“I cannot pretend to be an expert in such matters, but I suppose she would have walked into the water until she was out of her depth, swallowed water and thus drowned.”
“And then?”
“I am not sure what you mean. Presumably her body would have remained floating in the water until it was discovered.”
“If we accept this hypothesis for a moment,” said Holmes, “where, then, must the girl have entered the water?”
“There are only two places, realistically speaking,” I returned. “Most of the circumference of the pool is thickly overgrown with brambles, briars, nettles and so on, and can thus be discounted. The two possible places are the flat, open area on the south bank, where we sat on the fallen tree, and the narrow strip by the brambles on the north bank, which we have spoken of already. Of the two, the former is by far the more likely. If the girl did not go round to the north bank in order to pick blackberries, or to retrieve that piece of paper, then there was no reason for her to go round there at all. It would be much easier, as well as more direct, for her to enter the water from the south bank.”
“Very good. And do you recall the position of the body when found, according to the testimony of Mr Yarrow?”
“He said that it was a couple of feet from the bank on the north side, a little higher up the pool than the spot where one could pick blackberries.”
“Did you observe the current in the pool?”
“I did. I observed your experiments with the sticks this morning. It runs, of course, from west to east, the direction of the stream that feeds and drains the pool.”
“How do you suggest, then, that the body of Sarah Dickens was found on the other side of the pool, and upstream of the spot from where she must have entered the water?”
I considered the matter for a moment. The point had not, I confess, occurred to me before.
“Perhaps,” I suggested at length, “the girl had waded up the pool a little way before she drowned.”
“You say you observed my experiments with the sticks. Do you recall then, the fate of those sticks, large and small, which I threw into the centre of the pool?”
“Not specifically.”
“Then I shall remind you. The current is much stronger and swifter in the centre of the pool, as one would expect, and anything floating there is swiftly borne to the extreme east end of the pool, where the stream leaves it.”
“But if her hair had become entangled in the overhanging brambles?”
“It could only have become so entangled if her body had been carried by the current into that side of the pool. My experiments this morning established beyond doubt that the current in the pool has no tendency to do that.”
“Then she must, after all, have entered the water from the far side.”
“But the brambles there would have prevented her getting any higher up the pool unless she waded further out into the centre, and the current in the centre would then have carried her away from the bank, not towards it.”
“Then it is impossible!” said I.
“Thank you,” said Holmes in a magisterial tone. “This inquest has therefore determined that it is practically impossible that the girl’s death was a mere mischance. It has also determined that it is practically impossible that the girl took her own life. What, then, is your final verdict?”
“I do not know,” I responded with some hesitation. “Your analysis seems to make everything impossible!”
“Not quite everything,” said he. “I refer you once more to the axiom that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. I believe you see the truth, Watson, but are reluctant to voice it.”
“I can still scarcely believe what you are suggesting,” said I.
“It is not a question of what I am suggesting,” returned my companion, “but of the verdict of this little inquest of ours. We have established beyond all reasonable doubt that the girl’s death was due neither to suicide nor to accident. What then remains?”
“Murder,” said I at last.
“Precisely, Watson. The verdict of the original inquest was ‘accidental death’; the opinion of many in the parish is clearly that the girl’s death was suicide; but they are all wrong. Sarah Dickens was murdered. She did not take her own life for love of Captain Reid, nor for love of anyone else, she did not accidentally lose her life while in a distracted state from love of Captain Reid or of anyone else; her life was cruelly taken from her in the most deliberate and cold-blooded manner. While all these people have been busying themselves in ostracizing poor Reid – who is, of course, perfectly innocent of all that he is charged with – the murderer of Sarah Dickens has been walking free, without a shadow of suspicion upon his name!”
“It is a terrible thought,” said I, “and one that almost defies belief! Can it really be so? Can your theory really explain satisfactorily all the difficulties you have raised with regard to the other views of the matter?”
“Certainly it can,” returned my friend in an assured tone. He refilled his pipe and put a match to it. “But you are right to ask the question, Watson. We shall make a detective of you yet, my dear fellow! One must, of course, always subject all theories to equally stringent analysis!”
“Well, then,” I continued, “what of the bruise to the side of the girl’s head, and the position of the body in the water, upstream of any place where she could have entered the pool?”
“Sarah Dickens was struck on the side of the head by the murderer,” responded Holmes, “probably with a heavy stick, as there are no loose stones in the vicinity of the Willow Pool. The blow would have rendered her unconscious. The murderer must then have held her head under the water until she drowned, then propelled her lifeless body across the pool with some force, so that it reached the other side, a little way up the pool, where her hair became entangled in the brambles.”
“Why should he push her body across the pool?”
“To delay its discovery. The footpath runs along the south bank of the pool, and an unobservant passer-by might well miss the body if it lay among the overhanging brambles by the north bank. So the murderer probably judged, anyway. He would wish to ensure that he was far from the scene before the body was discovered.”
“But who, then, can the murderer be?” I asked after a moment. “What a great misfortune it is that so much time has passed since Sarah Dickens’s death! There cannot possibly be any clue remaining now, after three years, which might guide us to her murderer!”
“On the contrary,” returned my friend. “There are a number of indications. However,” he continued, with a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece, “it is getting late, and as I must make an early start in the morning, I do not propose to stay up much longer. What I suggest,” he continued, giving a pull on the bell-rope, which hung beside the fireplace, “is that we order a hot toddy and smoke a last pipe together, and then I really must turn in.”
V: OAKBROOK HALL
I took my breakfast alone the following morning, for Sherlock Holmes had risen early and gone out before I was awake. He had been in a great hurry, so Mr Coleman informed me, and had declined the offer of breakfast.
“I understand you are leaving today, sir,” the landlord added after a moment in a slightly hesitant tone.
“I cannot be certain yet as to our plans,” I returned. “Did Mr Holmes inform you that we were leaving?”
The landlord shook his head. “No, sir. Admiral Blythe-Headley.”
“I see. Well, he may be right, but I cannot yet say for certain.”
“Admiral Blythe-Headley seemed very certain on the point,” muttered Coleman to himself with a shake of the head as he left the room.
The morning passed very slowly. I understood the account of the case that Holmes had given me the previous evening, but the account had not been complete and I did not know what it was that he intended to do that day. I thus had no idea how long it might be until he returned. In vain I attempted to d
istract myself with one of the vicar’s pamphlets on the prehistoric pathways of the South Downs, but the subject matter merely recalled to me the observations my friend had made on the subject of footpaths, at the Willow Pool, and brought my mind back once more to the strange business that had brought us down to this rural corner of England. I was aware from remarks Holmes had made that he had tasks to perform that morning which he regarded as very important, and it was thus extremely frustrating for me to be sitting idly in the White Hart all morning, with no idea of how his plans were proceeding. Eventually, impatient to be doing something, whatever it was, I took my hat and stick and set off to walk the length of the high street, up to the churchyard.
It was another balmy autumn day, and the street was bathed in sunlight, but there were few people about and the village seemed very quiet. As I passed the hardware shop, I paused to examine the quite amazing variety of merchandise which was displayed in piles and stacks on the pavement outside. The door of the shop stood open, and I had lingered there a moment, when all at once, to my very great surprise, I heard the voice of Sherlock Holmes from within. I could not catch what he was saying, but his clear, slightly strident tone was unmistakable. I glanced in through the doorway, but could see no one there. Evidently, Holmes was in some back room, but what he was doing there, I could not imagine. Puzzled, I continued my walk.
In the churchyard, I rambled for some time among the gravestones, until at length, in the remotest corner, I found myself by chance before the gravestone of Sarah Dickens. For a long while I stared at it, reading over and over the inscription it bore, as I fell into a brown study. Here rested the mortal remains of a young girl who had supposedly met her death as the result of a tragic accident. Many people no doubt believed that to be the case. But it was evident that many others were equally convinced that she had deliberately taken her own life. Holmes alone dissented from both these opinions. In his view, the girl had been murdered. As I stood there in silent contemplation in that quiet country churchyard, the dappled sunlight playing upon the old stones, this struck me afresh as so shocking and horrible that I was once more assailed with doubt. Surely, it was too strange and terrible to be believed? Was it really possible that my friend, clever and perceptive though I knew him to be, could be right in this matter and everyone else entirely wrong? In a state of some doubt and puzzlement, I retraced my steps down the road to the White Hart.
As I approached the wide front door of the inn, a dog cart drew up in front of it. Two men were on the box, one of whom immediately sprang down with an appearance of great haste. I recognized him at once as Captain Reid. The other man I had not seen before. He was tall and lithe, with a sallow complexion and a thin moustache. I quickened my pace, followed Reid in through the inn door and caught him up in the hall, where we shook hands. I explained that Holmes had been absent all morning, but might have returned, and led him upstairs to the residents’ sitting room. There, in a chair beside the fireplace, Holmes was sitting smoking his pipe, the blue smoke curling in lazy spirals above his head. He appeared deep in thought as we entered, but sprang to his feet in a moment.
“Captain Reid!” said he, shaking his client by the hand. “I am glad you have been able to return so promptly. I have much news to impart. And Watson! I was wondering where you had got to, old fellow!”
“Ranworth and I came as quickly as we could,” responded Reid. “We caught the very first train from Rye this morning, but the connections were a little difficult. I am keen to hear your news, Mr Holmes, for I understand from your wire that you have discovered something that sheds light on the troubles I have had.”
Much to my surprise, Holmes shook his head. “No,” said he, “I have not discovered something, Captain Reid; I have discovered everything. I am now in a position to offer an explanation of every little incident that has puzzled you and caused you distress, from the broken window at Oakbrook Hall shortly before you left for India, to the white feather you received last week.”
“I am amazed and thrilled to hear it,” returned Reid. “But there is one thing, at least, that you cannot know.”
“What is that, pray?”
“That another window has been broken at Oakbrook, in mysterious circumstances.”
“What!” cried Holmes in surprise. “When did this occur?”
“Last night, apparently. Ranworth and I went straight to Oakbrook from the railway station this morning, and have just come from there now. The window that was broken is in a small dressing room that adjoins my bedroom. It must have occurred very late in the night, for no one heard it. Northcote was up late, working in the upstairs study, but that is at the other side of the house, and he says he heard nothing. The sound would have been slight in any case, for the panes of glass in that window are small ones, and whoever was responsible had smeared treacle on the glass and covered it with scraps of cloth, to muffle the noise and hold the pane together when it broke.”
Holmes’s keen, hawk-like features assumed a look of the most intense concentration, and it was clear that this news had surprised him. Then, with a groan, he slapped his hand to his forehead. “Of course!” cried he. “What a fool I have been! I should have expected such a development. An intruder has been in your dressing room, Captain Reid.”
“That is evident,” returned the other. “My travelling-trunk, which was in there, has been rifled.”
“Is there any evidence of how the intruder might have gained access to the window? Is there a ladder anywhere about?”
Reid shook his head. “That would not have been necessary. Just below the window is the low roof of a pantry, from which it is very easy to climb through the window. I have climbed in there myself many times, as a boy.”
“I see. Has anything been taken?”
“A small leather satchel containing my most private papers – diaries I kept while on active service, letters, copies of official dispatches and a few pencil sketches I made of the terrain around Candahar.”
Holmes nodded. “When was the theft discovered?”
“Not until Ranworth and I reached Oakbrook a short while ago. I was attempting to speak to my father – with no great success, I am afraid – and Ranworth had gone up to my bedroom to look for a book of his, which I had borrowed from him the last time he was here and had left in my room. The door to the dressing room was open, and he at once observed the broken glass on the floor and the rifled trunk. The break-in could not have occurred earlier than last night, incidentally, for the maid was in my room yesterday, dusting the furniture, and she says she saw nothing amiss then. Do you believe this incident has any connection with any of the other matters that have occurred, Mr Holmes?”
“Indeed it has, Captain Reid. It follows with iron logic from all that has gone before,” returned Holmes. “Where is Captain Ranworth now?”
“He is waiting for me in the trap, outside.”
“Very good. We shall not keep him long. Now, if you will be seated here, I shall give you a sketch of what I have been able to discover – I shall provide a more detailed account later this afternoon – and then I shall explain to you a specific task, which I should like you to perform later this afternoon. First, however, there is a small point I wish to clear up. Do you recall losing a cufflink, some time during the summer of ’78?”
“Why, yes, I do,” returned Reid. “Of course, it seems such a long time ago now. I remember wondering if Major French or Captain Ranworth, who were staying here then, had taken it by mistake, as they both had similar cufflinks, but they said they had not. In the end I decided I must have dropped it in the orchard somewhere. We were helping with the apple-picking at the time, and I had rolled my shirt sleeves up and slipped the cufflinks into my waistcoat pocket. I suppose it must have fallen out as I was bending down. How on earth did you hear about it, Mr Holmes? Don’t tell me the cufflink has turned up!”
“Indeed it has,” returned Holmes, “although not, I’d wager, in a place you would expect. But, all things in order. You will a
ppreciate the significance of the cufflink when I describe to you all that has happened here since you left these shores.”
At twenty to three that afternoon, Sherlock Holmes and I took the trap from the White Hart to keep our appointment with Colonel Reid at Oakbrook Hall. At the top of the high street, as we passed the long curving wall of the churchyard, I saw Noah Blogg, our curious acquaintance from the Willow Pool, in the company of a squat, grey-bearded elderly man. They were just turning in at the gate of the vicarage, and I lost sight of them as we passed on at a clatter. About halfway to Oakbrook Hall we passed a rustic-looking figure striding out along the road, and I recognized John Dickens, brother of the dead girl. Holmes, meanwhile, spoke not a word during the journey, and I could see from the tense, strained expression upon his features that he was in a state of heightened expectancy.
Shortly before three o’clock we arrived before the front door of Oakbrook Hall. It was a broad, symmetrical building, built of red brick. Standing before it and dominating the approach to the house was a very tall and spreading cedar, beneath the curving branches of which our trap halted.
We were shown into a large square room to the right of the front door. From the bureaux it contained, and the shelves of books that lined the walls, I took it to be the study of which Captain Reid had spoken. Almost in the very centre of the room stood a broad desk, and upon this, on a heavy wooden stand, rested a very large globe. On one wall, flanked on either hand by bookshelves, was a pair of French windows, through which I could see the neat and attractive garden at the side of the house. After a few moments, we heard footsteps approaching, and a tall young man strode briskly into the room. He had sallow skin, and dark hair and moustache, and I recognized him as the man I had seen in the trap outside the White Hart earlier in the day. He introduced himself as Captain Ranworth.
“The others will be along in a minute,” said he. “While we are waiting, I’ll show you the pantry roof, from which someone must have climbed into Reid’s room last night.”
The Mammoth Book of the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes Page 41
