“Not at all,” Thorndyke dissented. “You are losing sight of our position in the case. There are two different issues, which are, however, inseparably connected. One is the fact of Purcell’s death; the other is Varney’s part in compassing it. Now it is the first issue that concerns us; or, at least, concerns me. If we could prove that Purcell is dead without bringing Varney into it at all, I should be willing to do so; for I strongly suspect that there were extenuating circumstances.”
“So do I,” said Rodney. “Purcell was a brute, whereas Varney has always seemed to be a perfectly decent, gentlemanly fellow.”
“That is the impression that I have received,” said Thorndyke, “and I feel no satisfaction in proceeding against Varney. My purpose, all along, has been, not to convict Varney but to prove that Purcell is dead. And that is what we have to do now, for Margaret Purcell’s sake. But we cannot leave Varney out of the case. For if Purcell is dead, he is dead because Varney killed him; and our only means of proving his death is to charge Varney with having murdered him. But if we charge Varney, we must secure a conviction. We cannot afford to fail. If the Court is convinced that Purcell is dead, it will convict Varney; for the evidence of his death is evidence of his murder; but if the Court acquits Varney, it can do so only on the ground that there is no conclusive evidence that Purcell is dead. Varney’s acquittal would therefore leave Margaret Purcell still bound by law to a hypothetical husband, with the insecure chance of obtaining her release at some future time either by divorce or presumption of death. That would not be fair to her. She is a widow and she is entitled to have her status acknowledged.”
Rodney nodded gloomily. A consciousness of what he stood to gain by Varney’s conviction lent an uncomfortable significance to Thorndyke’s words.
“Yes,” he agreed, half reluctantly, “there is no denying the truth of what you say, but I wish it might have been the other way about. If Purcell had murdered Varney I could have raised the hue and cry with a good deal more enthusiasm. I knew both the men well, and I liked Varney but detested Purcell. Still, one has to accept the facts.”
“Exactly,” said Thorndyke, who had realized and sympathized with Rodney’s qualms. “The position is not of our creating; and whatever our private sentiments may be, the fact remains that a man who elects to take the life of another must accept the consequences. That is Varney’s position so far as we can see; and if he is innocent it is for him to clear himself.”
“Yes, of course,” Rodney agreed; “but I wish the accusation had come through different channels.”
“So do I,” said Phillip. “It is horrible to have to denounce a man with whom one has been on terms of intimate friendship. But apparently Thorndyke considers that we should not denounce him at present. That is what I don’t quite understand. You seemed to imply, Thorndyke, that the case was not complete enough to warrant our taking action, and that some further evidence ought to be obtained in order to make sure of a conviction. But what further evidence is it possible to obtain?”
“My feeling,” replied Thorndyke, “is that the case is at present, as your brother expressed it just now, somewhat theoretical—or rather hypothetical. The evidence is circumstantial from beginning to end. There is not a single item of direct evidence to furnish a starting-point. It would be insisted by the defence that Purcell’s death is a matter of mere inference and that you cannot convict a man of the murder of another who may conceivably be still alive. We ought, if possible, to put Purcell’s death on the basis of demonstrable fact.”
“But how is that possible?” demanded Phillip.