Chapter 16: “O! Artemidorus, Farewell!”

Whether or not Mr. Jellicoe was surprised to see us, it is impossible to say. His countenance (which served the ordinary purposes of a face, inasmuch as it contained the principal organs of special sense, with the inlets to the alimentary and respiratory tracts) was, as an apparatus for the expression of the emotions, a total failure. To a thought-reader it would have been about as helpful as the face carved upon the handle of an umbrella; a comparison suggested, perhaps, by a certain resemblance to such an object. He advanced, holding his open note-book and pencil, and having saluted us with a stiff bow and an old-fashioned flourish of his hat, shook hands rheumatically and waited for us to speak.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Jellicoe,” said Miss Bellingham.

“It is very good of you to say so,” he replied.

“And quite a coincidence—that we should all happen to come here on the same day.”

“A coincidence, certainly,” he admitted; “and if we had all happened not to come—which must have occurred frequently—that also would have been a coincidence.”

“I suppose it would,” said she, “but I hope we are not interrupting you.”

“Thank you, no. I had just finished when I had the pleasure of perceiving you.”

“You were making some notes in reference to the case, I imagine,” said I. It was an impertinent question, put with malice aforethought for the mere pleasure of hearing him evade it.

“The case?” he repeated. “You are referring, perhaps, to Stevens versus the Parish Council?”

“I think Doctor Berkeley was referring to the case of my uncle’s will,” Miss Bellingham said quite gravely, though with a suspicious dimpling about the corners of her mouth.

“Indeed,” said Mr. Jellicoe. “There is a case, is there; a suit?”

“I mean the proceedings instituted by Mr. Hurst.”

“Oh, but that was merely an application to the Court, and is, moreover, finished and done with. At least, so I understand. I speak, of course, subject to correction; I am not acting for Mr. Hurst, you will be pleased to remember. As a matter of fact,” he continued, after a brief pause, “I was just refreshing my memory as to the wording of the inscriptions on these stones, especially that of your grandfather, Francis Bellingham. It has occurred to me that if it should appear by the finding of the coroner’s jury that your uncle is deceased, it would be proper and decorous that some memorial should be placed here. But, as the burial-ground is closed, there might be some difficulty about erecting a new monument, whereas there would probably be none in adding an inscription to one already existing. Hence these investigations. For if the inscription on your grandfather’s stone had set forth that ‘here rests the body of Francis Bellingham,’ it would have been manifestly improper to add ‘also that of John Bellingham, son of the above.’ Fortunately the inscription was more discreetly drafted, merely recording the fact that this monument is ‘sacred to the memory of the said Francis,’ and not committing itself as to the whereabouts of the remains. But perhaps I am interrupting you?”

“No, not at all,” replied Miss Bellingham (which was grossly untrue; he was interrupting me most intolerably); “we were going to the British Museum and just looked in here on our way.”

“Ha,” said Mr. Jellicoe, “now, I happen to be going to the Museum too, to see Doctor Norbury. I suppose that is another coincidence?”

“Certainly it is,” Miss Bellingham replied; and then she asked: “Shall we walk there together?” and the old curmudgeon actually said “yes”—confound him!

We returned to the Gray’s Inn Road, where, as there was now room for us to walk abreast, I proceeded to indemnify myself for the lawyer’s unwelcome company by leading the conversation back to the subject of the missing man.

“Was there anything, Mr. Jellicoe, in Mr. John Bellingham’s state of health that would make it probable that he might die suddenly?”

The lawyer looked at me suspiciously for a few moments and then remarked:

“You seem to be greatly interested in John Bellingham and his affairs.”

“I am. My friends are deeply concerned in them, and the case itself is of more than common interest from a professional point of view.”

“And what is the bearing of this particular question?”

“Surely it is obvious,” said I. “If a missing man is known to have suffered from some affection, such as heart disease, aneurism, or arterial degeneration, likely to produce sudden death, that fact will surely be highly material to the question as to whether he is probably dead or alive.”

“No doubt you are right,” said Mr. Jellicoe. “I have little knowledge of medical affairs, but doubtless you are right. As to the question itself, I am Mr. Bellingham’s lawyer, not his doctor. His health is a matter that lies outside my jurisdiction. But you heard my evidence in Court, to the effect that the testator appeared, to my untutored observation, to be a healthy man. I can say no more now.”

“If the question is of any importance,” said Miss Bellingham, “I wonder they did not call his doctor and settle it definitely. My own impression is that he was—or is—rather a strong and sound man. He certainly recovered very quickly and completely after his accident.”

“What accident was that?” I asked.

“Oh, hasn’t my father told you? It occurred while he was staying with us. He slipped from a high kerb and broke one of the bones of the left ankle—somebody’s fracture—”

“Pott’s?”

“Yes, that was the name—Pott’s fracture; and he broke both his knee-caps as well. Sir Morgan Bennet had to perform an operation, or he would have been a cripple for life. As it was, he was about again in a few weeks, apparently none the worse excepting for a slight weakness of the left ankle.”