by David Pirie
‘I am afraid we accept no visitors under any circumstances. This young woman should know far better and moreover I have suspicions—’
But she never completed her sentence, for, to her utter astonishment, Bell merely pushed past her into the hall. ‘We are not visitors, madame,’ he said in the rapid and disinterested manner he reserved for those who obstructed him. ‘I am Dr Joseph Bell, and we are on urgent official business which may affect your whole establishment.’
She stepped a pace back, trying to take this in,and Bell appraised her so swiftly I only just caught it. ‘As to the other matters that are exercising you,’ the Doctor continued, turning to the stairs, ‘the fault is with the mud-scraper rather than the servant. And also with your sewing machine which is mounted four inches too high.’
If Miss Maitland had been thrown out by our visit, now she was staggered. She stared down at her feet and then at her sleeve. ‘Official business?’ she repeated dazedly, for these were exactly the words to strike terror into her respectable soul.
The Doctor was already at the stairs. ‘It need not involve you at this stage. We merely have to make a search of Miss Scott’s room.’
And he walked up the stairs, with us following. Miss Maitland still stood there, but I suppose my presence revived her angry spirits a little for she succeeded in glaring at me before I climbed out of view.
‘Do you know Miss Maitland?’ Miss Scott asked Bell in amazement as we reached the landing. ‘Or perhaps Mr Doyle told you of the trouble she had with her servant?’
‘Neither,’ Bell answered cheerfully, looking around him. ‘But I could observe the leather of her boot is scored by three parallel cuts, where a servant-girl has recently scraped off mud with too sharp an implement, while her sleeve shows the heavy imprint of a sewing machine that is improperly positioned. I have made a study of women’s sleeves; it is perhaps their most revealing feature, just as in men it is the trouser-knee.’
Miss Scott stared at him, clearly impressed, as we arrived at her bedroom door. Bell took stock of Miss Scott’s room at once and advanced on the pile of coins which, fortunately, still lay there untouched. He put his face close to them, then took a step back. And said absolutely nothing. From this I knew at once he found them quite as striking as I did.
Finally he turned and gazed brightly at Miss Scott. ‘And they were not there when you went to sleep? Was the door locked?’
‘Yes,’ Miss Scott answered. ‘I always lock it.’
‘And your window?’ said Bell.
She shook her head. ‘I often sleep with it open. I did last night.’
Bell was already there and had opened it. He stared out for a long time. The room was on the street side, but there was a gently sloping roof that extended to all the houses beyond. It would have been a matter of ease to climb along it. After a while Bell closed the window.
‘You will close and lock your door and window tonight. Meanwhile we will make certain enquiries and return tomorrow. And you will explain to your landlady that you have assisted me on an important matter but I demand the utmost secrecy. If she wants to know more, she must address all enquiries to me at the university.’
Miss Scott smiled at this for of course it relieved her of a burden, and we left the room. At the bottom of the stairs we encountered Miss Maitland, who was standing there waiting for us. She had evidently regained some of her fighting spirit for she stood bolt upright and her expression was cold. When Bell repeated what he had said to Miss Scott, she replied tartly that there were limits to the intrusion that could be endured upon private premises. However, she agreed not to interfere with his business if he would not interfere with hers.
We quit the premises to find it was almost dark outside now. I was longing to hear what Bell made of the coins, but as soon as we reached the street, he turned and stood staring up at Miss Scott’s window. Of course I followed his gaze and could just make out the configuration of roofs, but it told me little more than I had seen from the bedroom. Indeed I was a good deal more worried by my companion’s expression. All the cheerfulness he had exhibited in the house had vanished and he looked extremely concerned.
‘So,’ he said, ‘the roofs are interconnecting. Anybody could have reached that window.’
‘Yet she was unharmed,’ I pointed out.
He turned to me, frowning, and now I knew for sure that his confident manner earlier had been intended principally to boost Miss Scott’s spirits. ‘I draw no comfort whatsoever from that, Doyle. I am only glad she has agreed to keep her door and windows locked tonight.’
Then he turned back to the street, examining the houses around Seaview. The cab in which we had arrived still waited on the other side, its horse fidgeting a little as the night grew colder. The Doctor once more subsided into thought, but at last, as we moved back to the cab, he turned to me again.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that little pyramid is identical to what we both observed at Madame Rose’s. It is a sign, and I feel sure now you were right. Your beggar was murdered by our mysterious friend.’
He stopped, his gaze fixed on me in the light of the gas lamp opposite Miss Scott’s lodgings. ‘I have been mistaken in cases before, Doyle, but I have to tell you this is the first time I have been wrong and someone else has been right. That hurts my pride. A petty feeling, no doubt, but I record it and apologise to you. You may consider yourself fully qualified as my assistant.’
Of course I felt a little surge of pride, but it was small compensation. For I could see quite well how worried he was.
THE LAIR AT HOLY WELL HOUSE
It was now obviously necessary for me to explain my own suspicions to the Doctor while he reflected on every aspect of what had occurred. To this end we returned to the university and he led me upstairs to his private crime room. On this occasion the fire was not lit for he had not expected to be here. I built it myself while I rehearsed all my dealings with Crawford and his cronies down to the smallest detail.
I told him of the man’s threats against the women, of how he threw coins at them and denounced them in the language of an Old Testament prophet. I told him, too, of the letter Elsbeth had received. By the time the fire was fully blazing the Doctor had heard everything and I could tell that he wanted to think. So I stared into the flames, trying to take what satisfaction I could from his words of praise (the first I think he ever uttered without irony), and racked my brains to provide him with further insight. But none came and I was wondering whether he wanted me to leave him when his voice suddenly interrupted my thoughts.
‘The coins, the sheep’s eyes, the blood of the lamb. There is a link here, it is like a message. The references are obviously biblical, if we could find the key. And it must be related to the man we seek.’ He had his fingers pressed together and his eyes were closed in concentration.
‘Yet,’ I said, ‘so far we know only of one death.’
‘We cannot even be sure of that.’ He opened his eyes and looked at me. I am not certain but I believe this was the first time I saw something like fear in those piercing eyes. ‘There is an element of playing in this that disturbs me as much as anything I have ever heard of, Doyle. You drew comfort from the fact he chose not to harm Miss Scott. In one way you are right. He strides over the rooftops, comes through the window and is inches from her. What does he do? He arranges a pile of coins. Certainly we must thank God he did not touch her when he could have done anything he wanted. But then is that not part of the message? Like the snip of private hair he took from the girl at the ball. He is saying: I can do anything I like, and is clearly enjoying the sensation. If that develops …’
Quite suddenly he got to his feet. ‘Well, there is a time for rumination and there is a time for action. We will visit Crawford.’
I was delighted by the plan. The Doctor found it easy enough to obtain an address from his enrolment book. But it turned out that the man lived at his father’s home, well outside the city. A cab was ordered and, once we had begun our journey, it
took more than an hour to wind our way out of Edinburgh and along the shores of the Forth. At last we were trundling down a densely wooded drive, which eventually came out into parkland, and before us we could see the outline of a large and splendid building lit by torches.
Bell studied this with interest as we drew closer, evidently pleased to be active at last. ‘A fine palace for our primary suspect, is it not?’ he said with a little more cheer than before.
We were now close to the main door and I could see just how vast this house was. The windows were stone mullion and I counted forty-five of them on the front alone, though more were probably covered by the ivy that grew up the stone. The front entrance, where we alighted from the cab, was huge with an old cast-iron bell to one side. Our driver stared at the place with interest, but seemed perfectly happy to wait, and we walked up a short flight of steps to the door.
Rather to our surprise it was ajar. But though there was light inside we saw no sign of anyone. I tolled the bell twice, and its great low chime echoed loudly all around that grey stone front, but nobody appeared.
Bell looked impatient. ‘You would think they are not well staffed. Surely someone would have heard the bell or seen our carriage?’
And so at last he pushed the door open and we entered.
There are many stately homes on the outskirts of Edinburgh but I have often reflected since that Holy Well House, where the Crawford family lived, was one of the strangest. There were few modern comforts here; indeed as we stood in the huge hallway all I could see was the stonework itself and our long shadows, cast by the light of the torches that were placed at head-height along the walls.
Bell advanced halfway down that forbidding hall and shouted another ‘hello’, but his voice merely echoed around us. We were standing there, wondering what to do, when we heard something. I believe it was Bell who caught it first, for he turned to the right and advanced towards the point where the hall ended in a doorway leading to a corridor. I followed him, and here the noise was quite distinct, a soft chanting.
After a while we could make out the words. ‘Let burning coals fall upon them: let them be cast into the fire; into deep pits, that they rise not up again …’
It was one of the more gloomy and violent psalms and it was being intoned by many voices with some solemnity. Bell and I walked along the corridor towards a door and all the time it grew louder. We reached the end and there seemed no point in knocking, so Bell pushed the door open and we walked in.
Before us was a baronial hall, with a long table stretching away towards a huge bow window. Standing at this table were about forty people holding open Bibles and chanting the verses. They were all men or women of a good age, and I could see at once they were positioned in order of rank. Nearest to us were some quite elderly women whom I took to be members of the Crawford family (though there was no sign of the man we sought), then came what appeared to be the more experienced indoor servants and next, judging by their ruddy complexion, groundsmen and gamekeepers, followed finally by junior domestic staff.
The chant was being led by a tall man in dark Highland dress, standing bolt upright at the head of the table, with his back to us. ‘Let not an evil speaker be established in the earth: evil shall hunt the violent man to overthrow him,’ he intoned, and his voice was among the loudest. As we stood there, some of the servants turned to stare at us and in due course others saw them staring and turned their heads too, till at last the man signalled them all to stop.
Now he moved round to face us and he made an imposing figure; in his late fifties but still dark and good-looking, with bright attentive eyes and a cruel mouth which was turned down in disapproval.
Bell at once apologised for the intrusion and explained he was seeking Gordon Crawford.
‘You have found him,’ the man replied, much to our surprise. ‘What business do you have to interrupt our nightly prayers?’
The Doctor stared at him. ‘You are Gordon Crawford?’
And now a slight change came over the man. He did not look downcast exactly, it was more of a grimace, almost as if he had smelled something unpleasant. ‘Ah, I suppose you want my son.’
‘He is not here?’ asked Bell.
‘He may well be,’ said the man with a sombre expression. ‘He comes and goes, but if you wish to talk to him, I suspect you will be disappointed.’
With this he gave a commanding glance to a small woman halfway down the table who was obviously a housekeeper of some kind. She put down her Bible at once and scurried over to us, indicating we should follow her.
Behind us the chanting resumed as we came out into the corridor. I could see the Doctor had hoped for some explanation of where we were going, but the woman made a point of keeping her head down and saying absolutely nothing as she led us along the corridor and into another which was smaller and less grand. At the end of this, rather to our bemusement, she took up a torch from one of the brackets, opened a back door and we came out into the grounds at the back of the house.
There were woods here, but in front of them I made out a shed or outhouse, where a light was burning, and she led us directly towards it. The door was open but, as soon as we reached her, she pointed inside and then almost fled away back to the house, evidently quite unwilling to go further.
Bell and I stared after her, and then back at the open door. Her manner certainly did not inspire much enthusiasm for what might be beyond it. Again there seemed no point in knocking so the Doctor pushed it open.
In the feeble lamplight we could at first see only the rubbish on the floor, which was considerable. Books, newspapers, the remains of food and drink, discarded candles and matches. A rat scurried among this heap with little regard to our presence.
I stopped beside Bell, whose attention was focused on the bottles at his feet. I could make out they were medicinal in nature and the dregs of some pink fluid had spilled from one on to the floor. Bell stared at it and then at the dingy furniture.
It was only now I became aware of a shape spreadeagled on a filthy armchair at the opposite end of the room. Slowly it seemed to stir, and then I caught a glimpse of Crawford’s head lolling back against the shabby brown upholstery. He looked ghastly, his skin blotchy and a little yellow, his mouth half open, his breathing heavy. Bell had seen him too now, but at this point it seemed he was only dimly aware of us.
‘Crawford,’ I said, and he looked up. At his elbow was another of these bottles, this one half charged with red liquid. As he stared, he picked it up and smelled it.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, and there was a slur in his voice. ‘You have no business here, it is my place.’
But then he seemed to recognise me. ‘Doyle? How dare you come. Get out!’
The Doctor ignored this and stood right in front of him. ‘Mr Crawford,’ he said. ‘You have been following a woman called Elsbeth Scott?’
The name seemed to galvanise him for suddenly he leered at me. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I was with her all last night.’
This was too much for me, and I moved forward, longing to shake that horrible grin off his face. But Bell put out an arm to stop me and just as well, for, even in this state, the man was still playing with me. ‘In my mind,’ he went on, evidently amused by my reaction. And then he picked up the bottle and drank. ‘The dreams induced by this tincture are remarkable. She is delicious in her abominations.’
‘Then you did not leave here last night?’ Bell stood over him, fixing his gaze, obviously determined the man’s attention should not wander.
Crawford’s hand with the bottle swayed, but he seemed to follow Bell’s question. ‘Nobody can be absolutely sure, least of all myself. But I am convinced of one thing. You can prove nothing that will incriminate me. And my revenge is sweet-tasting.’
He drank some more of the tincture which was obviously having a drastic effect on his mind. Meanwhile Bell had moved over to the window sill and was occupied in some task, though I could not see what it was. Until he stepped aside to reveal a
little pyramid of coins, which glittered in the lamplight. It was almost as neat as the others I had seen. Of course he was scrutinising Crawford’s face.
The man looked at it and his lips curled in amusement. ‘What have you there, sir?’ he said. ‘An idol of silver and gold?’
‘Have you seen it before?’ demanded Bell softly.
But Crawford simply grinned his idiot grin and took some more of his foul drink.
‘It is laudanum, Doyle,’ said the Doctor as we retraced our steps to the house. ‘And laudanum is the worst kind of alibi for our purposes. I do not think he is shamming now, but who can say what he was like last night? His own father admits they keep no track of him.’
We had re-entered the house and the prayers were evidently over for the servants were dispersing. It seemed we were destined to leave as anonymously as we had arrived but, as we approached the front door, a voice rang out from behind. ‘So you saw him, gentlemen? What does it say about a man that he can sink so low?’ Crawford the senior’s tone was sonorous, yet the pleasure he seemed to take in denouncing his own son was deeply unpleasant.
‘Beyond the fact his father is a fanatical, self-righteous bully I have absolutely no idea,’ said Bell casually without interrupting his path to the exit.
The man looked thunderstruck. ‘You will not be welcome here again,’ he shouted after us.
‘Given your notion of a welcome, I count that as our good fortune,’ Bell said with a smile. ‘Goodnight, sir.’ And we swept from the house as the great door was closed behind us by a servant. ‘I have long cherished the notion of a monograph on criminal fathers,’ the Doctor confided to me with some enthusiasm. ‘That man might well feature prominently if I ever get around to it.’ And he climbed with some gusto into our waiting cab.
