by Otto Penzler
“And Master Robert?”
“Oh, he appeared a moment later at the top of the stairs, saw what was happening and came down to help us get Giles to his room.”
“Did you examine the library subsequently?”
“Certainly, but there was nothing misplaced. Giles’s chair was where it always was—by the fire—and nothing else appeared to have been moved. Oh, there was one rather strange thing. There was an unusual smell in the room that I cannot recollect noticing there before….”
“Can you describe it?”
“It was sweet, pungent—almost like incense, Mr. Holmes. But once I had opened the windows, it soon vanished.
“Mr. Holmes, I realise I may be bothering you unnecessarily. After all, nothing actually happened. All I can tell you is that there was something unbearably evil in that room this morning and I fear for Giles’s life. What should I do?”
Holmes appeared to be examining his tented fingers and to address his remarks more to me than to Mary Lucas.
“The case most definitely has certain points of interest and I believe you are right in your sense of something being very wrong at Halliford Hall. My suggestion is that you return there forthwith. Try and act as though nothing untoward has occurred, particularly as far as Robert is concerned. Allow the evening to proceed as normal. Watson and I will arrive on the evening train and come to the house when everyone has gone to bed. Leave the front door on the latch, if you would be so kind. We will keep watch outside the room and see if we cannot determine the origin of these strange sounds and scents. Now, perhaps you will be good enough to draw a map of the ground floor for us…and you possess a spare key to the library? Excellent.”
A few minutes later a still anxious but distinctly relieved Mary Lucas had dried her eyes, put on her gloves (having removed the offending label), and departed for the railway station.
“And what do you think of it all, Watson?” my friend asked, leaning back in his chair.
“For my money it’s the nephew,” I said. “Sees himself being cut out of the old man’s inheritance; but how…?”
“Yes, yes, Watson,” Holmes interrupted impatiently. “Mr. Robert Halliford is clearly trying to secure what he thinks of as his—always supposing he is who he says he is—but, as you rightly ask, how? Not in this case, who—but how?
“This afternoon we shall make our pilgrimage to Lewes. Oh, and slip your service revolver into your pocket, would you, Watson? There’s a good fellow. I always feel that Mr. Webley’s No. 2 makes such a comfortable travelling companion. He can be so persuasive.”
—
In the end we reached Lewes with ample time to spare and were able to enjoy an evening stroll around the Sussex county town before keeping our rendezvous. I have always been partial to country air, but to Holmes there is something almost sinister about the great outdoors. Where I see air and space, he perceives isolation and the privacy to perform all manner of secret wickedness. “In the lowest part of a big city, Watson, there is always someone to hear the cry for help and perhaps even to provide it but here…If Miss Lucas lived here in this bustling little town, I would have less to fear for her than in some brick mausoleum even a few miles distant.”
As dusk began to fall we hired a pony and trap and drove to the small group of houses that passed for Halliford village. Since one of them was inevitably the village pub, we were able to make ourselves popular by buying drinks for the regulars and steering them—no great feat—into local gossip. They were able to confirm most of the facts of Miss Lucas’s narrative. The squire, as they referred to Sir Giles, was irascible but well liked, as befitted one of the “old uns.” For the “young un” they had no time at all. “A bit above ’isself” was the general verdict. “It’ll be a sad day for Halliford if that one gets to be squire,” said an old man in the chimney corner.
“Have you noticed, old fellow, that one often learns as much from the locals as from the protagonists in a case?” said Holmes, as we returned to our corner table. “They frequently do not know what they know.”
We whiled away the evening pleasantly enough in this fashion until, consulting his watch, Holmes finished his drink. “What do you say to a visit to the library now, Watson?”
Our entry to Halliford Hall passed off without incident. The heavy front door opened to the touch and as we passed through the silent marbled hallway, a dark figure glided up to us.
“Thank heavens you’re here, gentlemen,” Mary Lucas whispered. “Everyone is in their rooms, except Giles”—and she indicated the door of what we now knew to be the famous library. “But there was a dreadful row over dinner between Giles and Robert and it was as though Robert was already the master of the house, the way he talked to Giles. Something is in the air, I know it.”
“My best advice to you, Miss Lucas, is to take yourself off to bed now. Watson and I will stand guard from the room opposite.” A moment later her ghostly presence could be seen flitting up the wide central staircase and Holmes and I were alone in our vigil.
We have been obliged to stay awake through the small hours on more than one occasion in the past but truth to tell, I have never found it easy. The mind is an easy prey to idle fancies and every noise carries too many disturbing possibilities. The creak of an old house settling can be a footstep approaching one with evil intent and, of course, Miss Lucas’s premonitions did not exactly help matters. My only consolation was the reassuring presence of my two old friends—Mr. Holmes and Mr. Webley.
From time to time one or other of us would tiptoe across the hall and listen at the door. Each time the result was the same. There was the crackling of the fire—a sound which gradually diminished as the night wore on—and a regular, rather congested breathing, presumably the result of Sir Giles’s asthma.
Then at around five, when I happened to be listening, there was a sudden staccato sound, as though one last ember was stubbornly giving up the ghost. It was over in a moment. Half an hour or so later the wheezing began. By this time we were both at the door.
It was rhythmic but erratic. The noise would build up and then suddenly stop. A minute or so later it would start up again. I looked at Holmes and mouthed, “What?” but he raised a finger to his lips in warning.
Now the noise had stopped altogether as suddenly as it had started. We looked at one another and I could see indecision written on Holmes’s face. A moment later it had been replaced by determination as a new sound from inside the room came to our ears.
It was the sound of a small bird chirruping.
“Come along, Watson,” Holmes shouted, “there isn’t a moment to lose. Fool that I am, we may already be too late!” The key was ready in his hand.
Without ceremony we burst into the room. Before I could take in any of the detail, something bright yellow and in movement caught my eye. Flying around the room, briefly perching here and there and singing its heart out, was a small yellow canary.
Seeing that there was no immediate possibility of catching the little fellow, I turned my attention to Holmes. He was bending over the figure of a man slumped in a club armchair next to the open fireplace. His face as he rose told me the entire story.
“We are too late, Watson. I blame myself for this.”
I went over and examined the corpse. As Holmes had indicated, there was no sign of a pulse. Sir Giles’s face was flushed and the pupils dilated. At a guess, I would say that he had been dead no more than a few minutes.
“Heart attack, I would imagine,” I offered, “probably brought on by his asthma.”
“That, I am sure, is precisely what the murderer would like us to think, Watson. In fact, I venture to suggest that an autopsy would reveal nothing other than that. Technically, yes, he died because his heart stopped beating. The question is—what stopped it?”
By this time he was on his hands and knees by the grate in that trufflehound position I knew so well. He was busily sifting through the still warm ashes.
“Murder? How can this be murder? N
o one entered or left the room or we would have seen them. And as you can see, the room is sealed as tight as a drum.”
“Exactly so, my dear fellow, and that is precisely what the murderer was counting on. Ah, Miss Lucas. I’m afraid we have failed you signally in your hour of need. You have my humblest apologies….” Mary Lucas stood in the doorway. Behind her was a dark, rather plain young woman, presumably Emily Sommersby, whose eyes never left the housekeeper for an instant.
“I grossly underestimated the urgency of the situation. I confess I did not take your concerns seriously enough—or rather, I failed to appreciate the sense of urgency motivating the other party…or parties.”
There was a pause before the significance of Holmes’s words sank in and then Mary was clutching the frame of the door to prevent herself from falling. I went across and with Miss Sommersby’s assistance helped her to a chair. I thought I saw the other woman flinch at Holmes’s final words.
“Tell me it was a quick death, Mr. Holmes, and that he felt no pain. He was fond of joking that, as an old soldier, he didn’t expect to die but only to fade away—preferably in his favourite chair with a glass of something by his side. At least he had that. But, oh!” And then she gave way to her grief.
As she spoke, Holmes continued to prowl around the periphery of the room. When he came to the large double French windows, he paused and ran his fingers around the frame.
“Come and take a look at this, old fellow.”
As I joined him, I could see that attached to the original wooden frame was an additional construction of wood and metal which appeared to act as an extra seal.
“Oh, Mr. Holmes,” a tearful Mary Lucas said, clearly relieved to have something to distract her, “that was Robert’s idea. Giles had been complaining about the ‘infernal draft,’ as he put it, and Robert said ‘Don’t you worry about that. I’ll take care of everything.’ And he did the job himself only a day or two ago. I don’t think a professional could have made a better job of it.”
As she spoke, a glint of metal caught my eye. Some small object had fallen to the floor and been hidden by the heavy curtains Holmes had disarranged in his inspection. I bent down and retrieved it.
“Good heavens, Holmes,” I heard myself exclaim, “I haven’t seen one of these since my Army days.”
In the palm of my hand lay a small multipurpose spannerlike tool that had seen a good deal of wear. Partly worn away was an engraving which I tried to decipher.
“The property of Her Majesty’s Royal Engineers, I think you’ll find, Watson.” Holmes spoke so that only I could hear. “I believe we have found the previous occupation of the would-be Young Master.”
“Of course, that would account for the ‘ranking officer’ talk. Old habits die hard. Why, I know myself…”
“And does it not strike you as odd that at a moment like this the young man who is so very caring of his elders is noticeable by his absence?”
“You’re right, Holmes. Why don’t I go and…?”
At that moment a sudden flash of yellow distracted us once more.
The canary, which had been perched on a high bookshelf and eyeing our doings beadily, now swooped down and landed on Miss Sommersby’s shoulder. She reached up and patted it in an abstracted fashion.
Holmes continued as though nothing had occurred. “Yes, indeed, Miss Lucas—leaving a totally sealed environment. Would you be kind enough to come over here to the fireplace, please? Watson, perhaps you will assist her?” With obvious nervousness she did so. “Do you notice any unusual smell?”
She wrinkled her nose and frowned. “Well, now that you mention it, I do—just as I have for the last couple of days. A sort of sweet, sickly smell. I must have a word with our coal merchant.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Holmes said gently. “The source comes from somewhere a good deal south of Sussex. Now, since I presume you are the one to lay and clear the fire, what do you make of this?” And he opened a hand to reveal the results of his researches in the grate. On his palm was a small pile of what looked like grit.
She looked at it for a moment, then took a pinch of it between her finger and thumb.
“That’s strange. I noticed the same stuff yesterday morning and that was the first time I’d seen it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it looked like—bird seed. But how ever did a bird get in here?”
“Just what we are about to ascertain.” Holmes carefully placed the pile of dust in an ashtray on a side table.
“You will, of course, have observed, Watson, that Sir Giles’s chair is firmly bolted to the floor next to the fireplace. He would have been unable to change his position, had he wished to do so. Our indefatigable engineer at work again, I fancy. Miss Lucas, who occupies the room immediately above this one?”
“No one at present. As I told you, much of the house is unoccupied. But, Mr. Holmes, what do you think happened?”
“The foulest of foul play, dear lady. The locus invariably speaks for itself and this one shrieks its own story. Had I been here to listen to it twenty-four hours earlier, I could have prevented this tragic dénouement. As it is, the events of last night are emerging with great clarity and only a few pieces remain to be put into place. But, as Watson knows, I refuse to hypothesize until I have all those pieces in my possession. Ladies, shall we?”
—
Not surprisingly, the upstairs room was considerably smaller than the library, but the configuration was clearly similar. Dominating one side of it was the brick extension of the chimney. Immediately opposite were a set of mullioned windows. The room itself was entirely bare of furniture and it was apparent that it did not normally benefit from Miss Lucas’s domestic attentions, for there was a distinct layer of dust everywhere except the floor area immediately next to the chimney embrasure and the central window. There were signs visible even to my eye of considerable activity.
“As I told you, gentlemen, this room is unused and normally kept locked,” Miss Lucas said, looking around it in some surprise. Holmes and I followed her inside, though I noticed Miss Sommersby lingered in the doorway.
“And yet the key turned in the lock with surprising ease,” Holmes remarked, moving purposefully over to the chimney, where he proceeded to tap with his fingernail at the brickwork.
“Ah, as I thought.” His long fingers prised away a section of the brickwork exposing the chimney opening. Producing a lens from his inside pocket, Holmes examined the top edge of the exposed bricks with great care, before handing the lens to me to verify his findings.
“I think you will find clear indications that the brick has been scratched by a metal link chain, Watson. There are minute shavings of new metal embedded in the old brick and here and here are clear imprints of where the links have rested. And now…”
And with that—in the catlike manner that he invariably adopted when he was hot on the trail—he darted over to the window.
“And yes—although the rest of the windows are firmly shut and warped with age, this one”—and he demonstrated by opening and closing it—“has clearly been used very recently. And here again the metallic scratches…Now, let me see, somewhere near the chimney we should find…”
He dropped disconcertingly to his hands and knees and peered closely at the floorboards near the chimney aperture. Then, seeming to find what he was looking for, he gave a satisfied grunt, pulled two envelopes from the jacket pocket which was their invariable resting place, and carefully brushed the twin heaps of dust he had accumulated into them.
“What do you have there, Mr. Holmes?” It was Miss Lucas, riveted as anyone must be watching Holmes at work for the first time.
“The final pieces of our little puzzle, unless I am very much mistaken,” Holmes replied. “Now, why don’t we all repair to the morning room—I believe the local constabulary will require the library in due course—and I will attempt to explain the series of events.”
“Don’t you think I should ask Robert to join us?” Miss Lu
cas asked, looking around her as if she had suddenly mislaid him. “I don’t know where he can be.”
“I hardly think that would prove a very profitable request,” Holmes replied, studying his watch. “I would estimate that Master Robert, realising that the game was up, and that a little bird would soon be telling us all we need to know, will have caught the—let me see—the 9:05 train to town. Watson, you might like to telephone our old friend Inspector Lestrade and ask him to have the gentleman in question met on his arrival. Main line stations can be so impersonal, especially to people who have been wandering the wild blue yonder and may even now be contemplating doing so again. Oh dear, Miss Sommersby appears to have fainted.”
—
“It was obvious that Robert Halliford had to find some means of disposing of Sir Giles that appeared to be entirely natural.” Holmes was sitting in an armchair covered in colourful chintz—a far cry from the battered Baker Street equivalent. Mary Lucas and I were opposite him on a sofa with Miss Sommersby propped among cushions on another. We had moved to the conservatory to allow the local constabulary I had called earlier to do their routine work in the library.
“Sir Giles’s asthma gave him the idea. That, together with the fact that he invariably fell asleep in his usual chair conveniently placed by the log fire. At Robert’s insistence, by the way. After that—like all good ideas—it was simple enough.
“First, he had to make sure the room was completely insulated. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, a locked room. For his purposes it was better—it was a completely sealed room.
“I would be prepared to wager a small amount that we shall find ‘Master Robert’ or ‘Tommy’—or whatever his real name turns out to be—was cashiered from the Royal Engineers for conduct unbecoming—though I somehow doubt he was either an officer or a gentleman—and thrown on his own dubious devices.
