Chapter 3

Purely Theoretical

Roger Axton stood looking at the pill-box on the table, and Octavius Fanks stood looking at Roger Axton, the former lost in a fit of painful musing (evident from his pale face, his twitching lips, his startled expression), the latter keenly observant, according to his usual habits. At last Roger with a deep sigh drew his hand across his brow and resumed his seat, while Mr. Fanks, picking up the pill-box, gave it a cheerful rattle as he followed his example.

"What a strange coincidence," he said, thoughtfully; "but I'm not astonished. This sort of thing occurs in real life as well as in novels. 'Truth is stranger than fiction.' I don't know who first made that remark, but he was a wise man, you may depend, and wonderfully observant of events before he crystallised his experience in those five words."

"It certainly is curious," replied Roger, absently, as though he were thinking of something else. "Fancy finding the name of the town where She--"

"With a large S, of course."

"Where she lives, printed on a pill-box," finished Roger, and then, after a pause: "What do you think of it, Fanks?"

"Think!" repeated Octavius, thoughtfully. "Oh, I think it is the clue to the whole mystery."

"Why, what do you mean?" asked Roger, in a startled tone.

"What I say," retorted Fanks, twirling the pill-box round and round. "It's not difficult of comprehension. Man, name unknown, comes down here, and dies shortly after his arrival. Inquest; verdict, suicide! Fiddle-de-dee! Murder! And this pill-box is the first link in the chain that will bind the criminal. By the way," said Octavius, suddenly struck with a new idea, "how long have you been at Jarlchester?"

"A week."

"Oh! Then you were here when the man died?"

"I was."

"Humph! Excuse my witness-box manner!"

"Don't apologise," said Roger, quietly. "Cross-examine me as much as you like. It seems second nature with detectives to suspect every one."

"Suspect!" repeated Octavius, in an injured tone. "Good heavens, Axton, what are you talking about? I'd as soon think of suspecting myself, you peppery young ass. But I'm anxious to find out all about this affair, and naturally ask the people who lived under the same roof as the dead man. You are one of the people, so I ask you."

"Ask me what?"

"Oh, several things."

"Well, go on; but I warn you I know nothing," said Roger, gloomily.

"I tell you what, young man," observed Mr. Fanks, sententiously, "you need shaking up a bit. This love affair has made you view all things in a most bilious fashion. An overdose of love, and poetry, and solitude incapacitates a human being for enjoying life, so if you are wise--which I beg leave to doubt--you will brace up your nerves by helping me to find out this mystery."

"I'm afraid I'd make a sorry detective, Octavius."

"That remains to be proved. See here, old boy. I was called down here about this case, and as the wiseacres of Jarlchester have settled it to their own satisfaction that there is--to their minds--no more need for my services, I am discharged--dismissed--turned out by Jarlchester & Co.; but as I don't often get such a clever case to look after, I'm going to find out the whole affair for my own pleasure."

"It seems a disease with you, this insatiable curiosity to find out things."

"Ay, that it is. We call it detective fever. Join me in this case, and you'll find yourself suffering from the disease in a wonderfully short space of time."

"No, thank you; I prefer my freedom."

"And your idleness! Well, go your own way, Roger. If you won't take the medicine I prescribe, you certainly won't be cured. Unrequited love will lie heavy on your heart, and your health and work will suffer in consequence. Both will be dull, and between doctors and critics you will have a high old time of it, dear boy."

"What nonsense you do talk!" said Roger, fretfully.

"Eh! do you think so? Perhaps I'm like Touchstone, and use my folly as a stalking-horse behind which to shoot my wit. I'm not sure if I'm quoting rightly, but the moral is apparent. However, all this is not to the point--to my point, I mean--and if you have not got detective fever I have, so I will use you as a medicine to allay the disease."

"Fire away, old fellow," said Axton, turning his chair half round so as to place his tell-tale face in the shadow, thereby rendering it undecipherable to Fanks; "I'm all attention."

Octavius at once produced his secretive little note-book and vicious little pencil, which latter assumed dramatic significance in the nervous fingers that held it.

"I'm ready," said Fanks, letting his pencil-point jest on a clean white page. "Question first: Did you know this dead man?"

"Good heavens, no. I don't even know his name nor his appearance."

"You have never seen him?"

"How could I have seen him? I am exploring the neighbourhood, and generally start on my travels in the morning early and return late. This man arrived at five, went to bed at nine, and as I didn't come back till ten o'clock I didn't see him on that night; next morning he was dead."

"Did you not see the corpse?"

"No," said Roger, with a shudder, "I don't care for such 'wormy circumstance.'"

"Wormy circumstance is good," remarked Fanks, approvingly. "Keats, I think. Yes, I thought so. I see you don't care for horrors. You are not of the Poe-Baudelaire school of grave-digging, corpse-craving poesy."

"Hardly! I don't believe in going to the gutter for inspiration."

"Ah! now you are thinking of MM. Zola and Gondrecourt, my friend; but, dear me, how one thing does lead to another. We are discussing literature instead of murder. Let us return to our first loves. Why didn't you attend the inquest?"

"Because I didn't want to."

"An all-sufficient reason, indeed," remarked Mr. Fanks, drily, making digs at his book with the pencil. "I wonder you weren't called as a witness."

"No necessity. I know nothing of the affair."

"Absolutely nothing?" (interrogative).

"Absolutely nothing." (decisive).

Mr. Fanks twirled his vicious little pencil in his fingers, closed his secretive little book with a snap, and replaced them both in his pocket with a sigh.

"You are a most unsatisfactory medicine, my dear Roger. You have done nothing to cure my detective fever."

"Am I so bad as that? Come now, I'll tell you one thing: I slept in the room next to that of the dead man."

"You did?"

"Yes."

"And you heard nothing on that night!"

"If you walked twenty miles during the day, Fanks, you would have been too tired to listen for the sounds of a possible murder."

"Yes, yes, of course. What a pity we can't look twenty-four hours ahead of things; it would save such a lot of trouble."

"And prevent such a lot of murders. If such prophetic power were given to humanity, I'm afraid your occupation would be gone."

"Othello's remark! yes, of course; but I'm sorry you slept so soundly on that night, as some one might have been in the dead man's room."

"Why do you think so?" asked Roger, quickly.

"Because the door was slightly ajar," replied Fanks, sagaciously; "a nervous man would not have slept with his door like that. You're sure you heard nothing?"

"Quite sure."

"It's a pity--a great pity. By the way, have you ever been to Ironfields?"

Roger hesitated, turned uneasily in his chair, and at last blurted out:

"No; I have never been to Ironfields."

"Humph!" said Fanks, looking doubtfully at him. "I thought you might have met Miss Varlins there for the first time."

"So I might," replied Roger, equably; "at the same time I might have met her in London."

"So you don't know anything about Ironfields."

"Only that it is a manufacturing town given over to the domination of foundries and millionaires in the iron interest; to me it is simply a geographical expression."

"I plead guilty to the same state of ignorance, but I will shortly be wiser, because I am going down to Ironfields."

"What for?" demanded Roger, with a start.

"I shouldn't let you into the secrets of the prison house," said Mr. Fanks, severely; "but as you are 'mine own familiar friend'--Shakespeare again, ubiquitous poet well, as you are mine own familiar friend, I don't mind telling you in confidence, I'm going down to see Wosk & Co., of Ironfields, Chemists."

"And your object?"

"Is to find out the name of the gentleman who bought those pills."

"I don't see what good that will do."

"Blind, quite blind," said Octavius, nodding his head mournfully. "I will unfold myself--the immortal bard for the third time. When I find out the name of the deceased, which I can do through that pill-box, I will be able to find out all about his antecedents. Satisfied on that point, it is possible, nay probable, that I may find some one who has ill-feelings towards him."

"And therefore poisons him in Jarlchester while they remain at Ironfields," said Roger, ironically. "I congratulate you on your clear-sightedness."

"It's puzzling, certainly, very puzzling," replied Fanks, rubbing his head with an air of vexation. "I've got absolutely nothing to work on."

"And are going to work on it. Pish! sandy foundations."

"Now look here, Roger," cried the detective, with great energy, "let us survey this case from a common-sense point of view. This man couldn't have come down to Jarlchester to commit suicide; he could have done that at Ironfields."

"Perhaps he wanted to spare his friends--if he had any--the pain of knowing that he died by his own hand."

"Rubbish! Suicides are not so considerate, as a rule. They generally make away with themselves in a most public manner, so as to draw attention to their wrongs. No, I can't and won't believe that this man, who gave no hint of wishing to die, came down here to do so."

"Then if he did not kill himself, who did?"

"Ah, that's what I've got to find out."

"Yes, and what if you don't find out."

"Perhaps yes, perhaps no. Murder will out. Clever remark that. But to continue: I always look on both sides of the question. It may be a case of suicide."

"It is a case of suicide. I believe the jury are right," said Roger, firmly.

"You seem very certain about it," remarked Fanks, a trifle annoyed.

"I only judge from what I have heard."

"Rumour, mere rumour."

"Not at all. Facts, my friend, facts. I allude to the evidence at the inquest."

Octavius made no reply at first, but jumping up from his chair, began to walk to and fro with a frown on his face.

"I dare say you're right," he said, at length; "taking the evidence as a whole, I suppose the jury could only bring in a verdict of suicide. No one could have poisoned him. No one here knew him, therefore had no reason to get rid of him. He took that morphia, opium, or whatever it was, sure enough, and I firmly believe of his own free will. Judging from that theory, it looks decidedly like suicide; but then, again, he may have taken the morphia, not knowing it was poison. It could not have been the pills, for they only contain arsenic. He might certainly have taken morphia in order to get to sleep, as from all accounts he suffered from insomnia--nerves, I suppose. But then some portion of what he took would have been found, and if not that, then the bottle that held the drug or sleeping draught; but nothing was found, absolutely nothing. He is discovered dead from an overdose of morphia, and no traces of morphia--bottle or otherwise--are found in his room. If it was suicide, he would not have taken such precautions, seeing he had nothing to gain by concealing the mode of his death. If it was murder, some one must have administered it to him under the guise of a harmless drug; but then no one here knew him, so no one could have done so. You see, therefore, my dear Roger, from this statement of the case, that I am absolutely at a stand still."

"Yes, I think you can do nothing, so your best plan is to accept the verdict of suicide, and forget all about it."

"And this pill-box?"

"Well, you gain nothing from that except the name of the place where the dead man bought it. If you go to the chemist you will find out his name, certainly."

"And the circumstances of his life also. You forget that."

"No, I don't. But such discovery will hardly account for his murder here. If you find out from your inquiries at Ironfields that the dead man had an enemy, you will have to prove how that enemy came down here and secretly poisoned him. Judging from all the evidence, there is no trace of poison left behind, no one has been staying in this inn except myself, so I really don't see how you are going to bring the crime home to any particular person."

Having finished this speech, Roger arose to his feet with a yawn, and knocked the ashes out of his pipe against the mantelpiece.

"Where are you going?" asked Fanks, stopping in his walk.

"To bed, of course. I've had a long day."

"You continue your walking tour to-morrow?"

"Yes. I start at ten o'clock. And you?"

"I am going down to Ironfields."

"On a wild-goose chase."

"That remains to be proved," retorted Fanks, grimly.

"I'm certain of it, so your wisest plan is to accept the inevitable and give this case up," replied Axton, holding out his hand. "Good night."

"Good night, old boy," said Octavius, cordially. "I'm very pleased to meet you again. By the way, don't let us lose sight of one another. My address is Scotland Yard--my Fanks address, of course. And yours?"

"Temple Chambers, Fleet Street."

Out came Mr. Fanks' secretive little note-book, in which, he wrote down the address with a gay laugh.

"Ha! ha! Like all literary men, you start with the law and leave it for the profits."

"Of poetry. Pshaw!"

"Eh, who knows? Every scribbler carries the Laureate-ship in his brain. By the way, if I see Miss Varlins at Ironfields, shall I give her any message?"

"No; she won't have anything to do with me," replied Roger, dismally. "I've no doubt I'll get married some day, but it won't be to Judith Varlins."

"Ardent lover!" said Fanks, laughing. "Well, good night, and pleasant dreams."

"With that body upstairs. Ugh!" cried Roger Axton, and vanished with a shudder.

Mr. Fanks stood beside the dying fire, leaning his two elbows on the mantelpiece, and thinking deeply.

"He's very much altered," he thought, drearily. "Not the bright boy of ten years ago. How trouble does change a man, and love also! I'll make a point of seeing Miss Varlins when I go down to Ironfields. Rather a dismal love story, but what the devil did he tell me two lies for?"

He left the room, took his candle from Miss Chickles, and returned to bed. As he closed the door of his room, his thoughts reverted to Roger Axton once more.

"He told me two deliberate lies," he thought, with a puzzled expression on his face. "I could see that by his face, or, rather, his manner. Humph! I don't like this."

Having placed the candle on the dressing-table, Mr. Fanks sat down, and having produced his secretive note-book, proceeded to make therein a memorandum (in shorthand) of his conversation with Axton.

No reason for doing so; certainly not. Still, name on pill-box, Ironfields; residence of Judith Varlins, Ironfields. Curious coincidence--very. Nothing may come of it. Highly improbable anything could come of it. Still, those few lines of queer signs, recording an unimportant conversation, may be of use in the future. Who knows? Ah, who, indeed? There's a good deal in chance, and fate sometimes puts a thread into our hands which conducts through tangled labyrinths to unknown issues.

"Two lies," said Mr. Fanks for the third time, as he rolled himself up in the bed-clothes and blew out the candle. "He hadn't seen her since Ventnor. He hadn't heard from her since Ventnor. Wonderful self-denial for a young man in love. I'd like to know more about Roger's little romance."

Extracts from a Detective's Note-Book

"Can't make Axton out . . . Most curious conversation--inquisitive on my part, evasive on his . . . He told me two lies . . . In fact, during the whole conversation he seemed to be on his guard. . . . I don't like the look of things . . . I have no right to pry into Axton's affairs, but I can't understand his denials--denials which I could tell from his manner were false . . . Queer thing about Ironfields . . . The dead man came from Ironfields . . . Miss Varlins lives at Ironfields . . . Qy. Can there be any connection between the deceased and Miss Varlins? . . . Impossible, and yet it's very strange . . . I don't like that open door either . . . That is extraordinary . . . Then the letter written by the deceased . . . I asked at the post office here about it . . . They could tell me nothing . . . I wonder to whom that letter was sent? . . . I think it's the key to the whole affair . . . Can Roger Axton be keeping anything from me? . . . Did he know the dead man? . . . I am afraid to answer these questions . . . Well, I'll go down to Ironfields and find out all about the dead man . . . Perhaps my inquiries will lead me to Miss Varlins . . . But no, there can be no connection, and yet I doubt Roger . . . I mistrust him . . . I don't like his manner . . . his evasive replies . . . And then he's connected with Miss Varlins--she is connected with Ironfields . . . That is connected with the deceased . . . All links in a chain . . . Most extraordinary.

"_Mem_.--To go at once to Ironfields."