The murders in Praed Street

by John Rhode

He felt a great desire to see the site of the tragedy, but his natural caution prevented him from walking to it immediately. He was most anxious to avoid any suspicion that Mr. Deacon, the City merchant, was in any way interested in the fate of the ex-convict. But, on the other hand, there was no reason why he should not visit the ruins of the castle, the scene of the murder of King Edward the Martyr, three-quarters of a century before the Conquest. It was the show place of the district, the natural magnet for any casual visitor like himself.

The Professor climbed slowly up the steep slopes of the natural earthwork, which stands like a fortress guarding the only gap in the long range of the Purbeck hills, and listened attentively while the guide, delighted at finding a sympathetic audience so early in the year, recounted the history of the stronghold and indicated its more prominent features. Then, his inspection over, he sat down on the grass on the north-eastern slope of the hill, and drew his ordnance map from his pocket.

His horizon was bounded by the high land on the southern side of the River Stour. At his feet was a rolling, sandy plain, diversified here and there by clumps of trees, but mostly covered with gorse and heather. This plain stretched away into the distance, and beyond it an occasional silvery gleam betrayed the winding channels of Poole harbour. Here and there across the plain he could see evidences of human occupation, the white surface of a clay-pit or the roof of a tiny isolated cottage. But, apart from these, the tract of country over which he looked appeared utterly deserted, abandoned to a great silence disturbed only by the note of some hovering bird.

His map told him that no road traversed this expanse. Only a few winding paths, trodden by the feet of rare wayfarers, led away from where he stood in the direction of the thin whisps of smoke which indicated human habitation. Here and there he could see traces of the railway of which the landlord had spoken, which led from the hidden quarries behind him to a pier built upon one of the secluded arms of the harbour. It seemed to be but little used. The Professor, enjoying the quiet of the fine afternoon, sat for hour after hour, his eyes absorbing the subtle beauty of this unharassed land. And, except for the solitary figure of a labourer, tramping stolidly across the waste towards some unknown destination, he saw no sign of life in all the wide extent of country laid out before his eyes. Yet, somewhere, lost among the lonely solitudes of gorse and heather, lay the solution of the mystery which he had set himself to solve.

Dr. Priestley smiled as the conviction that this was so came back to him with redoubled force. Utterly contrary to his usual methods of procedure, he had formed a theory based entirely upon conjecture. So far, these facts by which it must be tested seemed to point to the incorrectness of this theory. Yet, were they facts? Was it not even yet possible that some master brain had arranged these seeming facts in order purposely to mislead an investigator like himself? And, if so, what unknown dangers might he not be incurring by the attempt to prove them false?

The Professor had never shirked danger throughout the whole course of his career. And in this case, as he reflected, he already stood in such imminent danger that his present actions could hardly increase it. If his theory were correct, a determined and unknown assassin held in his hand already the weapon which was aimed against his life. Why had he not struck, months ago, when the Professor was in blissful ignorance that his life was threatened? This was one of the aspects of a case which, in spite of the perils which it held for himself, thrilled him as no case had ever thrilled him before.

Sitting here, contemplating the peaceful afternoon, the Professor reviewed his theory for the last time, testing it with all the apparatus of probability. It must be correct, there was no other theory which would fit in with all the data before him. Yet, how could it be correct, in the face of the formidable array of facts which seemed to disprove it? This seeming contradiction it must be his task to unravel, and that alone.

For he had realized at once that it was no good calling in the aid of the police, even of Hanslet, whose experience had taught him that the Professor’s most extraordinary statements had a way of justifying themselves. The police would merely confront him with their so-called facts, and seek to prove to him that his theory was utterly untenable. He could give them nothing tangible to go upon, could give them no clue which would lead to the capture of the undetected criminal he knew to be at large. Even if they accepted his theory in its entirety, how could they protect him from the dangers which encompassed him? Sooner or later, in some unguarded moment, the shadow would leap out upon him, and the Professor’s theory would be proved upon his own body.

No, physical precautions were useless. It must be a battle of wits between them—himself and this mysterious killer. How far had a watch been kept upon his own actions, the Professor wondered? He was almost certain that he had not been followed to Corfe Castle, but he was by no means so certain that his pretended departure from England had imposed upon his adversary. The Times of Friday had contained the paragraph mentioning his visit to Australia. So far, so good. But it was almost with surprise that he had failed to find the message in the personal column, which should inform him that the letter which he daily expected had arrived.

The Professor rose to his feet, and walked slowly back to the inn. He had ordered dinner at seven o’clock, and it was already past six. The landlord was standing at the door, and the Professor nodded pleasantly to him as he entered.