"When constabulary duty's to be done, A policeman's lot is not a nappy one."
Inspector Howard Wainwright sat at a small table in his dingy office in the even dingier basement of Town Hall, frowning down at die hastily scribbled autopsy report Sergeant Battle had laid before him. His frown deepened to a scowl, and he wished fervently that the borough police could afford one of those new typewriters. It would make Dr. For-sythe's crabbed hand legible.
But his superiors were not likely to authorize the purchase of a typewriter, the inspector knew. And even if they did, his sausage-fingered sergeant would have to learn to operate it. One eventuality was as improbable as the other, and either
was as unlikely as the installation of a telephone, which the inspector also fervently desired.
Inspector Wainwright was a practical man and knew the limitations of his position. But he was also ambitious and wished for the tools that would not only help him do his work but assist him to rise in his profession. His experience with the Essex constabulary, however, had made him pessimistic about the future. His pessimism pervaded his view of his work, indeed, of his life, and deepened his naturally melancholy state of mind.
The inspector was still squinting at Dr. Forsythe's indecipherable scribble when a figure darkened the doorway. He looked up impatiently. "Yes, Sergeant?"
Sergeant Battle came in and closed the door behind him. " 'Tis th' gennulman from th' dig, sir," he said, sotto voce. "Th' one wot I tol' yer 'bout. He's got th' pichures."
"Has he?" Inspector Wainwright put down the report. He looked at Sergeant Battle's fat, oily fingers. Not only improbable and unlikely, but impossible. "Well, show him in."
The gentleman who came into the room was carrying a large leather portfolio. Inspector Wainwright stood.
"I fear I neglected to introduce myself to your subordinates yesterday," the gentleman said, taking off his dusty felt hat. "My name is Charles Sheridan." The sergeant retired discreetly and shut the door.
The inspector was at a disadvantage, and he knew it. He had been absent from the murder scene yesterday because he had been summoned to look for some missing plate at Hammond Hall-plate that had turned up in the kitchen slops while he was questioning Lady Hammond's cook. If he had been at the dig instead of pursuing his futile errand, he would have forbidden the gentleman to take photographs. It was not that he had anything against cameras; quite the contrary. He was firm in his opinion, however, that the documentation of crime should be done by the police-and the borough force, which possessed neither typewriter nor telephone, possessed no camera.
"I was about to have a cup of tea," the inspector said. "Would you take some?"
"Thank you, yes," Mr. Sheridan replied, unstrapping his portfolio.
The inspector went to the corner, where a kettle was boiling on a gas burner, and took down two crockery cups, neither very clean. By the time he returned with the tea, Mr. Sheridan had laid out a dozen photos on the table.
The inspector set down the cups and leaned over the photographs. "Ah," he said to himself after a moment, and then "Oh," and finally, "Yes, I see." When he finished his examination, he took up his cup and sat down, feeling even more gloomy than before. He had viewed the corpse in question, laid out on the mortuary table while Dr. Forsythe stood at the ready. He had viewed the excavation this morning and had seen what there was to see, which wasn't very much. But Mr. Sheridan's photographs of the body in the excavation gave him a far1 more complete understanding of the situation than either his belated inspection or the report of Sergeant Battle and PC Trabb. The fact quite depressed him.
Mr. Sheridan sipped his tea. "You've had experience with photography in criminal investigation, Inspector?"
Inspector Wainwright examined the questioner over the rim of his cup. A man of obvious breeding and intelligence, the sort of man whose social position the inspector could not help but envy. "Can't say as I have," he said sourly. "A local photographer shoots everybody who is arrested. Criminals don't fancy the business, of course. They contort their faces and bodies so that even their mothers wouldn't recognize 'em."
"And what do you do with the photographs, once obtained?"
Inspector Wainwright laughed shortly. "What else?" He gestured toward a cabinet. "We keep 'em. Of course, it's no mean trick to find one that's wanted again. Not many men give a truthful account of their names." He looked at the photograph of the dead man, stretched out on his back, his aquiline features clearly visible, as was his clothing, the ring on his finger, the knife wound in his chest. "But this, now," he said thoughtfully, almost to himself. "This is dif'rent. If I had a camera, and more coppers, a picture like this could
be taken round to innkeepers, the stationmaster, cabbies. P'rhaps somebody could identify the bloke." He put down the photo. "If I had a camera," he repeated morosely. "And more coppers."
"You don't know who he was, then?"
Inspector Wainwright shook his head. "PC Trabb's out in-quirin', but there's nothin' yet. Got the autopsy report, though," he added, "for what it's worth." He scowled at the nearly illegible document.
"Anything unexpected?"
"Only that the tip of the knife was recovered. Broke off against a rib." The inspector picked up the envelope that had come with Dr. Forsythe's report and spilled the contents onto the table. Among the items was a triangular bit of metal about a quarter inch on a side.
"Ah," Mr. Sheridan said, picking it up. "Sharpened on two edges. A dagger. A weapon designed for killing." He looked at the other items that had spilled out of the envelope with the knife tip: a railway ticket, a cutoff clothing label, and the gold scarab ring. "The ticket was found in the victim's pocket?"
The inspector nodded.
"Return ticket, London to Dover," Mr. Sheridan mused. ' 'He came from the Continent-from France, if we trust the evidence of the Parisian label-on a brief errand, planning to return shortly. But something waylaid him. Or rather, someone." He picked up the ring and examined it. "You have noticed the inscription inside this ring, no doubt."
"Inscription?" The inspector frowned. "I noticed some-thin' that looked like child's scribblin'."
"Permit me to copy it," Mr. Sheridan said. From a pocket he took out a jeweler's loupe and inserted it into his eye, holding it firmly between his brow and his cheek. From another pocket he took out a pencil and pad, and commenced to sketch a series of stick figures-hands, birds, snakes, and other, unidentifiable objects.
The inspector took in Mr. Sheridan's industry without a word. The man was adept, no doubt about it. The last fellow he had seen working in such a nimble-fingered way had
turned out to be a forger. Warily, he asked, "And what do you propose to do with this copy?"
"The inscription may tell us something about the ring's owner," Mr. Sheridan said, taking the lens out of his eye.
"But it can't be read," the inspector objected. "It's gibberish."
"It can't be read by us, certainly," Mr. Sheridan agreed, pocketing the pad. "I believe it is Middle Egyptian. It appears to me that there are two names here, perhaps a prayer." He pointed to the last figure, which appeared to be a cross with a loop. "This is an ankh, which represents eternal life. That's as much as I can make out, more's the pity. However, there's a chap in the Egyptology section of the British Museum who reads hieroglyphics as if he were reading The Times. With your permission, I propose to send this copy to him."
Feeling pinned, the inspector said, "I s'pose you may as well give it a go." He sat back, his gloomy curiosity fully aroused. Most men of Mr. Sheridan's class scarcely spoke to police, even when they were required to do so by official business, deeming it beneath their dignity to associate with someone at the level of sweeps and ratcatchers. He frowned, curiosity darkening to suspicion. Why would a gentleman go to the trouble of photographing a dead body, bringing the photos to the police station, and engaging in a discussion of the evidence-especially a gentleman with the fingers of a forger? He straightened up.
"I don't b'lieve you've said, sir, where you're stayin'. In case I might have a need to talk further with you about this case."
Mr. Sheridan was shuffling photographs. "I am a guest at Marsden Manor, Dedham," he said absently. "If I am needed, you may send for me there." He laid two pictures in front of them. "Did you notice these, Inspector? The one on the left is a photograph of a pair of footprints."
The inspector frowned. Upon his arrival at the excavation at daybreak this morning, he had discovered to his chagrin (but not to his surprise) that Sergeant Battle had once again neglected to secure the scene of a crime. All footprints had been obliterated. The sergeant had reported that there were
some, and Trabb had provided a clumsy drawing, which lay now in his drawer. But neither drawing nor report provided any useful detail. The inspector had thought that the footprints were gone forever-but he had been wrong. They were preserved here, in this photograph.
"And this on the right," Mr. Sheridan continued, tapping it with his thumb, "is an enlargement of that on the left. Observe the enhanced detail. Much more can be seen in the photograph than the naked eye might observe at the actual scene of the crime."
"Can it, now?" the inspector said darkly. Contrivances like the camera-and the typewriter and the telephone-were helpful and laborsaving. But he knew where to draw the line. A device that revealed more than the eye was not, in his opinion, to be fully trusted. Such an art could fabricate as easily as it could inform.
"It most certainly can." Mr. Sheridan took a pencil-sized silver case out of his pocket, flicked a button, and out popped a pointer. "Observe this footprint," he said, tracing its outline on the left-hand photograph with the pointer. "It is clearly that of a man's shoe. Here"-pointing-"are a second and a third, all directed toward the excavation-and rather unsteadily at that. Notice the unequal distances between the prints, and the uneven distribution of weight, first upon one foot, then the other." He shifted his pointer to the enlargement. ' 'This print, this small round indentation-is it not the print of the walking stick upon which the man is leaning heavily?" He reached into another pocket and took out a hand-held magnifying glass, which he handed to the inspector.
Still nursing his chagrin over the ineptness that had denied him the firsthand view of the footprints to which he was entitled, the inspector took the lens and scrutinized the enlarged indentation. "But no walking stick was found," he growled.
"No," Mr. Sheridan said, "it was not."
The inspector narrowed his eyes. He could not object to the gentleman's conclusions, although they struck him as being of the hocus-pocus variety, rather like that preposterous "consulting detective" whose exploits were all the rage. He
might, however, question the gentleman's motives for interesting himself so deeply in this case. He might, in fact, suspect the gentleman himself. ' 'And what, sir, is your business in the Colchester area?" he asked, putting down the lens.
Mr. Sheridan reshuffled the photographs. "As I said, I am visiting the Marsdens. As well, Sir Archibald has invited me to make a photographic record of the progress of the excavation here in Colchester." Another photo. The pointer again. "See here, Inspector. These are wheelprints in the cart track near the excavation."
The inspector folded his arms, no longer to be seduced. "What of 'em? Looks like the victim came by cab, don't it? He must have done, anyway. Bit out of the way to walk, for an unsteady man who's got to use a walking stick."
"But notice the ivory rule," Mr. Sheridan said, gesturing energetically, "which indicates the gauge. The distance between the wheels is only five feet. The axle width of a hansom cab is six feet." Two more photographs, side to side. "Moreover, observe this mark in the print-that of a partial break in the iron rim of the right wheel. Here it is in this photograph, and here"-pointing again-"in this one, at an interval of approximately twelve and one half feet."
Inspector Wainwright pushed his lips in and out. "Meanin'?"
"Meaning that this vehicle was not a cab, sir. Its wheelbase is much too small. Further, the diameter of the wheel is only about four feet, while that of most hansoms is roughly five." At the clouded look on the inspector's face he added, "You recall pi, of course. The diameter of a circle equals its circumference divided by three and fourteen sixteen ten thousandths."
"Of course," the inspector said, humoring him. "Pie."
Mr. Sheridan nodded. "But that is less important than the fact that this vehicle's wheels have iron rims, while hansom cabs have rubber tires. It is clear, sir, that this is a rather small carriage, lightweight, of the about-town variety, with a break in the iron rim of the right wheel. Further, if you will be so good as to notice the hoofprints-here, and again here-you
will observe that the vehicle was drawn by a horse lame in the left hind leg."
The inspector managed to suppress a smile, the first of the day. "And what kind of harness would you say this horse was wearin'?"
Mr. Sheridan appeared not to notice the inspector's amusement. He stacked the photographs, placing those of the corpse on top. "I have prepared these copies for you and have retained the plates," he said crisply. "If you require additional prints, you have only to ask. Should your inquiries uncover the victim's identity, please be so kind as to inform me of the particulars." He took out a gold pocket watch and looked at it. ' 'In the meantime, I shall attempt to discover the meaning of the inscription in the ring. I also plan to return to the excavation. While I fear that the area has already been tramped, the cart track may have remained undisturbed, at least sufficiently to allow me to acquire certain additional data that may be useful." He took up his empty portfolio and his hat. "Good day to you, Inspector."
The gentleman had scarcely cleared the stoop when the inspector bellowed out, "Battle!"
The sergeant appeared at the door. "Sir?"
"That gent who was just here," the inspector said urgently. "Put somebody on his back, smartish."
"But I don't have nobody to put on 'im," the sergeant protested.
"Got yourself, haven't you?" The inspector spoke icily, feeling that Battle should put forth some extra effort to atone for his sins of the day before. "Fetch your bicycle, man, and hop to it!"
"Yessir," the sergeant said, and disappeared.
The inspector went back to his table, balled Dr. Forsythe's unreadable autopsy report, and pitched it against the wall.