CHAPTER XLI
HOW A MURDERER MIGHT HAVE BEEN DISCOVERED
Dr. Vinsen vainly seeking in the darkness for the cause of Dr. Pye's alarm, could not utter a word. In his listening attitude, with the white fear depicted on his countenance, he presented a terror-struck appearance, and seemed to be waiting for advancing footsteps, or for the sound of voices in the street without, demanding admittance. But the silence was not broken.
"Can't you speak?" he then said in a whisper to his companion. "What is it? Is there anybody in the Square? Turn up the light."
His hand was groping for the tap that controlled the gas when Dr. Pye seized his arm and held him back. Dr. Vinsen winced and impatiently endeavoured to free himself, but the fingers that had fastened themselves upon his muscles were more like rods of steel than flesh and bone.
"Let go!" he muttered. "You are crushing my arm."
"Do not stir," replied Dr. Pye, releasing him. Then he masked the shutter, and brought light into the room.
It was characteristic of this man that, short as had been the interval between his startled exclamation and the lighting up of the apartment, he had regained his self-control, and that on his features no trace of his recent agitation was visible. There are moments of unexpected surprise when the fixed habits of a carefully trained life slip their hold, and the mind becomes as unquestioningly receptive as that of a child. Such a moment had come to Dr. Pye when he beheld the vision of the man the mystery of whose death was on every tongue. It held him only for the moment; before the passing of another his dominant will had reasserted itself, and his face resumed his impenetrable calm.
"Now, what is it?" again demanded Dr. Vinsen. His eyes travelled round the room, and colour came into his cheeks when he saw they were alone.
"You did not see it?" replied Dr. Pye.
"See what?"
"The figure of Samuel Boyd standing at his window?"
Dr. Vinsen stared incredulously at his host, and then a long deep breath of relief escaped him. "Only that!" he exclaimed. "I thought it was something worse."
Dr. Pye repeated his question. "You did not see it?"
"I saw nothing. The dead do not rise from their graves. Dead once, dead for ever. But you can convince me by producing ocular proof. Your ingenious device takes an instantaneous picture of any object upon which it flashes its light. Produce me the picture of the dead and buried Samuel Boyd."
"I cannot. The last film has been used, and I omitted to put in others."
"Very unfortunate," said Dr. Vinsen, dryly. "Suppose you supply the omission, and try again."
Dr. Pye acted upon the suggestion. He placed an automatic arrangement of films in the little machine, again turned down the gas, again opened the circular lid in the shutter, again threw the flash light upon the house of Samuel Boyd. The blank walls and windows confronted them, and no sign of life, physical or spiritual, was visible; and when the film was removed and developed it showed no face of man or spirit.
"I did not expect a result," said Dr. Pye; "there was no form at the window."
"You saw none on the first occasion."
"As clearly as I behold you now I saw the shadow, spirit, or reflection of Samuel Boyd. I was not under the spell of a delusion; my senses did not deceive me. My pulse beats steadily; there is no fever in my blood. I saw it."
"And I refuse to believe it. My friend, you do nothing without design, and if I doubt your protestation I but follow the excellent example you set me. I have no faith in diablerie, nor am I a child to be influenced by a goblin tale. Who thinks me so, mistakes my character-mis-takes my cha-rac-ter; and that might lead to more serious mistakes."
There was no indication that Dr. Pye paid heed to these words, or that they produced any impression upon him; he seemed to be absorbed in a train of thought which he was endeavouring to follow to a logical end.
"I recall a singular case," he said, musingly, "of a man who was brutally murdered in his own apartments while he was engaged in making experiments in photography. It occurred in a foreign country, and the police, investigating the case, had their suspicions directed to a person who had had dealings with the murdered man, and who had been seen entering his apartments within an hour or two of the murder. They followed up the clue, and arrested the suspected man, who energetically proclaimed his innocence. The evidence at the trial was entirely circumstantial, but it was considered conclusive, and the man went to the scaffold, protesting his innocence with his dying breath. Some years afterwards business of a private nature brought me into contact with a man who had but a short time to live, and on his deathbed he confessed to me that he was the murderer. In proof of this he had, by a strange fatuity, carried about with him during all these years a certain piece of evidence which, had it been presented to a jury, would have been fatal to him. The circumstances were these: On the day of the murder he had entered the apartment of his victim at the moment that a prepared plate had been placed in the camera. A quarrel took place between them, which culminated in the murderer suddenly plunging a knife into the heart of the student photographer. Death was instantaneous, and as he fell to the ground his eyes were fixed upon the face of his murderer. There he lay upon the ground, dead, his eyes wide open. The murderer was himself a photographer, and a whimsical fancy seized him to take a picture of those staring eyes, in which a wild horror dwelt. He acted upon it. Focussing the dead face he exposed the plate, and, the picture taken, stole away from the house with the negative in his possession. He subsequently developed the picture and enlarged it, and there, under the lens of a powerful microscope, was the portrait of the murderer upon the pupils of the dead man's eyes. It had been his last living vision, which had fixed itself upon the retina. I have the picture by me now, and since that day have been much interested in the photographic art, in which I have made some curious experiments. Later researches have proved that we can photograph what is invisible to the eye, what is even concealed in a box. The photographs of shadows and the spirits of the dead can be taken. The image of Samuel Boyd being in my mind, found its reflection in a window in a moment of light. Why should we not be able to photograph a vision created by the imagination?"
"Or," said Dr. Vinsen, with a touch of sarcasm, "the thoughts of men."
"Or," said Dr. Pye, with an assenting nod, "the thoughts of men. It will be done; and when it is accomplished it will open the road to greater discoveries."
"Ah," said Dr. Vinsen, shrugging his shoulders, "great discoveries-your great discoveries, ending in visions."
"To you, visions; to me, reality. The age of miracles is not yet past. It is my intention to get out of this country, and return to Italy, where there is light, where the sun shines. This atmosphere, these leaden skies, these black nights, are fatal. I must release myself. My purpose is fixed."
"And mine."
Both spoke in a tone of decision, and both had a motive-spring which had yet to be revealed.
"Let us come back to earth," said Dr. Vinsen, "and above all, let us be practical. There are accounts between us which must be settled-pray do not forget that."
"I will not."
"You were at the inquest to-day," said Dr. Vinsen, rather uneasily, for there was a menace in Dr. Pye's tone. "The papers report you fully. Your warning to the jury not to be led away by a resemblance that might be accidental was a masterstroke. It produced a good effect, but will it assist Mr. Reginald Boyd? We shall see-we shall see. Justice is slow. Were you to formulate a code you would make it swifter, surer-eh, my friend?"
"I would make it swift as sudden death to all who stood in my path," said Dr. Pye, and now there was a cold glitter in his eyes as he looked at his visitor.
"No doubt, no doubt, and no feeling of mercy would restrain you; but we cannot break through the meshes. Sentinels stand at every corner, and slow as justice is in these mean streets, of which you have so poor an opinion, its eyes are never closed. It is fortunate for some that it can occasionally be hoodwinked by a master mind, to which" (here he bent his head, half in mockery, half in sincerity) "I pay tribute. That poor woman, Mrs. Abel Death, has had no news of her husband-singular, is it not? Her strange little child Gracie, I regret to say, views me with disfavour. It is some compensation that her mother regards us as her benefactors; and in some respects we deserve to be so regarded. The expenditure of money in that quarter has not been entirely thrown away-not en-tire-ly thrown a-way. It has assisted me to direct public opinion, and to keep watch upon my friend Remington, whom I would like to plunge to the bottom of the Red Sea, to rot with the bones of the Egyptians."
That a man so mild in voice and so bland in manner should break into sudden malignity was surprising.
"He is better where he is," said Dr. Pye; "his living presence is necessary. People shoot wild when there is no target to aim at, and a chance shot might hit the mark."
"Always profound," said Dr. Vinsen, admiringly, "always, always profound. A target-yes, a target. It is a thousand pities, my dear friend, that you are not in all things more practical and less imaginative. Take, for instance, these gewgaws by which you are surrounded, these flasks and vases, these jewelled trifles, this curiously wrought work from some Eastern country-of what avail are they for the true pleasures of life?" Dr. Pye was silent. "You may say, perhaps, they feed the artistic sense. As I believe only in what I see, so do I believe only in what I feel. Better to feed the material senses-far more rational. If what you have presented to my view in your character is genuine, and not the outcome of a deliberate intention to deceive-in-ten-tion to de-ceive-it is composed of singularly contradictory qualities. In a certain sense, unique, for who would expect to find Alnaschar dreams floating among the fleshpots of Egypt? Your taste in wine is not to be excelled-I approve of it; it is a passion you carry to an excess which I consider as ridiculous as it is unwise-still, in the main, I approve of it. Good wine nourishes the tissues, helps to prolong life. Hippocrates and many long-headed ancients have something to say on this head. But these lifeless memorials of a dead past, in which there is no vitality, which are eternally the same, dumb and expressionless-My dear friend, I fear you are not listening."
"My thoughts are elsewhere," said Dr. Pye, rising and approaching the window. Dr. Vinsen followed him, with suspicion and discontent on his face. For the fourth time on this night the room was plunged in darkness; for the fourth time the circular lid of the shutter was drawn aside.
"There, there!" whispered Dr. Pye. "What do you see?"
Dr. Vinsen peered into the night. "I see nothing."
"Stand back."
Swift as thought he threw the flash-light upon the windows of Samuel Boyd's house. Then he masked the shutter and turned on the gas. Accompanied by Dr. Vinsen, who jealously watched his every movement, he stepped to the table, withdrew the film from the little machine, and developed it. And there before them came gradually into view the pictured presentment of the face and form of Samuel Boyd, standing at the window of his house in Catchpole Square.
Dr. Vinsen's face was pallid, his eyes dilated, his teeth chattered. Dr. Pye's face was thoughtful, introspective.
"Do you believe now?" he asked in an undertone.
Dr. Vinsen passed his hand confusedly across his brows.
"We had certain plans," continued Dr. Pye; "are they to be carried out to-night?"
"Not to-night; not to-night," replied Dr. Vinsen, turning towards the door.
The next moment Dr. Pye was alone.
CHAPTER XLII
A FAMILY COUNCIL
On the following morning Aunt and Uncle Rob and Florence and Reginald sat at the breakfast table, waiting for Dick, who had not been home all night. Although they had had no word from him since he left them on the previous evening, they knew that he would join them at the earliest possible moment. It had been an anxious night with them, and they had had but little sleep. There were dark rims round Aunt Rob's eyes, and signs of unrest were on Uncle Rob's countenance. Singularly enough, the invalid of the party, Reginald, had gathered strength; his voice was firmer, his step more confident, and there was an expression on his face which denoted that he had prepared himself to meet the worst that fortune had in store for him.
"Florence and I have been considering the straight and honest course to pursue," he said, "and we have decided. She wished me at first to be guided by your advice; but she is beginning to find out that she has married a wilful man."
She gave him a tender smile, and put her hand in his.
"It is not that I don't value your advice; but what would be the use of asking for it if I hadn't made up my mind to take it?"
"No use, my dear," said Aunt Rob. "What have you decided to do?"
"To offer a reward for the discovery of the murderer of my father."
Aunt Rob nodded her approval, and would have expressed it had she not observed the grave look on her husband's face. So she held her tongue, and waited for him to speak.
"It is not a plan we generally approve of," he remarked, after a pause, "and it seldom meets with success."
"Has it ever?" asked Reginald.
"Yes. A fifty to one chance."
"If it were a thousand to one chance it would be wrong to throw it away. Much of the evidence that has been given can be so construed as to cast suspicion upon me. How shall I protect myself except by showing the world that I court the most searching inquiry? Lady Wharton's story is true, and some villain, personating my father, succeeded in imposing upon and robbing her. The offer of a substantial reward will not only quicken the efforts of the police, but will set a hundred people on the hunt. God forbid that I should do anyone an injustice. I cannot conceive that Abel Death is the murderer, and yet in the eyes of the public it lies between him and me. It would be the height of folly to ignore that fact. Here in this paper" – he took up a newspaper, glanced at it, and flung it indignantly aside-"is a veiled allusion to Abel Death and me as accomplices. No names are mentioned, but the inference can hardly be missed. On my way home from the funeral on Tuesday, and yesterday from the Coroner's Court, I saw some of the newspaper bills with their cruel headlines accusing me! I saw the silent accusation in the eyes of the people as I passed. Is it in nature that I should sit idly down under such imputations? They are enough to drive a man mad, and I shall go mad if I do not do something quickly to repel them. The wretch who went down to Bournemouth must have purchased a railway ticket; the clerk who sold it him may have seen his face; passengers travelling the same way must have seen him: he must have been seen by other persons in Bournemouth; he may have taken a carriage there to drive to the Gables; if he went on foot he may have asked his way to the house; when he left Lady Wharton he could scarcely have walked about the town till the trains started in the morning; he must have slept somewhere; a waiter or a chambermaid may have noticed him; there may have been something in his speech or manner to attract attention, however slight. There are a thousand things from which a clue may be obtained and which may be brought to the recollection by the hope of earning money. The offer of a reward will stir people's memories, will cause them to come forward with scraps of information which otherwise would be thought of no importance. Uncle Rob, Aunt Rob-I dare not, and will not, call you father and mother till I am cleared of these vile suspicions-do you not see that I must do this for dear Florence's sake, that it is my duty to make her less ashamed of the name I gave her?"
The sobs in his throat prevented him from continuing. Trembling in every limb, shaking with passion and excitement, he turned appealingly to his wife.
She clasped him in her loving arms, crying, "I am not ashamed of it; I am proud of it, and of you, my dear, dear husband! If there is a stain upon our name you shall wipe it away; you shall make it bright and clean and pure, and men and women shall say, 'The son has atoned for his father's faults, and stands before the world an honourable gentleman who has met misfortune bravely, and silenced the slanderers who dared to breathe a word against him.' Oh, my dear, my dear! I never loved you as I love you now, I never honoured you as I honour you now. Mother, father, stand by us-comfort him, strengthen him!"
She glowed with heavenly pity, with indignant pride, with devoted love. The type of a true, brave, honest English girl, she stood embracing the man whose heart, whose life, were linked with hers, ready to defend him, to suffer for him, to fling back the words of scorn flung at him-if need were, to die for him. It is beneath the stress of a heavy stroke of misfortune that men and women such as she show their noblest qualities.
A great peace stole into Reginald's heart; the sobs in his throat died away.
"I will try to prove myself worthy of you," he said huskily. "I pray to God that I may live to prove it."
Aunt Rob's heart throbbed with exultation.
"Our daughter, father, that I nursed at my breast," she murmured to her husband. "God love and preserve her!"
"Amen!" he answered.
So in that humble home those sweet flowers bloomed in the midst of the darkness, and through the lowering clouds one bright star shone-the star of love and hope and mutual faith.
When the excitement had subsided, and they were all seated again, Uncle Rob said,
"Let it be as you have decided, Reginald, my lad. As an inspector of police I might argue with you; as a man and a father I agree with you. And in the nick of time, here comes Dick."
To Dick, with his cheerful face and voice, that bore no traces of his night's anxious vigil, all was explained. He shook hands with Reginald, and said,
"A good move. I'll go a step farther. Let there be two bills put out and posted all over England, one offering a reward for the discovery of the murderer, the other for giving such information of Abel Death as will lead to his being found. You can tell us, perhaps, Uncle Rob-would that be against the law?"
"I don't think the law can touch it," he replied. "It might not be approved of in some quarters, but the law don't apply, so far as I know anything of it."
"If the law," said Aunt Rob, with fine disdain, "can prevent a son from offering a reward for the discovery of his father's murderer the less we have of it the better. Why, instead of one man looking for the monster, there 'll be a hundred! Dick, you must see to the printing of the bills, and they should be got out at once."
"I will attend to everything; but before we go into details I've something to tell you. I should have been here earlier if I hadn't met little Gracie Death. What a brick that mite is! Just listen to what she discovered yesterday, Reginald-that there's a way of getting into your father's house without getting through the front or the back door. You may well look startled; it nearly took my breath away. Do you remember that pitiful hoarse voice of hers, uncle, on the night of the fog, when she said, 'You will find father, won't you, sir?'" Uncle Rob nodded. "Well, as nobody has been able to find him, she has made up her mind to find him herself, heaven knows how, but somehow. She thinks of nothing else, she dreams of nothing else, and she's got it into that clever little head of hers that he's to be found in Catchpole Square, the very place, one would imagine, that he'd be likely to avoid. If faith can move mountains, as they say it can, the thing is as good as done. There is such magnetism in her little body that when she speaks she almost makes you believe what she believes. Now, I'm not going to tell you how she got into the house while Uncle Rob is here. As inspector of police he would consider it his duty to make use of the information."
"I certainly should," said Uncle Rob. "I'd best make myself scarce."
"Don't go yet, uncle. I want you to hear something you ought to know. Gracie, talking to me this morning, tells me of a man she saw Dr. Vinsen speaking to last night. She hates that doctor-so do I; and it's because she hates him that she creeps behind them without their seeing her, and hears Dr. Vinsen say, 'You act up to your instructions, and I'll keep my promise.' That's all she does hear, because the doctor, turning his head over his shoulder, sends her scuttling away; but she's certain he doesn't suspect that he'd been followed and overheard. There isn't much in that, you'll say; but listen to what follows. Gracie had just finished telling me this when a man passes us. 'There,' she says, 'that's the man.' I catch sight of his face, and who do you think it was?"
"Out with it, Dick," said Uncle Rob.
"It was the juryman that's been putting all those questions at the inquest about our private affairs, and that's been doing his best to throw suspicion upon Reginald and me and all of us. Queer start, isn't it?"