Ill ring up Sir Houston Bird, over in Cavendish Square. Hes the doctors greatest friend, suggested Thomasson, and next moment he disappeared to speak to the well-known pathologist, leaving Sainsbury to gaze around the room of mystery.
It was quite evident that something extraordinary had occurred there in the brief quarter of an hour which had elapsed between Mr Trustrams departure and Jacks arrival. But what had taken place was a great and inscrutable mystery.
Sainsbury recollected that strange metallic click he had heard so distinctly. Was it the closing of the window? Had someone escaped from the room while he had been so eagerly trying to gain entrance there?
He gazed down into his friends white, drawn face a weird, haggard countenance, with black hair. The eyes stared at him so fixedly that he became horrified.
He bent to his friends breast, but could detect no heart-beats. He snatched up a big silver photograph frame from a table near and held it close to the doctors lips, but upon the glass he could discover no trace of breath.
Was he dead? Surely not.
Yet the suggestion held him aghast. The hands were still limp and warm, the cheeks warm, the white brow slightly damp. And yet there was no sign of respiration, so inert and motionless was he.
He was in well-cut evening clothes, with a fine diamond sparkling in his well-starched shirt-front. Jerome Jerrold had always been well-dressed, and even though he had risen to that high position in the medical profession, he had always dressed even foppishly, so his traducers had alleged.
Jack Sainsbury unloosed the black satin cravat, tore off his collar, and opened his friends shirt at the throat. But it was all of no avail. There was no movement no sign of life.
A few moments later Thomasson came back in breathless haste.
Ive spoken to Sir Houston, sir, he said. Hes on his way round in a taxi.
Then both men gazed on the prostrate form which Sainsbury supported, and as they did so there slowly came a faint flush into the doctors face. He drew a long breath, gasped for a second, and his eyes relaxed as he turned his gaze upon his friend. His right arm moved, and his hand gripped Sainsburys arm convulsively.
For a few moments he looked straight into his friends face inquiringly, gazing intently, first as though he realised nothing, and then in slow recognition.
Why, its Jack! he gasped, recognising his friend. You I I felt a sudden pain so strange, and in an instant I ah! I I wonder save me I I ah! how far off you are! No no! dont leave me dont. I Ive been shot shot! I know I have ah! what pain what agony! I
And, drawing a long breath, he next second fell back into Sainsburys arms like a stone.
Ten minutes later a spruce, young-looking, clean-shaven man entered briskly with Thomasson, who introduced him as Sir Houston Bird.
In a moment he was full of concern regarding his friend Jerrold, and, kneeling beside the couch whereon Sainsbury and Thomasson had placed him, quickly made an examination.
Gone! Im afraid, he said at last, in a low voice full of emotion, as he critically examined the eyes.
Jack Sainsbury then repeated his friends strange words, whereupon the great pathologist the expert whose evidence was sought by the Home Office in all mysteries of crime exclaimed
The whole affair is certainly a mystery. Poor Jerrold is dead, without a doubt. But how did he die?
Thomasson explained in detail Mr Trustrams departure, and how, a quarter of an hour later, Sainsbury had arrived.
The doctor had never before, to my knowledge, locked this door, he went on. I heard him cheerily wishing Mr Trustram good-night as he came down the stairs, and I heard him say that he was not to fail to call to-morrow night at nine, as they would then carry the inquiry further.
What inquiry? asked Sir Houston quickly.
Ah! sir that, of course, I dont know, was the servants response. My master seemed in the highest of spirits. I just caught sight of him at the head of the stairs, smoking his pipe as usual after his days work.
The great pathologist knit his brows and cast down his head thoughtfully. He was a man of great influence, the head of his profession for, being the expert of the Home Office, his work, clever, ingenious, and yet cool and incisive, was to lay the accusing finger upon the criminal.
Hardly a session passed at the Old Bailey but Sir Houston Bird appeared in the witness box, spruce in his morning-coat, and presenting somewhat the appearance of a bank-clerk; yet, in his cold unemotional words, he explained to the jury the truth as written plainly by scientific investigation. Many murderers had been hanged upon his words, always given with that strange, deliberate hesitation, and yet words that could never, for a moment, be shaken by counsel for the defence.
Indeed, long ago defending counsel had given up cross-examination on any evidence presented by Sir Houston Bird, who had at his service the most expert chemists and analysts which our time could produce.
This is a mystery, exclaimed the great expert, gazing upon the body of his friend with his big grey eyes. Do you tell me that he was actually locked in here?
Yes, Sir Houston, replied Thomasson. Curious most curious, exclaimed the great pathologist, as though speaking to himself. Then, addressing Sainsbury, after the latter had been speaking, he said: The poor fellow declared that hed been shot. Is that so?
Yes. He said that he felt a sudden and very sharp pain, and the words he used were, Ive been shot! I know I have!
And yet there appears no trace of any wound, or injury, Sir Houston remarked, much puzzled.
Both windows and door were secured from the inside, therefore no assassin could possibly escape, sir, declared Thomasson. I suppose theres no one concealed here in the room? he added, glancing apprehensively around.
In a few moments the three men had examined every nook and corner of the apartment the two long cupboards, beneath the table, behind the heavy plush curtains and the chenille portière. But nobody was in concealment.
The whole affair was a profound mystery.
Sir Houston, dark-eyed and thoughtful, gazed down upon the body of his friend.
Sainsbury and Thomasson had already removed Jerrolds coat, and were searching for any bullet-wound. But there was none. Again Sir Houston inquired what the dying man had actually said, and again Sainsbury repeated the disjointed words which the prostrate man had gasped with his dying breath.
To the pathologist it was quite clear first that Jerome Jerrold believed he had been shot; secondly that no second person could have entered the room, and thirdly that the theory of assassination might be at once dismissed.
I think that poor Jerrold has died a natural death sudden and painful, for if he had been shot some wound would most certainly show, Sir Houston remarked.
There will have to be an inquest, wont there? asked Sainsbury.
Of course. And, Thomasson, you had better ring up the police at once and inform them of the facts, urged Sir Houston, who, turning again to Sainsbury, added: At the post-mortem we shall, of course, quickly establish the cause of death.
Again he bent, and with his forefinger drew down the dead mans nether lip.
Curious, he remarked, as though speaking to himself, as he gazed into the white, distorted face. By the symptoms I would certainly have suspected poisoning. Surely he cant have committed suicide!