“The path to her grandmother’s house wound through Whittlestick Woods and in particular past a clearing full of wildflowers. Rose carried the food in a woven basket. She decided to pick a bouquet of flowers for her grandmother when she came to the clearing. That delayed her about fifteen minutes. When she got to the cottage, she knocked on the door and walked in.
“She said she saw her grandmother stretched out motionless on her bed, her head and the bed sheets all bloody. Rose screamed and fainted, dropping the basket and the flowers. When she regained her senses, she was lying on the flagstone walk before her grandmother’s front door. Kneeling next to her was a strange man who was loosening her bodice. She screamed again and two foresters appeared. They restrained the man, one Peter Woodman, who protested that he was only trying to help Rose. One of the men searched the house, found Mrs. Gradmutter’s body, and went for help. More men showed up and another gruesome discovery was made at the back door. A man named Fenris Grey was found on the porch with Woodman’s axe buried in his chest. The forester was arrested and is now in a cell at the Lakeworthgaol.”
“How horrible!” I exclaimed.
“What does Woodman say?” asked Holmes matter-of-factly.
“He claimed that when he went to work that morning in the forest he found his axe was missing. He said he spent several hours searching for it and saw Rose entering Mrs. Gradmutter”s cottage. Then he heard a scream. He went in and found her insensible on the floor. He carried her out at once and was loosening her clothes to help give her air. He said he knew nothing about the murders. He had no idea why his axe was used. Apparently he was a former employee of Mr. Gradmutter’s and after the old man died he claimed the estate owed him money for work done. He couldn’t produce proof and the case was dismissed. He left the area after that and only returned about a year ago. He got a job cutting trees for another local firm. They’ve had no complaints about him. That’s the problem. I’ve known him since he returned and he’s a mild-tempered, hard-working man in his mid-forties. Frankly, Mr. Holmes, he seems to be the last man in this county I would expect to suddenly rise up to do murder.”
“Tell me about the other victim, Fenris Grey,” Holmes said.
By this time Sarpent was consulting his official notebook. “Fenris and Lovatt Grey were summer residents, having taken rooms at the “Dragon’s Flagon” about two weeks ago. They’re down from London. They’re both in their late twenties. Being brothers, they were similar in appearance, tall, with brown hair worn rather long, brown eyes and slender frames. Fenris wore steel pince-nez. They appeared to be pleasant, affable men, much addicted to long walks and bird-watching. This area is known for its varieties of bird life. They both joined in the village activities, according to the vicar, subscribing to the church roof, attending the Saturday afternoon concert and such like.”
“Has there been any connection found between them and the grandmother?”
“None.”
“Where are the bodies now?”
“They were taken to the local hospital. I’ve had them held there until you saw them. The local police surgeon says the cause of death is obvious, but I thought you might be able to get something more with your own examination.”
“Quite so. This must be Stone Cottage.”
Our hackney had passed through the village long ago and had been following a winding gravel road through the forest. We traveled past beech and oak old-growth trees, with an occasional clearing planted with neat rows of young saplings. Now we pulled up in front of a charming old home, its yellow stone walls hung with patches of green ivy and topped with a neatly thatched roof of brown water reeds. Sunlight filtered through the surrounding trees and sent patches of dappled shadow over the clearing where the cottage was situated. The trees were full of singing birds and the country air was sweet. A quaint round fieldstone well stood at the right side of the building and a curving path of irregularly shaped flat stones led up to the low porch with its carved wooden front door. Green-painted flower boxes were set before every window and the gay yellow and red flowers in them gave no hint of the horror that had happened within just the day before.
A stolid constable stood mutely by the unlocked front door. At Sarpent’s gesture, he opened it and we walked in. The first thing I noticed was the smell. A nauseous coppery odor of old blood permeated the place. Instantly I was transported back to India and my unfortunate experiences during the second Afghan War. With an effort I stopped myself from pulling my handkerchief out of my sleeve and holding it to my nose. I shot a glance at Inspector Sarpent. I could tell that he was also dismayed by the sight. He contained himself admirably by keeping his eyes on Sherlock Holmes. My friend seemed unaffected. His grey eyes were darting around the room and it was clear that the excitement of the chase was upon him.
Around us all was confusion. The room was a large space that was a combination kitchen, sitting room and bedroom. A big old-fashioned fireplace on the left was hung about with pots and pans, several thrown on the floor and dented. A carved wooden work table was upset before it. A couple of comfortable chairs were overturned in a sunny corner, with a small table, a sewing box and a few books tumbled about. A Dutch bed built into the wall opposite the fireplace was strewn with bloody bedclothes thrown over a feather mattress. Beside it several dark puddles and spatters spotted the wide boards of the hardwood floor. The hand-crafted apple wood cabinets on either side had every door thrown open, the contents of clothing and personal items tossed out onto the floor. Near the front door a pathetic little overturned wicker basket of cakes and fruit and a scattering of wildflowers marked the spot where Rose Cowell fell in a faint. The bottle of strawberry wine had smashed on the floor and the puddle of red liquor added its mite to the general scene of carnage. There were flies hovering over the bed and the wine. The sounds of their buzzing and the sight of their fat black bodies crawling on the scene of violent death turned my stomach. Sarpent and I stayed by the door as Sherlock Holmes went into action.
He pulled out his magnifying glass and began his examination of the room. Muttering and whistling to himself, he carefully went over every inch, even the plastered walls. His slender fingers touched each item, and he paid especial attention to the contents of the cabinets that had been scattered over the floor. He even went down on his hands and knees to poke into the cavities of the cupboards around the bed. At one point I heard a muttered exclamation. The detective brought out something out from within a small cabinet. He placed it carefully in an old envelope and put the envelope in his coat pocket.
The examination of the back door led him outside. Inspector Sarpent and I preferred to walk around the building to join him at the little blood-stained porch where the second body had been found. Here we watched as Holmes examined the door latch and searched every inch of the area around the door in a diameter of twenty yards. Twice I saw him pick tiny items from the vegetable garden by the porch and put them into another envelope.
“Look here, Watson, see these marks in the dirt beside the path? The place where the splashing of a pail of water brought from the well would soften the earth? These are not the footsteps of a woman or a child.”
“The murderer and the murdered man must have left them, Holmes.”
“Two separate sets, standing side by side? What harmony!” Holmes looked around at the cottage, the well, the clearing and the ring of trees around us. He stuck the glass into his pocket and strode toward the cab. “I have finished here, Inspector.”
“Is there anything you would draw to my attention, Mr. Holmes?” asked the policeman.
“Yes. Consider the well.”
“The well?’ Sarpent looked startled. He stared at both of us, then the round raised wall that surrounded the source of water for the cottage. “It’s just an old-fashioned well. It’s got a wooden roof and an attached winch with rope and bucket. It’s placed conveniently close to the back door.”
> “Exactly, Inspector. Aren’t those facts suggestive? Now it’s getting late and I think it’s time to return to Lakeworth.”
Inspector Sarpent had a word with the stolid constable as we got back into the cab. It deposited us at the back of the local hospital. Inside an attendant led us to a basement room where two zinc tables held the covered remains of Mrs. Gradmutter and Fenris Grey. Holmes motioned me to go first and I quickly confirmed the diagnosis of severe trauma inflicted by use of an axe on both bodies.
While I did so, Holmes began with the victims’ clothing and personal effects, laid out on a neighboring table. There was a muslin nightgown trimmed in lace and a matching mob cap, both saturated in rusty red. A man’s suit of pale linen, underclothing and socks, a torn white shirt and a floppy blue tie, all stiff with dried blood, were stretched out next to a pair of sturdy walking shoes. On the table were the items Grey had carried in his pockets. These proved to be a pigskin wallet, a silver watch on a silver Prince Albert chain and a pince-nez on a black satin ribbon. To that Holmes gave particular attention. After holding the lenses up to his eyes he brought them over to Grey’s corpse, then suddenly bent over and gave a yelp. Sarpent and I both jumped at the unexpected sound.
“What is it, Mr. Holmes?” asked the Scotland Yard man.
“Who identified this man as Fenris Grey?” asked Holmes.
“His brother Lovatt did.”
“Indeed. Where is Lovatt Grey now?”
“I believe he’s at the “Dragon’s Flagon”, waiting for the body to be released. He indicated that after the inquest he planned to take his brother back to London for burial.”
“I want to see him.”
“Nothing can be simpler. The “Dragon’s Flagon” is just down the street.”
As we walked toward the inn, a constable approached Sarpent and spoke a few words. The Inspector stopped and turned to Sherlock Holmes. “Because you mentioned the well, I had it searched. Nothing unusual was found.”
“I expected that result.”
“Then what is the importance of the well?”
“The fact that nothing unusual was found, Inspector.”
We came upon Lovatt Grey sitting at a round oak table in the private bar in the hotel, a gin and tonic before him. It was a cozy room, paneled in dark oak with narrow stained glass windows casting colored spots against the opposite wall and the floor. The panels were hung with battle shields, some scorched as if by fire, and several broken lances. I noticed a couple of ancient swords and battleaxes, stained and cracked, hanging with the shields. A dresser stood to one side, its shelves loaded with pewter plates and large flagons, each bearing a heraldic device. Overhead dark beams stretched across the plastered ceiling and under our feet clean rushes rustled softly against the stone floor with every step we made.
Grey looked a great deal like his brother, tall, slim, with light brown hair and brown eyes. He wore a summer-weight suit of light-colored linen, a white shirt and a blue cravat. He was absorbed in thought and looked up sharply as Sarpent addressed him. His eyes were bloodshot and it was obvious that the glass before him didn’t hold his first drink of the day. He stood and shook hands as Sarpent introduced us.
As we pulled up rush-bottomed chairs to join him at his table, I murmured my condolences. He nodded dumbly at my words but directed his attention toward Sherlock Holmes. My friend sat at his right and I seated myself at his left. Inspector Sarpent took the chair opposite Grey and motioned to Sherlock Holmes to begin. Lovatt Grey lifted his glass and drained it, then rubbed the bridge of his nose with the tips of his fingers.
“I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I suppose you have questions for me about my brother.”
“Yes, I have, Mr. Grey. Did you always dress alike?”
Mr. Grey looked down at his clothing. “We are… were only one year apart in age, Mr. Holmes. My mother liked to see us in matching outfits. I suppose it became usual for us to dress in similar fashion.”
“Were you both actors?”
Lovatt Grey’s eyes widened in surprise. “How did you know that?”
“I have been an actor myself, during my younger years. The signs are unmistakable. What was your brother doing at Mrs. Gradmutter’s cottage?”
“Between engagements we devote our free time to bird-watching. Whittlestick Woods is renowned for its birds. He told me that he had heard a report of a rare tufted titmouse that was seen in that area. I suppose he was looking for it.”
“Who told him about the titmouse?”
“He didn’t say.”
“You didn’t go with him?”
“No, I had indulged too much the evening before. There was a party in the public bar. One of the regulars is getting married. This morning I had a raging headache and remained behind. I was lying down in my room when the police informed me of… what happened.”
“Did either of you know Mrs. Gradmutter or her daughter or granddaughter?”
“We just heard a little local gossip. The child was a lively, active girl. We were never introduced.”
“Don’t you find it hard to see without your eyeglasses?”
Grey gaped at Sherlock Holmes. He made a movement to rise. I jumped up, sending my wooden chair clattering to the stone floor, and grasped his shoulders to hold him in his seat. Holmes’ sudden iron grip on his wrist pinned him to the table like a beetle to a card. He looked wildly at the three of us, then fell back into his chair and cried, “How did you know?”
Holmes’ voice rang like steel. “The body in the morgue does not have the dints on either side of the nose that betray the habitual wearing of the pince-nez found with it. Your nose has such dints. You are Fenris Grey. Do you have the money on your person?”
“It’s in my room, hidden in the wardrobe.” Suddenly the young man crumpled, covering his face with his free hand and collapsing on the tabletop. “It’s been horrible, sitting here waiting for someone to come and get me, reliving yesterday over and over! Please believe me, Mr. Holmes; no one was supposed to get hurt. It was going to be a simple job, in and out, the old lady gone visiting and no one the wiser. Why did she have to stay home? Oh, God, why did she have to wake up?” He shuddered and began to moan loudly.
Sarpent stood up and motioned to the landlord, who had stuck his head through the door at the sound of the commotion.
“Mr. George, send someone to the police station for two constables. Mr. Grey is under arrest for murder. Please check to see that his room is locked and bring the key to me here.” The Inspector leaned over and snapped a pair of handcuffs on Fenris Grey’s wrists. I let go of him and sat down again. The landlord disappeared.
The finality of that click and the feeling of cold steel encircling his wrists seemed to bring home to the man the true circumstances in which he found himself. He stopped wailing and fixed his eyes on the fetters, breathing raggedly. Holmes released his hold. I looked from the shaking prisoner to my friend.
“Holmes! Are you sure?”
“You know I never guess, Watson. All the clues lead to one inevitable conclusion. Inspector Sarpent, when the landlord returns, order some coffee and I will explain the facts of this case. If I make any errors, I am sure Mr. Fenris Grey will be able to correct me.”
The coffee and the room key arrived promptly. Sherlock Holmes took a deep swallow from his cup and then began his narrative.
“Fortunately, I came to this case with almost no previous information. Therefore I could regard each new scene with a clear and unbiased eye.
“The first thing I noticed was the isolation of Stone Cottage. The nearest habitation was nearly a mile away. An old woman living alone in the middle of a forest was the perfect victim. I also learned that she had recently sold some property and therefore there was a chance that the purchase price had not yet been deposited in the bank.
“You saw t
hat the interior of the cottage was in a state of disruption. From blood spatters I was able to determine that Mrs. Gradmutter had been killed very early in the course of the robbery, because discarded objects on the floor were resting on top of bloodstains. Peter Woodman’s axe must have been picked up out of a store of logging equipment found on the way to the cottage. Perhaps the brothers thought it might be needed to break down the door if the picklocks failed. Maybe they had other plans for it.
“It is possible that choosing that axe was not the first time such a precaution had been taken. Since the make-shift weapon was literally at hand, it was second nature when they were discovered to use it to bludgeon the old woman.
“The fact she was still in bed indicated that she had suddenly awakened and surprised the perpetrators. Otherwise the body wouldn’t have been found where it was.
“You saw how minutely I examined the room. I was looking for the money. Finally, in one of the cupboards, I found this.” He brought out a crumpled envelope from his pocket and dropped a shiny sovereign on the tabletop.
“My search led me out the back door, where I found marks from a picklock by the keyhole. This was the point of entry. I looked for the money in the dirt. I found more coins amongst the vegetable plants.” Holmes added a few coins from another envelope. “If Peter Woodman had killed the old woman he might have taken the money and hidden it by dropping it down that oh-so-convenient well. But the two sets of footprints in the mud, along with a second body, led me to the conclusion that there had been two robbers. A confrontation occurred on that porch. Lovatt, probably because he had been the one that killed Mrs. Gradmutter, claimed all the treasure. Fenris objected and struck down his brother. As the body fell the money dropped and some of it was scattered.”
Our wretched prisoner stirred. “He said that now he would hang and he needed to get away. He said he would need all the money to escape to America. He said he was tired of following me around all these years and could do much better on his own. The ungrateful dog! That’s when… well, that’s when it happened.”
Sherlock Holmes and The Folk Tale Mysteries Page 14
