The Complete Simon Iff Read online

  “But,” objected Macpherson, “that’s not Shakespeare; that’s Bacon!”

  Simon Iff did not permit himself so much as the antepenumbra of a smile. “William Shakespeare wrote the works of Francis Bacon; that is one of the Official Beliefs of the Hemlock Club.”

  “For the Lord’s sake!” cried the Banker. “I’ll never live up to this Club. Man, it’s a marvel!”

  “Well,” answered the magician, sipping his wine, “You might try a course of William Blake.”

  The Conduct of John Briggs

  Simon Iff bounded into the Hemlock Club. He was by all odds the oldest member of the club; but to-day he had the elasticity of a boy, and he was so radiant that some people would have sworn that they actually saw flashes of light about his head. He bounded up the great stairway of the club two steps at a time.

  The porters relaxed their solemnity, for the man’s exaltation was contagious. “So Simple Simon’s back from one of ’is Great Magical Retirements again. I wonder wot in ’Eving’s name ’e does.” “I wisht I knew,” replied the other. “The old boy’s ninety, if ’e’s a dy.”

  In the lunch-room the atmosphere was certainly in need of all the exhilaration it could find. There were only a dozen men present, and they were talking in whispers. The eldest of them, Sir Herbert Holborne (’Anging ’Olborne of the criminal classes) was neither speaking nor eating, though his lunch lay before him. He was drinking whiskey-and-soda in a steady business-like way, as a man does who has an important task to accomplish.

  Simon Iff greeted them with a single comprehensive wave of the hand. “What’s the news, dear man?” he asked his neighbor. “Are you all rehearsing a play of Wedekind’s? Oh, a steak and a bottle of Nuits,” he added to the waiter. “The old Nuits, the best Nuits, for I must give praise to Our Lady of the Starry Heavens!”

  “You do not appear to require the stimulus of alcohol in any marked degree,” observed Holborne, in his driest manner.

  “Stimulus!” cried Iff; “I don’t take wine to stimulate. It is because I am stimulated, or rather, fortified, that I drink wine. You must always drink what is in tune with your own soul. That’s the Harmony of Diet! It is stupid and criminal to try to alter your soul by drugs. Let the soul be free, and use what suits it. Homeopathic treatment! So give me green tea when I

  am exquisite and esthetic like a Ming Vase; coffee when I am high-strung and vigilant as an Arab; chocolate when I am feeling cosy and feminine; brandy when I am martial and passionate; and wine — oh, wine at all times! — but wine especially when I am bubbling over with spiritual ecstasy. Thus, my dear Holborne, I fulfil the apostolic injunction, ‘Whatsoever ye do, whether ye eat or drink, do all to the glory of God!’ Every meal is a sacrament to me. That’s the simplicity of life! That’s why they call me Simple Simon!”

  The outburst brought his fellow-clubmen out of their apathy. One of them remarked that, while agreeing with the thesis, and admiring the force and beauty of its expression, it was unseasonable. He wished to tone down the exuberance of the old mystic, for the sake of the general feeling.

  “Why, what is wrong?” said Iff more sedately. “Not that anything is ever really wrong; it’s all illusion. But you evidently think there’s a great deal amiss; and” — he looked round the table — “Sir Herbert seems to be at the bottom of it.”

  “I will ask you to spare me,” spoke the judge; “this morning I was compelled to perform the most painful duty of my career. Tell him, Stanford!”

  “Why, where have you been?” said James Stanford, a long lean lantern-jawed individual who filled the Chair of History at Oxford University.

  “Oh, I’ve been everywhere and nowhere,” replied Simon. “But I suppose a historian would take the view — an utterly false and absurd view, by the way — that I have been sitting in my oratory at Abertarff, meditating, for the last two months. I have heard nothing of the world. Are we at war with the Republic of Andorra?”

  Stanford leaned forward across the table, while the rest kept silent.

  “You remember Briggs?”

  “Knew him well at one time; haven’t seen him for ten years or so.”

  “Well, this morning Holborne had to sentence him to death for the murder of his nephew.”

  “I say, Holborne, that’s a bit thick,” ejaculated Iff, rudely. “Just because you dislike the way he ties his neckties, to go and fit him out with a hemp cravat!”

  “I am in no mood for your stupid jokes, Iff,” retorted the Judge, severely. “I had no course but to give effect to the verdict of the jury, which they gave without leaving their seats.” “But your summing-up must have been a masterpiece of imbecility!”

  “There was no defence, nor could be. Look here, Iff!” The judge broke out hotly. “I thought you knew men. Can’t you see I’m all broken up over this? I knew Briggs intimately; I was exceedingly fond of him; this has been the shock of my life.” “Oh, well!” returned Iff, “it is done now, and the best thing we can do is to forget it. Listen to what happened to me at Abertarff! One of those nasty skulking tramps came round and set fire to my barn. Luckily the stream was flowing at the time — as it does all the time — but, seeing the danger, it directed its course against the fire, and extinguished it.”

  “Another miracle of Simple Simon!” sneered one of the younger men, who knew the old man chiefly from his reputation as a magician.

  “Young man!” replied Simon, “I drink to your better understanding — and your better manners. (Waiter, bring me another bottle of this Nuits!) I shall need much wine.” He fixed his small oblique eyes terribly on the offender. “The difference between you and me is this,” he continued. “I don’t believe the silly story I have just told you; whereas you all do believe the silly story Stanford has just told me.”

  “Come, come!” said Stanford, “it is stupid to talk like this. You haven’t heard the evidence. You’re simply defending Briggs because you think you know him; because you think you know that he wouldn’t have done such a thing.”

  “Oh, no!” said the mystic, “all men are capable of every kind of evil intention. But some are incapable of carrying such intentions into effect, just as a paralytic cannot walk, although he may desire infinitely to do so.”

  “There was no difficulty about this murder. It was a quite plain shooting.”

  “If you’ll tell me the facts, I’ll prove to you how you are wrong.”

  “I wish you could, damn it!” interjected Holborne. “Stanford has made a very special study of this case. He has been in court all the time, and he has verified every piece of evidence by independent research.”

  “My university asked me to watch the case,” explained Stanford. “As you know, I am a barrister as well as a historian. Briggs, of course, was at Magdalen with me, though I never knew him well. The Vice-Chancellor begged me to leave no stone unturned to discover a flaw in the procedure, or in the case for the Crown. I failed utterly.”

  “Have you your notes with you?” asked Holborne. Stanford nodded. “Suppose we adjourn to the smoking-room? They will take some time to read.”

  “This is a lovely piece of luck,” remarked Iff, as they filtered into the adjoining room. “I come back from my isolation, fairly bursting for distraction, and I walk right into the heart of a first-class fairy story.” But he was quite unable to communicate his spirit to the other men; he seemed more of a crank than ever; they liked him, and his theories amused them; but they knew better than to apply mysticism to the hard facts of life.

  Simon Iff took the armchair of the Senior in front of the great fire of logs, remarking laughingly that he was the presiding judge. Holborne took the ingle seat, that he might watch the mystic’s face. But Iff playfully adopted an air of benevolent neutrality, which we may suppose that he conceived to go well with his position. His second bottle of Burgundy stood on a table before him, with a cup of the admirable coffee of the Hemlock Club. This was almost in the nature of a tribute, for a supply of it was sent to the club every year by
the Shereef of Mecca, in memory of Sir Richard Burton, who had been a member of the club. His small pale face was almost hidden by a Partaga Rothschild, in which he appeared more engrossed than in the story which Stanford proceeded to unfold.

  The latter prefaced his remarks by an apology. “This is a very simple and very sordid story; in fact, I have rarely met anything so bald.” “And unconvincing,” murmured Simon Iff. “I shall give you only facts,” continued the historian. “Plain, unquestionable facts. I shall not try to tell a story: I shall give you the bare bones of the case. You can reconstruct your animal in the approved fashion.”

  “Good,” said the old magician. “You won’t omit any essential facts, will you, there’s a dear man?”

  “Of course not. Don’t I know my business?”

  “I’m sure of it. Your acknowledged eminence .”

  “Oh, don’t rag! This is a serious affair.”

  “Dr. Stanford will now read his memorandum.”

  “I begin,” announced Stanford.

  “One. History of the parties concerned. John Briggs, aged forty-three, was Professor of Engineering at the Owens College, Manchester, but resigned his chair five years ago in order to devote himself more closely to experimental work. Peter Clark, aged twenty-four, the murdered man, was the son of Briggs’ only sister Ann. Both his parents were dead. Neither he nor Briggs have any near relatives living.

  “Two. The scene of the crime.

  “Briggs lives with an old butler and housekeeper (man and wife), but otherwise entirely alone, in a house on Marston Moor in Yorkshire. It stands in its own grounds, which extend to three hundred acres. Detached from the house is a large laboratory, where Briggs was accustomed to work, and often to sleep. His lunch was usually brought to him there on a tray, and sometimes his dinner. In fact, it may be said almost that he lived in the laboratory.

  “This room has two doors, one towards the house, the other away from it. There are no other houses within several miles.

  “Briggs had one ruling passion, the fear of interruption in his work. As tramps of a rather dangerous type infested the district, he had, after a violent scene with one of them four and a half years ago, purchased a Webley revolver. This weapon had lain loaded on his desk from that day to the day of the murder. It was seen there on the morning of that day by the butler when he went with the professor’s breakfast. It was this weapon which was used to kill Clark.

  “Three. Relations between Briggs and Clark.

  “These were extremely hostile. Clark was rather a wild youth, and Briggs blamed him for the death of his mother, to whom Briggs was devotedly attached. Her son’s conduct had grieved and impoverished her; she had broken down nervously; and in this weak condition a chill had proved fatal to her. It had been aggravated by the deliberate neglect of Peter Clark, who had refused to call in a doctor until too late. Briggs had been heard to say that he hated one man only, and that was his nephew. On one occasion he said to him, before witnesses, ‘If the sheriff balks, Peter, I hope I shall be there to do his work for him.’ There was thus the greatest possible animus.

  “Four. Financial relations of the parties.

  “The Briggs Family Settlement disposes of the sum of ninety- four thousand pounds. From one-sixth part of this Briggs drew an income; Clark, on the death of his parents, was entitled to a similar amount. The balance was held in trust for the next generation; that is, if either Briggs or Clark had children, the fund would be divided among these on their attaining majority. If Briggs died without children, the income would accumulate with the bulk of the fund in expectation of heirs to Clark; but if Clark died first, Briggs, as sole survivor of the earlier generation, would enjoy the income at present paid to Clark in addition to his own. Thus Briggs would find his income doubled if Clark died, while, if Briggs died, Clark could only benefit indirectly through his children, if he ever had any. Thus we see that Briggs had a strong financial motive for the murder; whereas Clark would gain nothing whatever. Nor had Clark any other motive for killing Briggs: on the contrary, he was always hoping to conciliate his uncle, and get him to help him, both directly and in a financial way, and indirectly through his influence. The bearing of this will be seen later, when we touch upon the actual circumstances of the crime.

  “Briggs had been making some elaborate experiments in connection with aircraft, and was in great need of money. Eight months earlier he had mortgaged his house, down to the Old Red Sandstone. This emphasizes the motive for the act.

  “Five. Conditions immediately antecedent to the murder.

  “Clark had been staying in the neighborhood, and had pestered his uncle intolerably. On one occasion he had come into the laboratory while the professor was eating his lunch. The butler, who was present, says that this was exactly two weeks before the murder. He remembers the date, because it was a Sunday, and lunch had been late, owing to his having been over the moor to church.

  “He swears that he heard the professor say the following words: ‘Mark me, Peter. At the house I don’t mind so much; but if you come bothering me here, I shall most assuredly have recourse to assassination.’ With that he had risen, gone over to his desk, taken up the revolver, and tapped it, nodding his head repeatedly. The boy, thoroughly scared, had slunk out of the laboratory.

  “Six. The day of the murder.

  “This was a Sunday. Briggs had again passed the night in the laboratory. The butler had gone over to church, leaving his wife at home. She heard the clock strike twelve, the signal for her to prepare lunch. Immediately afterwards she was startled by the sound of a shot; but she was not particularly alarmed, as small explosions frequently occurred in the laboratory.

  “This fixes the moment of the crime within one or two minutes, and the medical evidence confirms it.

  “She expected her husband to return at 12.15; he did not do

  so. She went out to look for him, and saw him driving towards the house with another man, who proved subsequently to be the vicar of the parish. Reassured, she returned to her kitchen.

  “The butler, with the vicar, drove to the house, took out the horse, and went over together to the laboratory.

  “This is what they saw. The professor was stooping over the body of Clark. He was apparently in deep thought, and seemed undecided as to what to do. The men were shocked into silence, and had the fullest opportunity of watching the actions of Briggs.

  “He remained motionless for some little while; ultimately he laid down his revolver, which was still in his hand, and picked up a Brown automatic, which was firmly grasped in that of Clark. This was done with the evident intention of representing the death of Clark as the result of suicide.

  “This latter weapon, although loaded, had not been discharged; the Webley had been fired recently, and the empty shell was still in the chamber; as appeared later. It was a Webley bullet which killed Clark; it had been fired from a very close range, estimated at two yards by the experts.

  “The vicar now interrupted by a shocked exclamation. Briggs remained intent upon the automatic, looking at it as if it were some strange new object.

  “The professor looked up as the two men approached him. He waved a hand. ‘Go away! go away!’ was his only remark.

  “The vicar sent the butler to fetch the police and a doctor; he himself remained on guard. Briggs went over to his desk, put the automatic on one side, and buried his head in his hands. It was clear to the vicar that he was stunned by the realization of what he had done.

  “But the vicar made a supreme effort. He went over, put his hand on his shoulder and shook him roughly. ‘Man,’ he cried, ‘Don’t you realize what you have done?’ Briggs answered: ‘By God, you bet I do.’ This is the only intelligible remark that has been drawn from him. A plain confession. Then silence.

  “Seven. Subsequent events.

  “It has proved impossible to rouse the professor from his apathy. He has made no defence of any kind. He remains crouched and inattentive; when addressed he merely repeats: ‘Go
away! go away!’ He would not even plead when brought into the court: he said nothing when he was sentenced this morning.

  “The reason for this course of conduct is evident. He is a man of the acutest intelligence, and realizing that he was caught practically in the act, is relying for escape upon simulation of dementia. We investigated the point on his behalf, supplying him with writing materials as if it were part of the prison routine. After a short time he seized on them with apparent eagerness. Here is what he wrote: ‘Revolve — gyre — explode — balance — soul — wings — action and reaction.’ Under that he drew a thick line. The rest of the sheet is covered with abstruse mathematical formulae, evidently intended to impress us still further with the idea of madness; but although they are unintelligible to the mathematicians to whom they have been submitted, they are, wherever they can be understood at all, perfectly correct. He is certainly not insane. With great shrewdness, on the contrary, he has chosen just the one chance of saving his neck.”

  Stanford paused.

  “Is that all?” asked Simon Iff.

  “All?” cried Holborne. “Could any case be more complete? Two strong motives for murder, one of them urgent. Expressed intention to commit it; caught in the act of endeavoring to set up a defence; confession of the crime immediately afterwards; a subsequent attitude compatible only with the simulation of insanity. There isn’t a link missing.”

  “No, but I think there’s a missing link!” snapped Simon Iff. “In heaven’s name, where are your brains, all of you? Look here; let me repeat that story, word for word, only instead of ‘Professor Briggs’ let us say ‘the cabbage,’ or ‘the antelope,’ wherever his name occurs. You wouldn’t suspect them, would you? And I assure you that Briggs is just as incapable of pulling a gun on a man as either of those! It simply would not occur to him to do it.”