The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters

by Michael Kurland

  I pulled my topcoat on. “Show me,” I said.

  The drizzle was steady and cold, the ground was soggy, and by the time we arrived at the house the body had been removed; all of which reduced the number of curious visitors to two reporters who, having stomped about the cottage but failing to gain admittance to the main house, were huddled in a gig pulled up to the front door waiting for someone to emerge who could be coaxed into a statement.

  The main house and the cottage both fronted Barleymore Road, but as the road curved around a stand of trees between the two, the path through the property was considerably shorter. It was perhaps thirty yards from the house to the cottage by the path, and perhaps a little more than twice that by the road. I did measure the distance at the time, but I do not recollect the precise numbers.

  We went around to the back of the house and knocked at the pantry door. After a few seconds scrutiny through a side window, we were admitted by the maid.

  “It’s you, Mr Holmes,” she said, stepping aside to let us in. “Ain’t it horrible? I’ve been waiting by the back door here for the man with the bunting, whose supposed to arrive shortly.”

  “Bunting?”

  “That’s right. The black bunting which we is to hang in the windows, as is only proper, considering. Ain’t it horrible? We should leave the doors and windows open, in respect of the dead, only the mistress’s body has been taken away, and the master has been taken away, and it’s raining, and those newspaper people will come in and pester Miss Lucy if the door is open. And then there’s the murderer just awaiting out there somewhere, and who knows what’s on his mind.”

  “So you don’t think Professor Maples killed his wife?” I asked.

  The maid looked at me, and then at Holmes, and then back at me. “This is Mr Moriarty, Willa,” Holmes told her. “He’s my friend, and a lecturer in Mathematics at the college.”

  “Ah,” she said, “It’s a pleasure, sir.” And she bobbed a rudimentary curtsey in my direction. “No, sir, I don’t think the professor killed the Missus. Why would he do that?”

  “Why, indeed,” I said.

  “Miss Lucy is in the drawing room,” Willa told Holmes. “I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  “I see you’re well known here,” I said to Holmes as the maid left.

  “I have had the privilege of escorting Miss Lucy to this or that over the past few months,” Holmes replied a little stiffly, as though I were accusing him of something dishonourable. “Our relationship has been very proper at all times.”

  I repressed a desire to say “how unfortunate,” as I thought he would take it badly.

  Lucinda came out to the hall to meet us. She seemed quite subdued, but her eyes were bright and her complexion was feverish. “How good—how nice to see you, Sherlock,” she said quietly, offering him her hand. “And you’re Mr Moriarty, Sherlock’s friend.”

  Holmes and I both mumbled something comforting.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t see you when you arrived earlier, Sherlock,” Lucy told him, leading us into the sitting room and waving us to a pair of well-stuffed chairs. “I was not in a fit condition to see anyone.”

  “I quite understand,” Holmes said.

  “I am pleased that you have come to the defence of my—of Professor Maples,” Lucy said, lowering herself into a straight-back chair opposite Holmes. “How anyone could suspect him of murdering my dear sister Andrea is quite beyond my comprehension.”

  “I have reason to believe that he is, indeed, innocent, Lucy dear,” Holmes told her. “I am about to take my friend Mr Moriarty over the grounds to show him what I have found, and to see whether he agrees with my conclusions.”

  “And your conclusions,” Lucy asked, “what are they? Who do you believe committed this dreadful crime?”

  “You have no idea?” I asked.

  Lucinda recoiled as though I had struck her. “How could I?” she asked.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” I said. “Did your sister have any enemies?”

  “Certainly not,” Lucy said. “She was outgoing, and warm, and friendly, and loved by all.”

  “Andrea went to the cottage to meet someone,” Holmes said. “Do you have any idea who it was?”

  “None,” Lucy said. “I find this whole thing quite shocking.” She lowered her head into her hands. “Quite shocking.”

  After a moment Lucy raised her head. “I have prepared a small travelling-bag of Professor Maples’s things. A change of linen, a shirt, a couple of collars, some handkerchiefs, his shaving-cup and razor.”

  “I don’t imagine they’ll let him have his razor,” Holmes commented.

  “Oh!” Lucy said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I may be wrong,” Holmes said. “I will enquire.”

  “Could I ask you to bring the bag to him?” Lucy rose. “I have it right upstairs.”

  We followed her upstairs to the master bedroom to collect the bag. The room was an image of masculine disorder, with Professor Maples’s bed—they for some reason had separate beds, with a night-table between—rumpled and the bed clothes strewn about. Clothing was hung over various articles of furniture, and bureau drawers were pulled open. Maples had dressed hastily, presumably, under police supervision, before being hauled off to the police station. Andrea’s bed was neat and tight, and it was evident that she had not slept in it the night before.

  I decided to take a quick look in the other five rooms leading off the hall. I thought I would give Holmes and Miss Lucy their moment of privacy if they desired to use it.

  One of the rooms, fairly large and with a canopied bed, was obviously Lucy’s. It was feminine without being overly frilly, and extremely, almost fussily, neat. There were two wardrobes in the room, across from each other, each with a collection of shoes on the bottom and a variety of female garments above.

  I closed Lucy’s door and knocked on the door across the hall. Getting no answer, I pushed the door open. It was one of the two rooms rented by the boarder, Crisboy, furnished as a sitting-room, and I could see the door to the bedroom to the left. The young athletic instructor was sitting at his writing desk, his shoulders stooped, and his face buried in his arms on the desk. “Crisboy?” I said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know you were here.” Which seemed a poor excuse for bursting in on a man, but my curiosity was probably inexcusable if it came to that.

  He sat up and turned around. “No matter,” he said, using a small towel he was holding to wipe his face, which was red and puffy from crying. “Is there any news?” he asked me.

  “Not that I am aware of,” I said.

  “A heck of a thing,” he said. “That police person thinks that John—Professor Maples—killed Andrea. How could he think that? Professor Maples couldn’t hurt anyone. Insult them, yes. Criticize them, yes. Pierce them with barbs of—of—irony, yes. But hit anyone with a stick? Never!”

  I backed out of Crisboy’s sitting-room with some murmured comment and closed the door. The hall door to the left was now identified as Crisboy’s bedroom. The door to the right turned out to be Andrea’s dressing room, with a small couch, a bureau, a dressing-table, and a connecting door to the master bedroom. The remaining door led to the lavatory.

  Holmes emerged from the master bedroom with the travelling-bag thrust under his arm, shook hands with Lucy, and followed me down the stairs and out the back door.

  “Here, this way,” Holmes said, taking me around to the side of the house. “There are markings on the path that, I believe, give some insight into what happened here. I have covered them over with some planks I found by the side of the house, to prevent them being washed away or tramped over.”

  “Clever,” I said.

  “Elementary,” he replied.

  Holmes had placed four pieces of planking on the path between the house and the cottage. We paused at the one nearest the house. “The police theory—the theory of Sergeant Meeks—is that Andrea Maples left the house to have an assignation at the cottage with an unknown suit
or—if a man who trysts with a married woman may be called a suitor. They are trying to determine whom he is. Professor Maples, awakening sometime during the night and finding his wife absent, went to the cottage, caught her as the suitor was leaving, or just after he left, realized what had happened by the state of her clothes, if not by other, ah, indications, and, in an uncontrollable rage, beat her to death with his walking-stick.”

  I nodded. “That’s about the way it was told to me.”

  “That story is contravened by the evidence,” Holmes declared carefully lifting the plank. “Observe the footsteps.”

  The plank covered a partial line of footsteps headed from the house to the cottage, and at least one footstep headed back to the house. The imprint in all cases was that of a woman’s shoe.

  “Note this indentation,” Holmes said, pointing out a round hole about three-quarters of an inch across and perhaps an inch deep that was slightly forward and to the right of an out-bound shoe imprint.

  He sprinted over to the next plank and moved it, and then the next. “Look here,” he called. “And here, and here. The same pattern.”

  “Yes,” I said, “I see.” I bent down and examined several of the footsteps closely, marking off the measurement from toe to heel and across the width of the imprint in my pocket notebook, and doing a rough sketch of what I saw, shielding the notebook as best I could from the slight drizzle.

  “Notice that none of the footsteps in either direction were left by a man,” Holmes said.

  “Yes,” I said, “I can see that.” There were three sets of footsteps, two leading from the house to the cottage, and one returning.

  “It proves that Professor Maples did not kill his wife,” Holmes asserted.

  “It certainly weakens the case against him,” I admitted.

  “Come now,” Holmes said. “Surely you see that the entire case is predicated on the syllogism that, as Maples is never without his walking stick, and as his walking stick was used to kill Andrea Maples, then Maples must have murdered his wife.”

  “So it would seem,” I agreed.

  “A curious stick,” Holmes told me. “I had occasion to examine it once. Did you know that it is actually a sword-cane?”

  “I did not know that,” I said.

  “I believe that it will prove an important fact in the case,” Holmes told me.

  “I assume that your conclusion is that Professor Maples was without his walking stick last night.”

  “That’s right. Andrea Maples took it to the cottage herself. The indentations by her footsteps show that.”

  “What is it that you think happened?” I asked Holmes.

  “As you’ve noted, there are three sets of footsteps,” Holmes said. “Two going from the house to the cottage, and one returning to the house. As you can see, they are the footprints of a woman, and, carefully as I looked, I could find no indication of any footprints made by a man. One of the sets going seems to be slightly different in the indentation of the heel than the other sets. The returning set seems to be made up of footsteps that are further apart, and leave a deeper imprint than the others. I would say from examining them that Andrea Maples went to the cottage to meet someone. Before he arrived, she decided to arm herself and so she rushed back to the house and changed shoes—perhaps the first pair had been soaked by her stepping in a puddle—and then took her husband’s walking stick—which she knew to be actually a sword cane—and returned to the cottage.”

  “And the person she was planning to meet?”

  “He must have come by the road, as there are no markings on the path. But Professor Maples would surely have come by the path.”

  “So she thought herself to be in some danger?”

  “So I would read it.”

  “So you would have it that it was not a romantic tryst?”

  “Perhaps it had been,” Holmes suggested. “Perhaps she had decided to break off an affair with some person, and she knew him to have a violent nature. In the event it seems that she was correct.”

  We had reached the cottage and, finding the back door unlocked, entered the small back pantry leading to the kitchen. Holmes dropped the travelling-bag by the door and lay his topcoat and hat over a kitchen chair, and I followed suit.

  “That would explain why she failed to wake up her husband and returned to the cottage by herself, although she believed herself in some danger,” I said. “It neatly ties up most of the known facts. But I’m afraid that you won’t be able to convince the police that you’re right.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s the fact of the disarray of Andrea Maples’s clothing. As I understand it, she was in her undergarments, and seems to have been dressing. It indicates that the meeting with her mysterious friend was, ah, friendly.”

  “Perhaps he forced himself on her.”

  “Perhaps. But then one would expect her clothing to be not merely loosened or removed, but stretched or torn. I did not hear that this was so. Did you have an opportunity to examine the woman’s clothing?”

  “Yes, I paid particular attention to the state of her clothing. She was wearing a petticoat and an over-something—another frilly white garment covering the upper part of her body. I am not very expert in the names of women’s garments.”

  “Nor am I,” I said. “I assume the remainder of her clothing was somewhere about?”

  “It was in the bedroom.”

  We entered the parlour. The shades were drawn, keeping out even the weak light from the overcast sky. Holmes struck a match and lit an oil-lamp which was sitting on a nearby table. The flickering light cast grotesque shadows about the room, creating a nebulous sense of oppression and doom. Or perhaps it was just the knowledge of what had recently transpired here that gave the room its evil character.

  “There,” Holmes said, pointing to a large irregularly shaped bloodstain on the floor by the front door. “There is where she lay. She came from the bedroom, as the rest of her clothing was there, and was attacked in the parlour.”

  “Curious,” I said.

  “Really?” Holmes replied. “How so?”

  The question was not destined to be answered, at least not then. At that moment the front door banged open and a police sergeant of immense girth, a round, red face, and a majestic handlebar moustache stomped down the hall and into the room. “Here now,” he boomed. “What are you gentlemen doing in here, if I might ask?”

  “Sergeant Meeks,” Holmes said. “You’ve returned to the scene of the crime. Perhaps you are going to take my suggestion after all.”

  Meeks looked at Holmes with an air of benevolent curiosity. “And what suggestion might that be, young man?”

  “I mentioned to you that it might be a good idea to post a constable here to keep the curiosity-seekers from wandering about. It was when you were escorting Professor Maples into the carriage to take him away.”

  “Why so it was, Mr, ah,—”

  “Holmes. And this is Mr Moriarty.”

  Meeks gave me a perfunctory nod, and turned his attention back to Holmes. “Yes, Mr Holmes. So it was, and so you did. We of the regular constabulary are always grateful for any hints or suggestions as we might get from young gentlemen such as yourself. You also said something about preserving the foot-marks along the lane out back, as I remember.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well I went to look at them foot-marks of yours, Mr Holmes, lifting up a couple of them boards you put down and peering under. They was just what you said they was—foot-marks; and I thanks you kindly.”

  “From your attitude I can see that you don’t attach much importance to the imprints,” Holmes commented, not allowing himself to be annoyed by the sergeant’s words or his sneering tone.

  “We always try to plot a straight and true course when we’re investigating a case,” the sergeant explained. “There are always facts and circumstances around that don’t seem to fit in. And that’s because, if you’ll excuse my saying so, they have nothing to do with t
he case.”

  “But perhaps there are times when some of these facts that you ignore actually present a clearer explanation of what really happened,” Holmes suggested. “For example, Sergeant, I’m sure you noticed that the footsteps were all made by a woman. Not a single imprint of a man’s foot on that path.”

  “If you say so, Mr Holmes. I can’t say that I examined them all that closely.”

  Holmes nodded. “If what I say is true,” he said, “doesn’t that suggest anything to you?”

  Sergeant Meeks sighed a patient sigh. “It would indicate that the accused did not walk on the path. Perhaps he went by the road. Perhaps he flew. It don’t really matter how he got to the cottage, it only matters what he did after he arrived.”

  “Did you notice the imprint of the walking stick next to the woman’s footsteps?” Holmes asked. “Does that tell you nothing?”

  “Nothing,” the sergeant agreed. “She may have had another walking stick, or perhaps the branch from a tree.”

  Holmes shrugged. “I give up,” he said.

  “You’d be better off leaving the detecting to the professionals, young man,” Meeks said. “We’ve done some investigating on our own already, don’t think we haven’t. And what we’ve heard pretty well wraps up the case against Professor Maples. I’m sorry, but there you have it.”

  “What have you heard?” Holmes demanded.

  “Never you mind. That will all come out at the inquest, and that’s soon enough. Now you’d best be getting out of here, the pair of you. I am taking your advice to the extent of locking the cottage up and having that broken window boarded over. We don’t want curiosity seekers walking away with the furniture.”

  We retrieved our hats and coats and the bag with Professor Maples’ fresh clothing and left the cottage. The rain had stopped, but dusk was approaching and a cold wind gusted through the trees. Holmes and I walked silently back to the college, each immersed in our own thoughts: Holmes presumably wondering what new facts had come to light, and trying to decide how to get his information before the authorities; I musing on the morality of revealing to Holmes, or to others, what I had discerned, and from that what I had surmised, or letting matters proceed without my intervention.