“Of course, I may wish to examine the corpse in more detail at the morgue. Make sure all of his clothes and their contents are present,” he ordered.
“Now, Watson, what is your medical opinion? Take your time, old friend, for I believe we have only just begun to gently stir these stygian waters, and they may well be very deep indeed.”
Holmes’ ominous tone could not fail but affect me as I made my examination. I checked the head and chest for other injuries, but there was nothing to suggest that there was any cause of death other than the one I had immediately posited. I pulled down his collar and saw just what I had been expecting, the bruising and tearing caused by the contraction of a ligature. From what I could tell, it was roughly half an inch in width and had left a faint black, oily residue.
“Strangulation,” I announced. “By means of a rope or cord, less than an inch in diameter. There are traces of a black oily substance, so we should maybe be looking at a maritime connection. Has the Hall been searched for rope or any similar cable that might have been used?”
“From rafters to cellars”, replied Gregson. “The only rope we have found was either far too long to have been of practical use or so old that it was covered in green mould, none of which has been rubbed off the rope or found anywhere on the body. We did find several finer cords, but none of these fit the pattern or size of the wounds.”
“The guests have all been searched, I presume?” I asked.
“Yes, we even called in female staff to check the ladies, nothing we found matched the injuries, not belt, tie or garter.”
“Well done, Watson, Inspector, a perfectly credible account. Do you have a list of everything found upon those present at the Hall, Inspector?” Holmes asked.
“Yes, of course, everything found about the guests’ persons is listed in their witness statements,” replied the efficient young detective.
“Now what about the larger scene, Doctor?” Holmes gestured from left to right encompassing the area surrounding the body and bench.
Reluctantly, and cursing somewhat under my breath that this was his rather than my domain, I got to my knees and examined the ground.
“The paths, being inside, are dry and hard so there is not much in the way of footmarks. The ground is scuffed up immediately before the victim, caused no doubt by the poor chap’s desperate final struggle. There is some tobacco ash, the end of a cigar, stubbed out, so we know he finished his cigar before he was attacked. There are also some black flakes here.” I picked one up and put it to my nose. “Pipe tobacco, a dark Virginia. As there is no pipe found at the scene and Harrison carried no pouch, I think we might deduce that it came from the murderer. Do we know which of those present smoked a pipe?”
“At least four of the gentlemen guests were pipe smokers,” replied Gregson.
I stood up gingerly, careful not to inflame my old wound, feeling rather proud of my deductions.
“Why, Watson,” commented Holmes, “you have learned so much in so short a time. Aside from missing a couple of clues of vital importance, you seem to have observed most everything else of interest.”
“Damned with faint praise,” I chuckled quietly to myself.
“The cigar is a Havana, an unusual size, rather large in girth but short, less than five inches, and wrapped in a dark Maduro leaf. This is the smoke of a connoisseur, the large girth encourages flavour onto the palette, the shorter length prevents a sticky build-up of tar. I am certain we will find more of its companions in the ebony and cedar wood humidor in the corner of the sitting room.”
“I am sure it will prove necessary to try one, purely in the name of research,” I grinned.
“Merely to compare and confirm the ash of course,” Holmes replied with inscrutable sincerity. “The tobacco flakes are indeed dark Virginia, not a pre-packed brand but one bought loose by the ounce. The exact identification of these proprietary tobaccos is made particularly difficult by the scent and flavour being fundamentally altered by the length and method of storage used by each individual tobacconist.”
“Well, Bedford has a tobacconist of national renown, on the High Street, I believe. That would be an errand I would happily volunteer for.”
“Their house blends are indeed famous throughout the southern counties but this is certainly not one of them. Maybe we can pay a brief visit before we leave but not just yet, Watson, for now we must establish the security of the house and the order of events of last night. Gregson, in what state was the house when the first constables arrived? Doors, windows, everything.”
Gregson had been watching in silence, still rather in awe of Holmes. He reached quickly into his pocket, withdrew his notebook and located the relevant entry.
“The alarm was raised at around twelve thirty. An attendant ran to the stables and rode to the village to raise the local policeman. He sent word to Bedford and followed the servant back to the hall. All doors and windows were locked and bolted from the inside, save for the front door, which the servant had unbolted to leave but had locked behind him. In fact, this had been done as early as eleven, which was the usual procedure. A few of the guests had even remarked that it was rather warm and were surprised that no windows were open. Once reinforcements had arrived, they checked all of the doors and windows a second time and confirmed that all were securely fastened.”
“The local Doctor quickly confirmed the apparent cause of death and we began a thorough search of the house, but with no immediate results,” he continued. “All of the servants and staff are accounted for and none of the guests have left. At first light, two constables and I walked around the outside of the Hall looking for any signs of entry or exit. We carefully examined the paths, grass and flowerbeds but found nothing, no footprints or other suspicious marks, such as those that might be made by the use of a ladder for example. All window sills and frames were clean and well-secured.”
“It appears that you have not been idle, Inspector, well done. You will excuse me if I take a look for myself later? Just for my own satisfaction, of course,” Holmes smiled, graciously. “But now we must meet the protagonists. Gregson, do you have a list of all those present last night?”
Gregson handed Holmes a sheet of paper, which he examined for about a minute. “Good. Names and professions. Much better than just going in completely blind. Thank you, Inspector.”
Holmes returned the page to the Inspector, who pocketed it before leading us back into the Hall, through the dining room and the spartan parlour, across the entrance hall and into the opposite front room. This proved to be the formal drawing room and, unlike the rest of the house, was decorated in a far more traditional style. Seated on various armchairs and settees were four ladies and five men. A sixth man was standing, looking out of the front bay window. As we entered, he approached Gregson.
“When will you and your men be finished, Inspector? We have been cooped up here like poultry since last night, the poor ladies are very shocked and tired and I now have a mountain of things to attend to.”
He stopped and looked at Holmes and I. “And who are you two? More police, I do not doubt. Well, we have made our statements, I fail to see what further help we can be.”
His face was lined with worry, his eyes dark from lack of sleep. I could see that this was a normally calm and polite gentleman, struggling to cope in a desperate situation.
“Colonel Fauwkes, this is Mr Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and his colleague Doctor John Watson. They are here to aid us in unravelling this terrible mystery. I know you have spoken to myself and others but please be patient a while longer and cooperate with Mr Holmes in whatever way that he requests.”
Gregson then gave way to Holmes, who bowed slightly, before addressing the room.
“I would like to ask each of you a few simple questions, if you would be so kind. I shall take interviews in the parlour. Inspector, please, a wor
d?” Holmes led Gregson back into to the entrance hall, with an added gesture that I should also follow.
“Send them to me in the order that you have written down. Couples can come together.” Holmes spoke quietly, looking back at the drawing room door seemingly suspicious of being overheard. “Do you have the statements already provided?”
Gregson smiled and handed over a thin folder containing about a dozen sheets of testimony. Holmes ran his eyes over each sheet, reading at an impossible speed, before taking a seat.
“Send in the first witness,” he ordered.
Chapter Two - Questions & Answers
Holmes sat in a plain cream armchair, to his right was a small table on which the folder containing the statements taken by the police lay open. I sat on a straight-backed chair with my back to the bay window in an attempt to appear as inconspicuous as possible and allow me to observe the witnesses as closely as possible without distracting them, my notebook on my lap.
The first to be interviewed was a Colonel Ephraim Fauwkes.
Col. E Fauwkes
“Colonel, my sincerest apologies for this continuing inconvenience. You reside here at the Hall, and I think it is well known that you are the closest friend of the deceased. Yet your statement indicates that your knowledge of him is rather limited. Why should this be?”
The Colonel shuffled, uncomfortably. He was in his late fifties but lithe, spritely and as healthy as anyone twenty years younger. His hair was thick and dark with flashes of grey at the sides. His eyes were a bright steel grey and a thin moustache sat below a noble nose. He wore a suit of fine bottle green tweed and looked every inch the archetype of a handsome, middle-aged English country gentleman. He thought long and deeply before he finally answered.
“James Harrison was the greatest man I ever met. Generous, intelligent, kind, gentle and wise. But, he was a man of secrets. To be his friend, he asked but one thing. Never inquire after his past. In everything else he was an open book, but his life before he returned to England could never be discussed.”
“So, he had left the country at some point earlier in his life and returned at a later date?” I interceded.
Fauwkes shrugged, “That is as much as I have ever known. We met in ‘78, when I returned from India.”
“I also served, in Afghanistan. All too briefly though, as a Jezail bullet ended my military career rather earlier than planned.” My revelation that I was a fellow former soldier seemed to relax the Colonel, slightly.
“Sorry to hear that,” he replied. “Somehow, I passed through every skirmish, melee and even major encounter without a scratch, while better men than I will ever be fell at every side of me,” he added, with a note of sadness and regret.
“And then you met Harrison?” Holmes gently moved the conversation forwards.
“Yes, we met in London, where at the time I had modest lodgings. He had made a fortune on the railways, backing the lines into the centre of the city, you know the Metropolitan over and underground lines. His financial acumen helped turn my modest pension into a decent income for a gentleman. We became good friends and one day he confessed to me his deep loneliness and wondered if I might be willing to take a room in his otherwise largely empty Hall. I argued hard to make him accept any form of rent and soon after I had moved in and I can honestly admit to never having been happier. I make this point most strenuously and wish nothing more than for all of this awfulness to have been but a foul dream, and to return to my life as it was before, here with my friend.” I could not fail to see that his once cold, grey eyes were now red-lined and glassy.
“So, moving on to last night,” said Holmes, seemingly oblivious to Fauwkes’ suffering. Can you describe the events of the evening? Actually, why don’t you start with the reason for the gathering?”
“Once a month we hold, or held, a dinner up here at the Hall.” Fauwkes began, after composing himself. “The guests varied slightly in their make-up, but the core was always the same. Harrison was, of course, the host, I just helped out as best I could.”
“The vicar had a standing invitation, he and Harrison enjoyed a friendly, but unusual relationship. Harrison is, or rather was,” he hesitated, “a confirmed atheist. The vicar, St John Beekey, was nonetheless determined to win Harrison back into his flock. It became a running topic of debate, always passionate but never unfriendly and always delivered with great humour on both sides. I wonder if he now knows who was right?” he trailed off sadly.
“The other regular guests were Joseph Banks-Wells, a local farmer who owns much of the surrounding countryside and more than half of the village, along with his wife Eleanor. The local Magistrate and lawyer, the Hon Rodney Wulf Fessington, his wife Mrs Catherine Fessington plus Doctor and Mrs Ernest Pace completed our cabal. The remaining guests were all present at the Hall for the first time,” Fauwkes added.
“What can you tell me of the newcomers?” Holmes offered Fauwkes a small cigar from his monogrammed silver case, (the monogram not being his own, and if ever identified and made known publicly, had the power to bring down two western governments) but he declined.
“Unfortunately, not a great deal, I am sorry to say Mr Holmes,” he admitted. “The widow Clarity Fairchance had finally taken up her long-standing invitation and was accompanied by a man who was renting her summer cottage, a Mr Jude Wergeld. I do not think that a word was spoken between them all evening, now I come to think of it. The final guest was a real mystery. Professor Jacob Seaworthy. Harrison never explained exactly how they met or what their relationship was, but he was a fine enough guest, knowledgeable on many subjects, but rather cold and precise with it.”
“Thank you, Mr Fauwkes, your testimony has been refreshingly precise. Now, can you please recount the events of the evening in as much detail as you can remember?”
Fauwkes spoke at length about the fateful evening, the time and order of arrival, the drinks reception and the four-course meal that followed. Harrison came across as a genial and entertaining host. He sparred with the vicar on religion, discussed the harvest prospects with Banks-Wells and bemoaned the petty crime caused by drunkenness with Wulf Fessington. He engaged occasionally with the Professor on scientific subjects, particularly astronomy, but could remember no direct interaction between Harrison and the remaining pair of guests, other than general pleasantries.
“After dinner was concluded, the men retired to the greenhouse for a glass of port and a smoke, the ladies to the drawing room. You have seen it, it is rather a maze, so we all wandered where we pleased, chatting in pairs or sitting on benches enjoying the warm evening, such a change after the recent inclement weather.”
“You saw all of the male guests in the greenhouse? Nobody was missing? Did you see anyone else, a servant perhaps?” asked Holmes, his fingers now arched, papers fallen to his lap.
“Yes, all were there and I saw no one else. The greenhouse was locked, the only way in or out was through the dining room. We smoked Harrison’s Hoyo De Monterrey Maduro Especiales, that he had specially imported from Cuba through H&S in town and, after about an hour, we began to leave and re-join the ladies in the drawing room.”
“In what order did you arrive in the drawing room? Please be precise here, it is imperative.”
“When I reached the drawing room, the Doctor and Magistrate were already there. Directly behind me was the vicar, followed shortly, maybe five minutes later, by Banks-Wells and Wergeld together. The professor arrived a little later, I cannot be exact as we were all, by then, conversing. I think I noticed his presence maybe ten minutes after the last of the others had arrived.”
“Most illuminating, sir. Now I have to ask who discovered the body or, rather, who first noticed that Harrison had not returned?” Holmes’ eyes were bright and alive, a heart-warming change from just hours earlier.
“That would have been the Doctor’s wife, Grace, a usually quiet and timid la
dy. She mentioned it to her husband, who then asked me. At the time we made rather a joke of it, I am sorry to admit, something like ‘what kind of host misses out on his own finest brandy?’ that sort of thing. So I sent the butler, Greaves, to look for him. He returned ashen-faced only a few minutes later. He is a fine man, Greaves, a former sergeant in the Rifles, not easily shaken, and he knew well enough not to disturb the scene.”
There was a short pause before Holmes stood up and held out his hand, which Fauwkes nervously shook. “Thank you, sir, for your time, your testimony has been invaluable. I promise that I will do everything in my power to ensure that the murderer of your friend is brought to justice.”
“I hope so too, but do you really think you can untangle such a puzzle? It could be anyone present, after all, even myself I suppose. No one has an alibi, except the ladies.”
Fauwkes looked tired and desperate, wringing his hands nervously before composing himself. “Who would you like to see next?” he asked, seemingly grateful for this simplest of tasks.
“Please send in the vicar, the Rev St. John Beekey, I believe.”
Rev. St. J. Beekey
Holmes wrote a few notes before there was a light tap and the vicar poked his head around the door. Approaching sixty, the vicar’s hair was thick and white, either side of a large domed hairless forehead so smooth it actually reflected the sunlight. He had a large nose but small piggy eyes, which hid behind brass-rimmed pince-nez that seemed several sizes too small. His mouth, though, had many laughter lines on either side and he showed every sign of a man more used to smiling than scowling. His clothes were rather old fashioned and showed signs of both wear and repair, this was clearly a priest who thought little of worldly wealth.
Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Pigtail Twist Page 8
