecontained in the spurious Johnsonian quotation, proceeded to "take awalk in Fleet Street" before settling down for the evening.