The First R. Austin Freeman MEGAPACK ®. R. Austin Freeman
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don’t think there’s anything wrong with this beast, sir, I hope,” said he.
“I can’t say without a further examination,” replied Thorndyke. “It may be the horn only that is affected. If you will have it sawn off close to the head, and sent up to me at the hotel, I will look at it and tell you. And, by way of preventing any mistakes, I will mark it and cover it up, to protect it from injury in the slaughter-house.”
He opened his parcel and produced from it a wide-mouthed bottle labelled “Ox-gall,” a sheet of gutta-percha tissue, a roller bandage, and a stick of sealing-wax. Handing the bottle to Mr. Felton, he encased the distal half of the horn in a covering by means of the tissue and the bandage, which he fixed securely with the sealing-wax.
“I’ll saw the horn off and bring it up to the hotel myself, with the ox-gall,” said Mr. Felton. “You shall have them in half an hour.”
He was as good as his word, for in half an hour Thorndyke was seated at a small table by the window of our private sitting-room in the Black Bull Hotel. The table was covered with newspaper, and on it lay the long grey horn and Thorndyke’s travelling-case, now open and displaying a small microscope and its accessories. The butcher was seated solidly in an armchair waiting, with a half-suspicious eye on Thorndyke for the report; and I was endeavouring by cheerful talk to keep Mr. Stopford from sinking into utter despondency, though I, too, kept a furtive watch on my colleague’s rather mysterious proceedings.
I saw him unwind the bandage and apply the horn to his ear, bending it slightly to and fro. I watched him, as he scanned the surface closely through a lens, and observed him as he scraped some substance from the pointed end on to a glass slide, and, having applied a drop of some reagent, began to tease out the scraping with a pair of mounted needles. Presently he placed the slide under the microscope, and, having observed it attentively for a minute or two, turned round sharply.
“Come and look at this, Jervis,” said he.
I wanted no second bidding, being on tenterhooks of curiosity, but came over and applied my eye to the instrument.
“Well, what is it?” he asked.
“A multipolar nerve corpuscle—very shrivelled, but unmistakable.”
“And this?”
He moved the slide to a fresh spot.
“Two pyramidal nerve corpuscles and some portions of fibres.”
“And what do you say the tissue is?”
“Cortical brain substance, I should say, without a doubt.”
“I entirely agree with you. And that being so,” he added, turning to Mr. Stopford, “we may say that the case for the defence is practically complete.”
“What, in Heaven’s name, do you mean?” exclaimed Stopford, starting up.
“I mean that we can now prove when and where and how Miss Grant met her death. Come and sit down here, and I will explain. No, you needn’t go away, Mr. Felton. We shall have to subpoena you. Perhaps,” he continued, “we had better go over the facts and see what they suggest. And first we note the position of the body, lying with the feet close to the off-side door, showing that, when she fell, the deceased was sitting, or more probably standing, close to that door. Next there is this.” He drew from his pocket a folded paper, which he opened, displaying a tiny blue disc. “It is one of the sequins with which her hat was trimmed, and I have in this envelope several more which I took from the hat itself.
“This single sequin I picked up on the rear end of the off side footboard, and its presence there makes it nearly certain that at some time Miss Grant had put her head out of the window on that side.
“The next item of evidence I obtained by dusting the margins of the off-side window with a light powder, which made visible a greasy impression three and a quarter inches long on the sharp corner of the right-hand jamb (right-hand from the inside, I mean).
“And now as to the evidence furnished by the body. The wound in the skull is behind and above the left ear, is roughly circular, and measures one inch and seven-sixteenths at most, and a ragged scalp-wound runs from it towards the left eye. On the right cheek is a linear contused wound three and a quarter inches long. There are no other injuries.
“Our next facts are furnished by this.” He took up the horn and tapped it with his finger, while the solicitor and Mr. Felton stared at him in speechless wonder. “You notice it is a left horn, and you remember that it was highly sensitive. If you put your ear to it while I strain it, you will hear the grating of a fracture in the bony core. Now look at the pointed end, and you will see several deep scratches running lengthwise, and where those scratches end the diameter of the horn is, as you see by this calliper-gauge, one inch and seven-sixteenths. Covering the scratches is a dry blood-stain, and at the extreme tip is a small mass of a dried substance which Dr. Jervis and I have examined with the microscope and are satisfied is brain tissue.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Stopford eagerly. “Do you mean to say—”
“Let us finish with the facts, Mr. Stopford,” Thorndyke interrupted. “Now, if you look closely at that blood-stain, you will see a short piece of hair stuck to the horn, and through this lens you can make out the root-bulb. It is a golden hair, you notice, but near the root it is black, and our calliper-gauge shows us that the black portion is fourteen sixty-fourths of an inch long. Now, in this envelope are some hairs that I removed from the dead woman’s head. They also are golden hairs, black at the roots, and when I measure the black portion I find it to be fourteen sixty-fourths of an inch long. Then, finally, there is this.”
He turned the horn over, and pointed to a small patch of dried blood. Embedded in it was a blue sequin.
Mr. Stopford and the butcher both gazed at the horn in silent amazement; then the former drew a deep breath and looked up at Thorndyke.
“No doubt,” said he, “you can explain this mystery, but for my part I am utterly bewildered, though you are filling me with hope.”
“And yet the matter is quite simple,” returned Thorndyke, “even with these few facts before us, which are only a selection from the body of evidence in our possession. But I will state my theory, and you shall judge.” He rapidly sketched a rough plan on a sheet of paper, and continued: “These were the conditions when the train was approaching Woldhurst: Here was the passenger-coach, here was the burning rick, and here was a cattle-truck. This steer was in that truck. Now my hypothesis is that at that time Miss Grant was standing with her head out of the off-side window, watching the burning rick. Her wide hat, worn on the left side, hid from her view the cattle-truck which she was approaching, and then this is what happened.” He sketched another plan to a larger scale. “One of the steers—this one—had thrust its long horn out through the bars. The point of that horn struck the deceased’s head, driving her face violently against the corner of the window, and then, in disengaging, ploughed its way through the scalp, and suffered a fracture of its core from the violence of the wrench. This hypothesis is inherently probable, it fits all the facts, and those facts admit of no other explanation.”
The solicitor sat for a moment as though dazed; then he rose impulsively and seized Thorndyke’s hands. “I don’t know what to say to you,” he exclaimed huskily, “except that you have saved my brother’s life, and for that may God reward you!”
The butcher rose from his chair with a slow grin.
“It seems to me,” said he, “as if that ox-gall was what you might call a blind, eh, sir?”
And Thorndyke smiled an inscrutable smile.
* * * *
When we returned to town on the following day we were a party of four, which included Mr. Harold Stopford. The verdict of “Death by misadventure,” promptly returned by the coroner’s jury, had been shortly followed by his release from custody, and he now sat with his brother and me, listening with rapt attention to Thorndyke’s analysis of the case.
“So,