There was a taut silence. The small man had received such looks he feared to open his mouth, and the other two remained stubbornly silent.
Holmes spoke. “That man,” he indicated Thompson, “is Frank Thompson, known to most people as Tommy. The other is, I think likely, from London, brought down by Thompson for the purpose of housebreaking.”
The other man stared at this information. “Nah, boss, got that wrong,” he said confidently, addressing Holmes. “’S Charlie Thompson. His dad were Jeff. I knew him, and Charlie come to me a’cause of it.”
Thompson made a slight movement, instantly stilled, and said nothing.
Holmes shook his head. “I fear you have been misled,” he informed the man. “This is Frank. I know his brother, and I can tell them apart. Of course,” he added, “it would have been very useful to him if you honestly believed this man to be Charles. Even in a court, the accents of truth can be recognized. And it would be still more useful did this man’s brother have no alibi, save that of his fiancée.”
The man he addressed looked at him and his shoulders slumped. “Fair enough, boss. I’ve mebbe bin had. I’m Ron Howell. But you’re telling me for true? This really is Frank and not Charlie?”
Holmes met the quizzical gaze. “It’s true. My friend and I”—here he indicated me—“were talking to Charles only a couple of days ago. He is about to be married. This man called on him a short time earlier, wanting his brother to join him. Charles refused and sent him about his business. The woman Charles is marrying paid Frank to stay away. I doubt he ever intended anything but ill, since he introduced himself to you as Charles from the beginning. It was his plan to use his brother as a scapegoat should he be suspected, and you as a pawn, should that be required.”
He said no more. Howell too remained silent, but the look he cast on Thompson was not that of a comrade.
* * * *
The three went to court very promptly. Joseph Long gave evidence against Thompson and was himself given a two-year sentence, in consideration of his testimony, and because at no time had he offered violence, nor had he been armed. Ron Howell, a habitual criminal, received eight years and went down without comment and with a resigned look.
Frank Thompson tried and failed to convince the law that he was his brother, tried and failed to convince the court that he had been led astray by evil companions, tried and failed to convince the sentencing judge that he should receive only a prison sentence, that the gun had not been his, nor had he fired it. He was sentenced to hang, and that judgment was communicated to his brother, who visited Frank in prison. Charles then appeared on our doorstep.
He sat looking glum, accepted a cup of tea, and raised his head. “They’re going to hang Frank. He says he’s made a will and I get everything. It’s a fair amount of money and I’m not sure he came by it honestly. He won’t tell me how he got it. I can’t ask the police, and even if they knew, they wouldn’t tell me anyway. What should I do?”
Holmes studied him, and once convinced that was a genuine question, steepled his fingers. “You could use it for good, Mr. Thompson.”
“How?” Charlie asked simply.
“You and Mary Stafford are married now?”
“Yes.”
I asked, “So are you Charles Stafford now?”
“I am. Mary’s happy, and I don’t mind not being a Thompson.”
Holmes returned to the original subject. “But the farm is too small to hire farmhands?” Charlie nodded. “Buy more land with the money,” Holmes advised him. “And when you hire someone, let it be some lad who needs a second chance. Teach him well, give him a trade, and when he knows his job and looks to improve himself elsewhere, hire another boy who also needs someone to give him a chance.”
“What about a girl? One Mary could teach and give a reference to?”
“An excellent idea,” I approved.
Charlie stood and shook hands solemnly with us in turn. “Thank you. Mary said you’d be able to advise me. I’ll do what you say.” He tramped out, and I glanced at my friend.
“Do you think they will follow your suggestions?”
“I do, Watson. That boy has a conscience. Where he came by it I have no idea, but he has one, and I think he’ll do just what we advised.”
We heard five years later that Holmes was right. Stafford Farm hired only those who needed training and someone who would trust them—with reservations. Most of those they hired did well and went on to become honest citizens. A few did not, but then, that is the way of the world, and most barrels have at least one rotten apple within.
* * * *
After our return to London and before any trial, I sat opposite Holmes in our rooms and considered where we were with the case. Now that I thought of it, we were nowhere, really. To my mind, we had exhausted all possibilities and I could see no trail to follow. I said as much to Holmes and he hesitated. I was on that at once.
“There is someone we did not consider?”
“Not quite. It is a possibility, rather than a person.”
“What possibility?” I sat listening as he laid out the case thus far, and when he was done, I nodded.
* * * *
And so for several days I saw little of Holmes. He was looking at the subsequent histories of a number of those whom Collin Melrose taught. Finding nothing of any great significance there, he turned to the histories of those at the teacher’s first position. There he found a possibility and shared it with me over breakfast one morning.
“The boy was from a family who served in the military, and he did not.”
I took a bite of toast and marmalade and looked at him. “Why? Unfit?”
“Not that I can discover.”
I swallowed. “Why then?”
“It seems to have been a matter of preference. The boy may have been clever in the matter as well.” He drained his cup and began the tale of Mathew Sturgess. “Sturgess was born into an army family, and so far back as their records run, they have served their country. It is something the family expects of their male children.”
He frowned. “Have you ever considered, Watson, how heavily family expectations can weigh on a child? They can be a great burden, particularly if the child has not the desire, the inclination, or even the aptitude to follow that career. Mathew Sturgess, it seems, wanted to be anything but in the army. From what I can gather, at the time he did not know what he wished to be, only what he did not.”
“The army is a good career,” I said, not so much in protest but stating a fact.
“That is true,” Holmes agreed judiciously. “But you would not have the entire world in the army.”
I had to agree. Although there are times when I think that a little order and regimentation does no harm. In fact, most of the criminals with whom we have dealt could have done with more of it.
Holmes, reading my thoughts as usual, nodded before continuing. “Sturgess took the usual path at school. He was of a good intelligence and his family being moderately well-do-do, they planned for him to remain at school until he was of an age to enter military training. When he was twelve, Collin Melrose took an interest in the lad, and persuaded his family to allow Sturgess to enter a more science-oriented stream of classes. This they agreed to reluctantly, and the boy took to the work as a duck to water. So much so that when the time came, he flatly refused to enter military training. The family took this very much amiss, blaming Melrose, the more so as he had arranged for the boy to sit special exams which, if he passed, he would then be eligible to apply for a scholarship. He did pass, at which time he applied and was granted one, to the family’s utter dismay.”
“Humph. They should have been pleased. It isn’t every lad who does so well,” I said through a mouthful of toast.
“Quite so, Watson, but so unhappy were they, that they endeavored to prevent the scholarship from being given, saying that as he was a minor they refused it on his behalf. Melrose seems to have been on some terms with those involved in granting it, and he intervened. The r
esult was that the scholarship was given to Sturgess, but with Melrose as the trustee. The family went to law and failed. Sturgess went on to become a scientist, however, he was estranged from his family and, or so runs my information, very bitter against them—as they were against Melrose.”
“Ah, and you think that this may have given one of them cause? But all that would have occurred some thirty years ago, Holmes. Surely they were reconciled?”
“Let me continue. Sturgess was genuinely talented. He made discoveries of a nature that interested our government and he began working for them—something that did indeed reconcile his family. His mother approached him and Sturgess visited his ancestral home—a small, pleasant estate on the Somerset border. This amicability remained for some years until Sturgess’s father began pressuring him to marry. Sturgess was the elder son, having a younger brother and sister—the brother had gone into the army, the sister had wed an army officer. They had done their duty, the father said, therefore Sturgess should do his. If he could not be an officer, he could at least provide an heir for the estate.”
I looked the question.
“No, Watson, he refused that demand as well. It caused another estrangement, with Sturgess leaving his family home and vowing that he would never return. So bitter was he that he remade his will, leaving all he possessed to the same foundation as had given him the scholarship. He stated, too, that his final resting place was to be in the cemetery of the London suburb where he had resided for many years, and that, should such prove impossible, under no circumstances or conditions whatsoever was he to be buried in the family plot, or within the borders of Somerset. His executor was his lawyer, and when Sturgess died prematurely, the lawyer adhered to the will’s conditions.”
I pounced on one word. “Prematurely, Holmes?”
“Sturgess was investigating the properties of explosives,” Holmes informed me, and shifted the subject back to the lawyer. “The family went to law again on the will. They wanted their son buried in their private cemetery. The lawyer fought and won. The family attempted to have Mathew buried instead at a local cemetery near the estate, but that was within the Somerset borders. Again, the lawyer made legal objection and won. In the end Mathew Sturgess was buried in the suburb where he had resided for most of his life, and his monies went to the Science Scholarship Foundation as he had wished.”
“And I suppose his family weren’t happy with that, either?” I said wryly.
“They were not. Consider this, Watson. Melrose met the boy about thirty years ago. After that the boy refused the army as a career, obtained a scholarship despite their efforts to prevent it, and studied science. He then worked for the government, which was marginally acceptable, but he refused to do his duty to the family and produced no heir. So obdurate was he, that he abandoned the family, the estate, and what they saw as his responsibilities to both. He was then killed by one of his own experiments, leaving his money elsewhere, and making certain they had no grave sited where it could easily be visited.”
I whistled vulgarly. “Don’t tell me. They say all that started when he met Collin Melrose and they blamed him for everything that happened thereafter?”
“Yes,” Holmes agreed tersely.
“And you think Melrose may have been killed in retaliation by some member of the family? But Melrose was a teacher for thirty years, a good one by all accounts. He was a man who wanted to help those he taught to reach their full potential, and he remained in touch with many. He must have been involved with hundreds of boys over so long a time, some of whom he would have assisted to follow their career paths, even were they against the family’s wishes. We know that he helped some lads when they stepped into trouble, and that he influenced others. Are you to seek out all of them and ask if their families have grudges against a teacher from decades ago?”
“No, but the Sturgess’s stand out. I am told that his father remained enraged that his son denied his duties, and that a younger son would inherit the estate. The younger son was filled with resentment over that, and blamed his brother, not his father. The father died a year ago, the younger brother inherited and, Mathew Sturgess’s lawyer being dead also and the legal papers having passed to a different firm, the mother begged that another attempt be made to reclaim her son’s body to be buried on the estate. The brother refused, saying that his brother had chosen his grave, let him lie in it.”
“Oh ho,” I said softly. “Years later and the brother is yet so bitter.”
“Yes. My agent approached the sister, who lives in London. The ladies fell into conversation and my agent gave a wholly specious account of a quarrel within her own family. It was from that I know the Sturgess family—or the brother, at least—remain obdurate. And consider this, Watson. The father died only a year gone. If the brother brooded over that and blamed Melrose…”
“Then a year gives him sufficient time to discover Melrose’s whereabouts and lay plans to punish him,” I concluded, frowning. “But how, Holmes? How?”
“If we know the murderer, we shall know the plan. A man thinks in a particular way: know the man and you know how he thinks and what sort of plans he makes,” Holmes said. “I leave in the morning to find the Sturgess estate. Miss Bibi will join me there.”
“What? Holmes, have you involved that child?”
“No, she involved me. It was she who insisted on approaching Sturgess’s sister. I permitted it, since no one can persuade a woman to gossip of family affairs as readily as another woman. She had a card from the sister, introducing her to the family. I will merely be in attendance to receive her information and see that she is safe.”
“Posing as a relation?” I asked.
“No, as a family friend, in the area on business,” Holmes returned.
I considered that, yes, it would serve, so long as he did not use his own name, and so long as the girl did not let that slip. I said so and received a sardonic nod.
“I am delighted that you approve, Watson.”
I changed the subject.
7
Holmes departed early the next day, and as I had a very busy schedule of appointments, I, too, was gone early. I received a brief letter three days later, in which my friend merely said that his plans had gone as he hoped, that Miss Bibi had been invited to dine with the Sturgess’s and had heard more of the family history.
The next letter was more informative. Mrs. Sturgess began to confide in the girl, and in doing so raised doubts as to whether the family could have been in any way involved in the death of Melrose. They would remain where they were in hopes of further details.
And then, seven days later, as I reposed in my favorite chair, a whisky at my elbow and the evening paper revealing all the current details of a recent rich scandal concerning the Countess of Thames, and her husband’s shooting of his cousin—said shooting claimed to be accidental, but not if the newspaper was correct—I heard footsteps on the stairs. I laid down the paper and turned, delighted to see my friend appear.
“Holmes! I was not expecting you. Is all well?”
“All is well, if you consider a waste of train fare, and my time, to be well.”
“Then the Sturgess family are exonerated,” I said sympathetically.
“We were able to discover that at the time Melrose was killed, the entire Sturgess family was enjoying life in Somerset,” Holmes said, an acid tinge to his tones. “We gained a great deal of superfluous information on the running of an estate, the cost of retaining good servants, and the anguish of dealing with recalcitrant family members. Miss Bibi enjoyed playing agent and, liking the family, is pleased to find they were in no way involved.”
“She wishes you to continue?”
“So far is that true, that on our parting she stated that she does not care if every penny left to her by her friend is used up in the quest, if only the murderer may be uncovered and brought to justice. She added that her father is of the same opinion and has said he will add to the funds for such a purpose, should it be necessary
.” He sat wearily, accepting the whisky I brought him. “Other leads remain, but I have the lowering feeling that they will prove to be as empty of value as this last.”
I could only commiserate, until he struck the trail of someone whose interactions with Melrose were more recent.
Holmes had visited Ashwood again, and in conversation at the inn he had, he told me, been made aware of a man who had several times visited Melrose. No one knew him—not his name, his address, nor his reasons for calling. “Miss Bibi could say only that she heard of the man, but her friend had said nothing of him.”
“Did she ask?”
“She says that after the man’s first appearance she mentioned she heard he received a visitor. He said nothing. She did not wish to pry, so she asked no further until the man called a second and a third time, each time staying more than an hour. She asked again, and all Melrose said was that this person was an old acquaintance and turned the subject to that of a recent spate of poaching in the area.”
“Had there been poaching?”
Holmes eyed me. “Watson, in the country there is always poaching. It is a subject on which those who have land can, at all times, find something to say. It is also a good way to change a subject. Melrose did not wish to discuss his visitor. Now why would that be? In almost every other matter he was open with the girl. After all, she inherited his property, and he spoke with her freely, yet on this subject he remained silent.”
“Perhaps it was the sort of thing a man would discuss only with another man,” I offered. “We know Melrose did not marry, but he could have had a mistress?” Holmes looked at me and I considered that encouragement. “Perhaps he had not seen her in some years and she was now ill or in want. The man may have been a relation come to ask help. Or,” a further thought struck me, “could he have been her son? Could he have even been Melrose’s son? What description was given?”
Holmes shook his head. “Not impossible but unlikely, for in all our conversations with those who knew Melrose, none said that he was ever involved with any woman, bar the lady of whom we know.”
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