‘However, I was confident everything was done to make it safe and secure. As I say, it cost a lot of time and money. In fact the farmers who rent their land from me grumbled to my agent, saying I was neglecting things because of it. Be that as it may, I wasn’t having anyone burgle my precious trophies.
‘Well, you can imagine the shock when, one day, I visited the trophy room and found the door unlocked, and one of my prize trophies missing.
‘I had my gamekeepers and gardeners test every trip-wire and shotgun. Then there were the geese; how had the intruder got past the geese? I can tell you, Mr Holmes, I was very annoyed; it was a complete mystery how the burglar had managed it.
‘A few weeks passed and then it happened again. I couldn’t believe it. I increased the trophy room security; put more man-traps down, more guns, added bells to the trip-wires to tinkle and make it more difficult. Why, on a windy night the gamekeepers would be constantly alerted; the bells you see, the wind would make them tinkle most of the time.
‘Well, just as I considered that I had beaten them, it happened again. Another prize trophy was taken. I can tell you, Mr Holmes, I was furious, yet at the same time, I couldn’t help but admire the sheer brilliance of the thief. He has me beaten, yes, beaten.’
He looked at Holmes and leaned back in his chair to await comment. Holmes took the pencil he had been playing with and placed it on the desk by his chair.
‘A most intriguing case.’ Then, standing up, as though indicating he had already wasted valuable time just listening to the account, said, ‘I think the only way we shall solve this crime is to visit the scene. When can we come?’
The viscount was surprised at Holmes’s immediate action. I was not. Knowing my friend of old, I sensed that once he had the bit between his teeth, so to speak, he would not be content until the mystery was solved.
We travelled down by the fast evening train and listened with interest to the tales told by the viscount of his years in India. I was able to relate to them, comparing them with the time I also had spent there.
The viscount excused himself for a minute and disappeared into the corridor, so I took the opportunity to ask Holmes the exact order of ranking of a viscount. You see, although Holmes always considered me the expert on ranking concerning the army and navy, I was always adrift somewhat when it came to the nobility.
Holmes cocked an ear towards the corridor and said, ‘A viscount, my dear Watson, is a member of the fourth order of the British peerage, ranking between an earl and a baron, the title dating back to the reign of Henry VI.’
‘Thank you, Holmes, only I do like to know where he stands in the order of merit.’
‘Quite so, quite so. Ha! Here he returns now.’
So engrossed were we that I think we were all surprised when the train stopped and the porter was shouting out the name of the station. We clambered out, a little stiff from sitting, and walked along the platform towards the exit. The train disappeared in a swirl of steam and smoke, the little red light on the guard’s van soon lost as it gathered speed.
His Lordship’s coach was waiting outside the station entrance, and soon we were making our way along country roads, the lamps of the coach lighting up the hedges as we passed.
Twenty minutes later we turned in between two large ornate iron gates, and the sound of gravel could be heard under the wheels.
We spent a pleasant evening after dinner in the company of the viscount and his lady, but all too soon it was bed-time and we made our way to our allotted rooms.
The next morning proved bright and sunny. Holmes ate his breakfast quickly and I could tell he was eager to visit the scene of the crime, the trophy room.
This we soon did, the viscount leading the way, accompanied at a respectful distance by the head gamekeeper and two of his men.
Here I must describe for the reader the trophy house. It had been designed by one of the best architects of the day, built of stone and its design was classical, borrowing heavily upon Grecian and Roman-style features.
The only windows to let light in were those on the elevation facing the Hall, thus allowing more wall space inside upon which body armour and trophies could be displayed.
It was a handsome edifice and, it had to be admitted, gave added interest to the vista in the same way many a folly had been erected to add interest to a landscape.
Holmes examined the ground thoroughly, the head keeper and his men unloading the shotguns to enable the triggers to be tested. Having examined the fortifications outside, Holmes stopped at the door to the trophy house.
‘May I examine the key, my Lord? Ah! Chubb, 57 St Paul’s Churchyard, London,’ he read stamped on the key. ‘A good firm, but unfortunately even the best keys can be copied. I see, too, you installed only one lock... any reason why?’
‘Yes, you see I reasoned that as no one could get as far as the door, there was little sense in fixing more than one lock; more to unfasten and fasten when visiting the house.’
Holmes nodded and said, ‘And each time a trophy had been removed, the door was found to be closed, but unlocked?’
‘Yes, that is correct.’
We entered the trophy house and on each wall was hung the trophies won, and the body armour collected, in far-off countries by the viscount. Shields and silver cups were to be seen everywhere. Holmes prowled around looking with his keen eyes, then he turned to the viscount.
‘I find it very strange that the Hall which contains many really valuable things in the way of paintings and silver, which I took the opportunity last evening of examining, is very poorly secured. Why, it would take only a very amateur burglar no trouble at all to break in and carry off far more valuable things than your trophies.’
He continued after reading the inscription engraved on a particularly fine shield.
‘I suspect there is a reason for taking your trophies. After all, if the thief spent such great effort in overcoming your defences, he would surely have taken more than just one trophy. Why did he not pocket those small cups there, for instance,’ pointing to a shelf, ‘and make his visit more worthwhile.’
He paced up and down deep in thought.
‘No, I don’t believe we are looking for someone local. It could be a friend who wishes to pit his skill against your own, just for the sheer fun of it.’
The good viscount looked hard at Holmes, but did not reply.
We left the trophy house and very carefully made our way back to the perimeter where the geese were. I was not keen on stepping over the trip-wires, the slightest mistake would have discharged one of those guns, with terrible consequences.
Holmes turned to the noble lord and suggested that we now continue the investigation on our own, and that we would all meet again over lunch. And so it was agreed and the viscount strode away to examine some new man-trap that had been delivered that morning.
Holmes shook his head slowly from side to side.
‘I am afraid that whatever traps he puts down, our intruder will overcome them.’
We walked about a hundred yards and suddenly Holmes stopped and turned about.
‘See, Watson, the trophy house is sited hundreds of yards from the nearest tree. Right out in the open parkland. That cuts across any theory that the intruder may have used a rope to swing across the circle of defences.
‘Then there are the geese; penned at night in the outer circle of the enclosure. They would set up an unholy honking and alert the gamekeepers who, we are told, during the night hours are always nearby.’ He glanced over my shoulder. ‘Ah! If I am not mistaken that figure approaching us is Mr Wilson, the estate manager. I have some questions for him.’
Mr Wilson was a tall thin man with a thinning thatch of grey hair. He had been with the viscount’s father since he began as a garden boy. He looked after the estate, hiring and sometimes firing, men as he saw fit. He was considered hard, but fair; stood no nonsense. You either did your job to his satisfaction or you were dismissed.
Holmes smiled and b
id the estate manager good morning.
‘You no doubt have a few questions, Mr Holmes... I shall try to answer them as honestly as I am able.’
Holmes laughed. ‘I am sure you will... it is about the workers on the estate that I wish to question you.’
Mr Wilson nodded and stroked his jaw. ‘I see. Well, go ahead.’
‘Firstly, who are the ones you have set to work most recently?’
He did not reply immediately, giving the question some thought. ‘Well, the young Jackson lad we took on the gardening staff last month was the most recent. His father, Bill, also works as a gardener, has done since he left school.’
Holmes smiled and said, ‘And other members of staff recently appointed?’
The estate manager viewed some distant deer nibbling grass. They were the viscount’s pride and joy but, I suspected, not his from the look that passed momentarily across his face. ‘Well, there is Johnson who does a lot of the odd jobs and helps out in the kitchen. He worked for one of the local farmers, but reduced his workforce; he was lucky to find a job here.’
Holmes cut in quickly. ‘What about persons employed recently who have no local connections?’
Mr Wilson nodded towards the Hall. ‘Ah! Well, there’s Stevens, the butler. Came with good recommendations from his last position. His Lordship interviewed him, of course. Been with us almost three years, I should say.’
‘About as long as his Lordship has been home from India then?’ remarked Holmes.
‘Yes, I should say so. The previous butler retired after the death of his Lordship’s father.’
Holmes turned towards the trophy house. ‘I suppose the construction and security, guns, trip-wires, geese and the like have put extra work on you and your staff?’ Holmes watched his face and saw a look of weariness flicker just for a moment across it; then it was replaced by an alertness, as though realising he had revealed his most private feelings, was now determined that the rest of the conversation would give nothing away. Holmes continued.
‘Do I gather that you think his Lordship has spent too much time and money on his... pet hobby, and not enough time on more important things, like the managing of the estate?’
Mr Wilson drew himself up and gave Holmes an unfriendly look. ‘I did not say so. What his Lordship does is entirely his own affair. I merely carry out his instructions.’
It was obvious Holmes had touched a sore point and had annoyed him.
‘If there are no more questions, Mr Holmes, I will be gone. I have matters to attend to.’
‘Just one more question,’ said Holmes. ‘The names of the workers who helped his Lordship lay out the traps, wires and guns.’
Wilson produced a list from his pocket. ‘I thought you might want to know that, so I made a note of them for you. There are eight all told. The first on the list is Brown; been with the family as a gardener since leaving school.
‘The next is old blind Jim Roberts. An old army man. Rather tragic how he lost his sight; was captured on the Indian northwest frontier by tribesmen. They staked him out in the hot sun for three days. When they found him, he was in a bad way, they say; but he recovered, all except his sight. His Lordship’s father gave him his present job when he was invalided out of the army.
‘Then there is the third on the list. Parsons, a gamekeeper, obviously handy with things like shotguns, traps and trip-wires. He’s a very practical man. His Lordship took him off his normal duties to help. Then there is Smith, a coachman, again handy with his hands, so his Lordship took him too.’
We listened patiently whilst the other four names were listed. All were old and trusted workers.
Holmes bade the estate manager good morning and we continued our walk.
‘Well, we appear to have ruffled the feathers of our good Mr Wilson. Obviously he considered the use of so many of his men taken off their duties to set traps, trip-wires and guns as so much waste of time and money, but was too loyal to admit it.’
‘And the others?’ I said.
‘All good solid respectable workers, I imagine; most of them, as you heard, had been with the family for years. I rather fancy some unknown person we have yet to hear of, one of his Lordship’s cronies, a fellow officer from his Indian days, may be at the bottom of it.’ He stepped around a muddy part of the pathway. ‘You know, someone who was willing to risk life and limb to pit his wits against his Lordship.’ I agreed it was a possibility.
‘I think I shall have a word with the butler, see if he can supply a few names for us to investigate. It might be a short-cut to solving the case, rather than trying to work out how the thief overcame the formidable barrier of security.’
We watched the geese feeding on the grass outside their night quarters for a while, then Holmes went in search of the butler, whilst I walked down to the lake to try a spot of fishing with a rod and line lent me by his Lordship.
I caught a couple of good perch and then returned to the Hall for lunch. Over the meal, Holmes remarked that he understood that, this Saturday, the village show was to be held.
His Lordship swallowed the food in his mouth, and replied.
‘Yes, it’s a great event. The workers on the estate and everyone in the village look forward to it. There are prizes for best jams, best vegetables, best rabbits, you know the sort of thing; and, of course, events.’
Holmes said, ‘And feats of skill and daring, I hear.’
His Lordship poised his fork midway. ‘If you refer to the prize I give to the village lad who can get furthest into my trophy house fortifications, then you’re right.’
I gasped and before really thinking, said, ‘But surely that is highly dangerous, sir. I mean, one of those boys could set off a trap or a shotgun.’
His Lordship laughed. ‘No, no, Dr Watson. The traps are all sprung so they cannot hurt anyone, and the guns are disarmed; no shot in them. The boys are blindfolded and they have to try and get as near the trophy house as possible, without tripping over a wire or tinkling a bell.’
Holmes asked, ‘And have any managed to get all the way to the trophy house wall yet?’
‘Bless you, no. The best was a lad who got halfway, so it is proof of the effectiveness of my defences.’
‘Not quite... otherwise we would not be here,’ replied Holmes.
‘Quite right, Mr Holmes, quite right.’ The viscount looked a little abashed.
Holmes continued, ‘And after the show, all the man-traps are reset and the guns loaded again?’ His Lordship agreed.
‘Yes, and don’t forget the geese. At night, young Sanders, the stable lad, herds them all into the inner compound to sleep. No one can get by them without waking them up...’ He looked rather foolishly at Holmes, realising the fallacy of his boast, yet again.
When we were by ourselves after dinner, enjoying the use of his Lordship’s library, I asked Holmes if he had gathered any useful information from the butler.
‘Much, much, Watson. But it will take time to follow it up; for that we shall need to return to London, for it is there most of his Lordship’s friends reside, but not all. One or two live close by, very close by indeed. They visit him, I understand, mostly at weekends. They swap stories and anecdotes about their old life out in India. I should imagine about the polo matches and sports events they took part in, that sort of thing. Young army officers the world over get up to some rare pranks, as you no doubt did yourself, Watson.’ I had to agree, thinking about some I had taken part in.
‘So you think it likely that it could be one of them behind it all?’ Holmes did not reply, but got up from his chair and went over to the window, which had a view of the trophy house in the distance. The geese were now penned-up in the outer perimeter, the inner containing all the traps, wires and guns, of course.
Holmes turned around, sat down, filled his pipe and puffed away, blue smoke drifting in clouds about him. At last he spoke.
‘You know, Watson, the thing that worries me most about this case is the geese. They are creatures of a mo
st sensitive nature. The slightest unfamiliar sound, as you are aware, will set them off honking in a most unholy manner.’
‘Could they have been drugged?’ I ventured to suggest. ‘The old poacher’s trick, you know, of putting down raisins soaked in brandy to catch pheasants. The pheasants eat up the raisins, go up into the tree to roost and later drop down to the ground, drunk with the brandy, ready for the poachers to quietly gather up during the night.’
‘No, Watson, I’m afraid not. I thought of that, but the young lad Sanders, who has the job of both penning and releasing them at sunrise each morning into the park, informed me that on no occasion have the geese appeared doped or drunk. They have all been alert and ready to be let out. If an attempt at doping them had taken place, some of the geese would have been bound to have eaten more of the doped raisins than others, appearing still drowsy the following morning.’
Holmes settled down for a catnap, while I looked along the library shelves for something to read.
‘You don’t think it is Wilson, the estate manager, do you Holmes?’
I was rather surprised myself at my sudden speaking out aloud my thoughts. He opened his eyes and looked at me for a few moments before replying.
‘I, too, have considered him as a possible candidate. Consider this, Watson. He is in a very difficult position, trying to please his employer, and yet at the same time, being the whipping boy for everything that goes wrong and needs attention on the estate. He sees what requires to be done, but is denied the authority to do anything about it, so busy is he with carrying out the whims and wishes of his Lordship. Did you notice how he stared at the deer grazing the grass when we spoke to him?’
‘Yes, I thought he viewed them with irritation almost. I didn’t feel he was too happy about them.’
‘You are right. I learned from the man who is in charge of the estate sawmill, that the introduction of deer onto the estate is another of his Lordship’s innovations. The sawyer has had to provide from the estate timber miles of fencing to keep the deer contained to that part of the estate, from where best they can be viewed from the Hall.’
Sherlock Holmes and the Chinese Junk Affair and Other Stories Page 13
