The shadow of the Wolf

by R. Austin Freeman

“May I offer you a cigar, Mr. Penfield?” he asked.

“I thank you,” was the reply, “but I am not a smoker. Perhaps—” Here he held out his snuff-box tentatively. “No? Well, it is an obsolete vice, but I am a survivor from an obsolete age.” He refreshed himself with a substantial pinch and continued: “With regard to Purcell: his person is easy to describe and should be easy to identify. He is a big lump of a man; about six feet or a fraction over. Massive, heavy, but not fat; just elephantine. Rather slow in his movements but strong, active and not at all clumsy. As to his face, I would call it beefy; a full, red face with thick, bright red, crinkly ears and full lips. Eyes, pale blue; hair, yellowish or light brown, cropped short. No beard or whiskers but a little, bristly, pale-reddish moustache cut short like a sandy toothbrush. Expression surly; manner, short, brusque, taciturn and rather morose. Big, thick, purple hands that look, in spite of their size, capable, neat and useful hands. In fact the hands are an epitome of Purcell; a combination of massive strength and weight with remarkable bodily efficiency. How will that do for you?”

“Admirably,” replied Thorndyke, inwardly somewhat surprised at the old solicitor’s powers of observation. “It is a very distinctive picture and quite enough for what we may call prima facie identification. I take it that you know him pretty well?”

“I have seen a good deal of him since his marriage, when his wife introduced him to me, and I have managed his legal business for some years. But I know very little of his private affairs. Very few people do, I imagine. I never met a less communicative man. And now, if we have done with his appearance, let us come to the question of his present whereabouts. Have you any information on the subject?”

“There is a vague report that he was seen some months ago at Ipswich. It is quite unconfirmed and I attach no importance to it.”

“It is probably correct, though,” said Penfield. “I have just had a letter from him and the post-mark shows that it came from that very locality.”

“There is no address on the letter, then?”

“No; and I am invited to reply by advertisement. The occasion of the letter was this: a client of mine, a Mrs. Catford, who is a relative of Mrs. Purcell’s, had recently died, leaving a will of which I am the executor and residuary legatee. By the terms of that will, Mrs. Purcell and her husband each benefits to the extent of a thousand pounds. Now as Mrs. Catford’s death occurred subsequently to Purcell’s disappearance it became necessary to establish his survival of the testatrix—or the contrary—in order that the will might be administered. As his whereabouts were unknown, the only method that I could think of was to put an advertisement in the ‘personal’ column of The Times on the bare chance that he might see it, asking him to communicate with me. By a lucky chance, he did see it and did communicate with me. But he gave no address; and any further communication from me will have to be by advertisement, as he suggests. That, however, is of no importance to me. His letter tells me all I want to know; that he is alive at a date subsequent to the death of the testatrix and that the bequest in his favour can consequently take effect. I am not concerned with his exact whereabouts. That matter is in your province.”

As he concluded, punctuating his conclusion with a pinch of snuff, the old lawyer looked at Thorndyke with a sly and slightly ironical smile.

Thorndyke reflected rapidly on Mr. Penfield’s statement. The appearance of this letter was very remarkable, and the more so coming as it did on top of the confirmatory evidence respecting the moustache hair. It was now highly probable—almost certain—that Bromeswell and Purcell were one and the same person. But if that were so, all the probabilities went to show that Purcell must be dead. And yet here was a letter from him, not to a stranger but to one who knew his handwriting well. It was very remarkable.