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(Related by Christopher Jervis, M.D.)

From various causes, the insurance business that passed through Thorndyke’s hands had, of late, considerably increased. The number of societies which regularly employed him had grown larger, and, since the remarkable case of Percival Bland, the “Griffin” had made it a routine practice to send all inquest cases to us for report.

It was in reference to one of these latter that Mr. Stalker, a senior member of the staff of that office, called on us one afternoon in December; and when he had laid his bag on the table and settled himself comfortably before the fire, he opened the business without preamble.

“I’ve brought you another inquest case,” said he; “a rather queer one, quite interesting from your point of view. As far as we can see, it has no particular interest for us excepting that it does rather look as if our examining medical officer had been a little casual.”

“What is the special interest of the case from our point of view?” asked Thorndyke.

“I’ll just give you a sketch of it,” said Stalker, “and I think you will agree that it’s a case after your own heart.

“On the 24th of last month, some men who were collecting seaweed, to use as manure, discovered in a cave at Kingsgate, in the Isle of Thanet, the body of a man, lying under a mass of accumulated weed. As the tide was rising, they put the body into their cart and conveyed it to Margate, where, of course, an inquest was held, and the following facts were elicited. The body was that of a man named Thomas Elton. It was identified by the name-marks on the clothing, by the visiting-cards and a couple of letters which were found in the pockets. From the address on the letters it was seen that Elton had been staying in Margate, and on inquiry at that address, it was learnt from the old woman who let the lodgings, that he had been missing about four days. The landlady was taken to the mortuary, and at once identified the body as that of her lodger. It remained only to decide how the body came into the cave; and this did not seem to present much difficulty; for the neck had been broken by a tremendous blow, which had practically destroyed the face, and there were distinct evidences of a breaking away of a portion of the top of the cliff, only a few yards from the position of the cave. There was apparently no doubt that Elton had fallen sheer from the top of the overhanging cliff on to the beach. Now, one would suppose with the evidence of this fall of about a hundred and fifty feet, the smashed face and broken neck, there was not much room for doubt as to the cause of death. I think you will agree with me, Dr. Jervis?”

“Certainly,” I replied; “it must be admitted that a broken neck is a condition that tends to shorten life.”

“Quite so,” agreed Stalker; “but our friend, the local coroner, is a gentleman who takes nothing for granted—a very Thomas Didymus, who apparently agrees with Dr. Thorndyke that if there is no post-mortem, there is no inquest. So he ordered a post-mortem, which would have appeared to me an absurdly unnecessary proceeding, and I think that even you will agree with me, Dr. Thorndyke.”

But Thorndyke shook his head.

“Not at all,” said he. “It might, for instance, be much more easy to push a drugged or poisoned man over a cliff than to put over the same man in his normal state. The appearance of violent accident is an excellent mask for the less obvious forms of murder.”

“That’s perfectly true,” said Stalker; “and I suppose that is what the coroner thought. At any rate, he had the post-mortem made, and the result was most curious; for it was found, on opening the body, that the deceased had suffered from a smallish thoracic aneurism, which had burst. Now, as the aneurism must obviously have burst during life, it leaves the cause of death—so I understand—uncertain; at any rate, the medical witness was unable to say whether the deceased fell over the cliff in consequence of the bursting of the aneurism or burst the aneurism in consequence of falling over the cliff. Of course, it doesn’t matter to us which way the thing happened; the only question which interests us is, whether a comparatively recently insured man ought to have had an aneurism at all.”

“Have you paid the claim?” asked Thorndyke.

“No, certainly not. We never pay a claim until we have had your report. But, as a matter of fact, there is another circumstance that is causing delay. It seems that Elton had mortgaged his policy to a money-lender, named Gordon, and it is by him that the claim has been made, or rather, by a clerk of his, named Hyams. Now, we have had a good many dealings with this man Gordon, and hitherto he has always acted in person; and as he is a somewhat slippery gentleman, we have thought it desirable to have the claim actually signed by him. And that is the difficulty. For it seems that Mr. Gordon is abroad, and his whereabouts unknown to Hyams; so, as we certainly couldn’t take Hyams’s receipt for payment, the matter is in abeyance until Hyams can communicate with his principal. And now, I must be running away. I have brought you, as you will see, all the papers, including the policy and the mortgage deed.”

As soon as he was gone, Thorndyke gathered up the bundle of papers and sorted them out in what he apparently considered the order of their importance. First he glanced quickly through the proposal form, and then took up the copy of the coroner’s depositions.

“The medical evidence,” he remarked, “is very full and complete. Both the coroner and the doctor seem to know their business.”

“Seeing that the man apparently fell over a cliff,” said I, “the medical evidence would not seem to be of first importance. It would seem to be more to the point to ascertain how he came to fall over.”

“That’s quite true,” replied Thorndyke; “and yet, this report contains some rather curious matter. The deceased had an aneurism of the arch; that was probably rather recent. But he also had some slight, old-standing aortic disease, with full compensatory hypertrophy. He also had a nearly complete set of false teeth. Now, doesn’t it strike you, Jervis, as rather odd that a man who was passed only five years ago as a first-class life, should, in that short interval, have become actually uninsurable?”

“It certainly does look,” said I, “as if the fellow had had rather bad luck. What does the proposal form say?”

I took the document up and ran my eyes over it. On Thorndyke’s advice, medical examiners for the “Griffin” were instructed to make a somewhat fuller report than is usual in some companies. In this case, the ordinary answers to questions set forth that the heart was perfectly healthy and the teeth rather exceptionally good, and then, in the summary at the end, the examiner remarked: “the proposer seems to be a completely sound and healthy man; he presents no physical defects whatever, with the exception of a bony ankylosis of the first joint of the third finger of the left hand, which he states to have been due to an injury.”

Thorndyke looked up quickly. “Which finger, did you say?” he asked.

“The third finger of the left hand,” I replied.

Thorndyke looked thoughtfully at the paper that he was reading. “It’s very singular,” said he, “for I see that the Margate doctor states that the deceased wore a signet ring on the third finger of the left hand. Now, of course, you couldn’t get a ring on to a finger with bony ankylosis of the joint.”

“He must have mistaken the finger,” said I, “or else the insurance examiner did.”

“That is quite possible,” Thorndyke replied; “but, doesn’t it strike you as very singular that, whereas the insurance examiner mentions the ankylosis, which was of no importance from an insurance point of view, the very careful man who made the post-mortem should not have mentioned it, though, owing to the unrecognisable condition of the face, it was of vital importance for the purpose of identification?”

I admitted that it was very singular indeed, and we then resumed our study of the respective papers. But presently I noticed that Thorndyke had laid the report upon his knee, and was gazing speculatively into the fire.

“I gather,” said I, “that my learned friend finds some matter of interest in this case.”

For reply, he handed me the bundle of papers, recommending me to look through them.

“Thank you,” said I, rejecting them firmly, “but I think I can trust you to have picked out all the plums.”

Thorndyke smiled indulgently. “They’re not plums, Jervis,” said he; “they’re only currants, but they make quite a substantial little heap.”

I disposed myself in a receptive attitude (somewhat after the fashion of the juvenile pelican) and he continued:

“If we take the small and unimpressive items and add them together, you will see that a quite considerable sum of discrepancy results, thus:

“In 1903, Thomas Elton, aged thirty-one, had a set of sound teeth. In 1908, at the age of thirty-six, he was more than half toothless.

“Again, at the age of thirty-one, his heart was perfectly healthy. At the age of thirty-six, he had old aortic disease, with fully established compensation, and an aneurism that was possibly due to it.

“When he was examined he had a noticeable incurable malformation; no such malformation is mentioned in connection with the body.

“He appears to have fallen over a cliff; and he had also burst an aneurism. Now, the bursting of the aneurism must obviously have occurred during life; but it would occasion practically instantaneous death. Therefore, if the fall was accidental, the rupture must have occurred either as he stood at the edge of the cliff, as he was in the act of falling, or on striking the beach.

“At the place where he apparently fell, the footpath is some thirty yards distant from the edge of the cliff.

“It is not known how he came to that spot, or whether he was alone at the time.

“Someone is claiming five hundred pounds as the immediate result of his death.

“There, you see, Jervis, are seven propositions, none of them extremely striking, but rather suggestive when taken together.”

“You seem,” said I, “to suggest a doubt as to the identity of the body.”

“I do,” he replied. “The identity was not clearly established.”

“You don’t think the clothing and the visiting-cards conclusive.”

“They’re not parts of the body,” he replied. “Of course, substitution is highly improbable. But it is not impossible.”

“And the old woman,” I suggested, but he interrupted me.

“My dear Jervis,” he exclaimed; “I’m surprised at you. How many times has it happened within our knowledge that women have identified the bodies of total strangers as those of their husbands, fathers or brothers. The thing happens almost every year. As to this old woman, she saw a body with an unrecognisable face, dressed in the clothes of her missing lodger. Of course, it was the clothes that she identified.”

“I suppose it was,” I agreed; and then I said: “You seem to suggest the possibility of foul play.”

“Well,” he replied, “if you consider those seven points, you will agree with me that they present a cumulative discrepancy which it is impossible to ignore. The whole significance of the case turns on the question of identity; for, if this was not the body of Thomas Elton, it would appear to have been deliberately prepared to counterfeit that body. And such deliberate preparation would manifestly imply an attempt to conceal the identity of some other body.

“Then,” he continued, after a pause, “there is this deed. It looks quite regular and is correctly stamped, but it seems to me that the surface of the paper is slightly altered in one or two places, and if one holds the document up to the light, the paper looks a little more transparent in those places.” He examined the document for a few seconds with his pocket lens, and then passing lens and document to me, said: “Have a look at it, Jervis, and tell me what you think.”

I scrutinised the paper closely, taking it over to the window to get a better light; and to me, also, the paper appeared to be changed in certain places.

“Are we agreed as to the position of the altered places?” Thorndyke asked when I announced the fact.

“I only see three patches,” I answered. “Two correspond to the name, Thomas Elton, and the third to one of the figures in the policy number.”

“Exactly,” said Thorndyke, “and the significance is obvious. If the paper has really been altered, it means that some other name has been erased and Elton’s substituted; by which arrangement, of course, the correctly dated stamp would be secured. And this—the alteration of an old document—is the only form of forgery that is possible with a dated, impressed stamp.”

“Wouldn’t it be rather a stroke of luck,” I asked, “for a forger to happen to have in his possession a document needing only these two alterations?”

“I see nothing remarkable in it,” Thorndyke replied. “A money-lender would have a number of documents of this kind in hand, and you observe that he was not bound down to any particular date. Any date within a year or so of the issue of the policy would answer his purpose. This document is, in fact, dated, as you see, about six months after the issue of the policy.”

“I suppose,” said I, “that you will draw Stalker’s attention to this matter.”

“He will have to be informed, of course,” Thorndyke replied; “but I think it would be interesting in the first place to call on Mr. Hyams. You will have noticed that there are some rather mysterious features in this case, and Mr. Hyams’s conduct, especially if this document should turn out to be really a forgery, suggests that he may have some special information on the subject.” He glanced at his watch and, after a few moments’ reflection, added: “I don’t see why we shouldn’t make our little ceremonial call at once. But it will be a delicate business, for we have mighty little to go upon. Are you coming with me?”

If I had had any doubts, Thorndyke’s last remark disposed of them; for the interview promised to be quite a sporting event. Mr. Hyams was presumably not quite newly-hatched, and Thorndyke, who utterly despised bluff of any kind, and whose exact mind refused either to act or speak one hair’s breadth beyond his knowledge, was admittedly in somewhat of a fog. The meeting promised to be really entertaining.

Mr. Hyams was “discovered,” as the playwrights have it, in a small office at the top of a high building in Queen Victoria Street. He was a small gentleman, of sallow and greasy aspect, with heavy eyebrows and a still heavier nose.

“Are you Mr. Gordon?” Thorndyke suavely inquired as we entered.

Mr. Hyams seemed to experience a momentary doubt on the subject, but finally decided that he was not. “But perhaps,” he added brightly, “I can do your business for you as well.”

“I daresay you can,” Thorndyke agreed significantly; on which we were conducted into an inner den, where I noticed Thorndyke’s eye rest for an instant on a large iron safe.

“Now,” said Mr. Hyams, shutting the door ostentatiously, “what can I do for you?”

“I want you,” Thorndyke replied, “to answer one or two questions with reference to the claim made by you on the ‘Griffin’ Office in respect of Thomas Elton.”

Mr. Hyams’s manner underwent a sudden change. He began rapidly to turn over papers, and opened and shut the drawers of his desk, with an air of restless preoccupation.

“Did the ‘Griffin’ people send you here?” he demanded brusquely.

“They did not specially instruct me to call on you,” replied Thorndyke.

“Then,” said Hyams, bouncing out of his chair, “I can’t let you occupy my time. I’m not here to answer conundrums from Tom, Dick or Harry.”

Thorndyke rose from his chair. “Then I am to understand,” he said, with unruffled suavity, “that you would prefer me to communicate with the Directors, and leave them to take any necessary action.”

This gave Mr. Hyams pause. “What action do you refer to?” he asked. “And, who are you?”

Thorndyke produced a card and laid it on the table. Mr. Hyams had apparently seen the name before, for he suddenly grew rather pale and very serious.

“What is the nature of the questions that you wished to ask?” he inquired.

“They refer to this claim,” replied Thorndyke. “The first question is, where is Mr. Gordon?”

“I don’t know,” said Hyams.

“Where do you think he is?” asked Thorndyke.

“I don’t think at all,” replied Hyams, turning a shade paler and looking everywhere but at Thorndyke.

“Very well,” said the latter, “then the next question is, are you satisfied that this claim is really payable?”

“I shouldn’t have made it if I hadn’t been,” replied Hyams.

“Quite so,” said Thorndyke; “and the third question is, are you satisfied that the mortgage deed was executed as it purports to have been?”

“I can’t say anything about that,” replied Hyams, who was growing every moment paler and more fidgety, “it was done before my time.”

“Thank you,” said Thorndyke. “You will, of course, understand why I am making these inquiries.”

“I don’t,” said Hyams.

“Then,” said Thorndyke, “perhaps I had better explain. We are dealing, you observe, Mr. Hyams, with the case of a man who has met with a violent death under somewhat mysterious circumstances. We are dealing, also, with another man who has disappeared, leaving his affairs to take care of themselves; and with a claim, put forward by a third party, on behalf of the one man in respect of the other. When I say that the dead man has been imperfectly identified, and that the document supporting the claim presents certain peculiarities, you will see that the matter calls for further inquiry.”

There was an appreciable interval of silence. Mr. Hyams had turned a tallowy white, and looked furtively about the room, as if anxious to avoid the stony gaze that my colleague had fixed on him.

“Can you give us no assistance?” Thorndyke inquired, at length. Mr. Hyams chewed a pen-holder ravenously, as he considered the question. At length, he burst out in an agitated voice: “Look here, sir, if I tell you what I know, will you treat the information as confidential?”

“I can’t agree to that, Mr. Hyams,” replied Thorndyke. “It might amount to compounding a felony. But you will be wiser to tell me what you know. The document is a side-issue, which my clients may never raise, and my own concern is with the death of this man.”

Hyams looked distinctly relieved. “If that’s so,” said he, “I’ll tell you all I know, which is precious little, and which just amounts to this: Two days after Elton was killed, someone came to this office in my absence and opened the safe. I discovered the fact the next morning. Someone had been to the safe and rummaged over all the papers. It wasn’t Gordon, because he knew where to find everything; and it wasn’t an ordinary thief, because no cash or valuables had been taken. In fact, the only thing that I missed was a promissory note, drawn by Elton.”

“You didn’t miss a mortgage deed?” suggested Thorndyke, and Hyams, having snatched a little further refreshment from the pen-holder, said he did not.

“And the policy,” suggested Thorndyke, “was apparently not taken?”

“No,” replied Hyams; “but it was looked for. Three bundles of policies had been untied, but this one happened to be in a drawer of my desk and I had the only key.”

“And what do you infer from this visit?” Thorndyke asked.

“Well,” replied Hyams, “the safe was opened with keys, and they were Gordon’s keys—or, at any rate, they weren’t mine—and the person who opened it wasn’t Gordon; and the things that were taken—at least the thing, I mean—chiefly concerned Elton. Naturally I smelt a rat; and when I read of the finding of the body, I smelt a fox.”

“And have you formed any opinion about the body that was found?”

“Yes, I have,” he replied. “My opinion is that it was Gordon’s body: that Gordon had been putting the screw on Elton, and Elton had just pitched him over the cliff and gone down and changed clothes with the body. Of course, that’s only my opinion. I may be wrong; but I don’t think I am.”

As a matter of fact, Mr. Hyams was not wrong. An exhumation, consequent on Thorndyke’s challenge of the identity of the deceased, showed that the body was that of Solomon Gordon. A hundred pounds reward was offered for information as to Elton’s whereabouts. But no one ever earned it. A letter, bearing the postmark of Marseilles, and addressed by the missing man to Thorndyke, gave a plausible account of Gordon’s death; which was represented as having occurred accidentally at the moment when Gordon chanced to be wearing a suit of Elton’s clothes.

Of course, this account may have been correct, or again, it may have been false; but whether it was true or false, Elton, from that moment, vanished from our ken and has never since been heard of.