by David Marcum
“Indeed, Mr. Holmes,” continued Reynolds. “I am not being disrespectful of my late master when I say that his bond with them was almost unnatural. He spent long hours studying them, and walking alone in the fields in their company. I believe they accepted him as one of their pack, or even the leader - they were all hand reared of course, so tame to a degree. But only with him, Mr. Holmes. Any stranger, or other member of the household who went out there without precaution, was in some danger. And that is what has got the local force so lost as to a solution to his murder. Despite the walls, despite the wolves running free. How could anyone have got in and done the deed? So the constabulary consider the murder must have been committed by someone already in the House. Inspector Lestrade concurs with this view.”
“I expect he does,” said Holmes. “It makes eminent sense. But it cannot be as simple as that, for otherwise you would not be here. Now, although I have of course read the account of the affair in the newspaper after I received your telegram, I would like to hear it in your own words.”
Over the next hour, Reynolds explained to us the events of that fateful night at length. Holmes stopped him at a number of points to clarify details, whilst I made hurried notes.
Two days earlier, on the evening of the 22nd March (so Reynolds recounted), all had seemed tolerably well. His master had followed all his usual habits, although he seemed troubled, by what he would not share. After dinner at six he had taken leave of the household - his wife Lady Elizabeth, their teenaged son Thomas and daughter Sarah, together with their guests - a Mr. Wilson, who was an old school friend; Mr. Graham, a neighbour from the village; and Mr. Turner, a business associate who had been dealing with a land transaction on the Estate. Sir Cedric had gone straight to his room and, as was his custom, locked the door to conclude business affairs for the day in solitude.
For the rest of the evening, they had all retired to the Games Room. From about seven, the gentlemen, including Thomas, were left to continue whilst the two ladies took their leave for the kitchens to plan with the staff the meal for the following day - a special luncheon to be given to welcome Colonel Sir Jerome Russett to the village upon his return from the colonies. This concluded, the ladies had retired to the Drawing Room where they were later joined by Thomas, and passed the rest of the evening sewing, the boy reading quietly in a corner.
At nine, Reynolds had himself withdrawn to his chamber - a room next to that of Sir Cedric, and through which anyone wishing to communicate with his master would have to pass. At about eleven, it was reported that the children had retired to their rooms and Lady Wolfe to hers, and come midnight the rest of the household and their guests were in their beds. The Butler, Maddison, had reported that when he did his final rounds of the House all the doors and windows were secure.
“At seven yesterday morning, I rose and started to prepare my master’s clothes and breakfast. As by usual custom, it was Lady Wolfe who, at eight, went to her husband’s room with the breakfast I had prepared, and...” At this point Reynolds’ voice broke. My further offer of brandy was gratefully accepted. Holmes drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair whilst the man regained his control. “...They couldn’t open the door. Normally my master unlocked it when he awoke.”
“Did you check it was unlocked when you arose?” asked Holmes.
“I admit I had not checked whether it was locked or unlocked. I do not check it every day by rule, for there is no need to do so. That is how the house works, Mr. Holmes - he always unlocks it. That is the routine. We had to break down the door. He was sitting in his chair facing the fireplace, back to the window. The fire was dead... and so was he. He had been stabbed. My mistress was hysterical and took to her bed. “
“That tallies with the newspaper account,” said Holmes. “Unusually accurate for a change. Please, describe the room. Just so I can clearly picture the setting.”
Reynolds seemed taken aback. “Well, Mr. Holmes, it’s just an ordinary bedroom, simply furnished. On the ground floor; my master worked and slept in that room all the time I have been in service. A large fireplace, which was prepared and lit at five-thirty each evening at this time of year. A writing desk. A bedside table, with his supply of candles for when the nights are dark - the House will be late getting an electricity supply, for he did not hold with it. French windows to the gardens, which are locked out of use, even in the summer. Curtains always half drawn; he would sometimes watch the wolves roaming the grounds before retiring to his bed. Please believe me when I say that nothing was out of the ordinary to any previous day.”
“So what has got our professional friends so baffled?”
“We know he was alive for some time after ten. But everyone in the house was accounted for at and after that time. And no-one could get in from outside without falling prey to the wolves; or at the very least, rousing them, which would have been heard. I was in the room next door, and heard nothing. No-one came through my room.”
“Ten?” I asked. “How do you know?”
“He lit a candle after that time. His candles are custom made to burn for exactly...” He saw Holmes’s quizzical glance, so he corrected himself. “Near enough, give or take maybe ten minutes, for ten hours, and the candle was burning low as we entered the room at eight yesterday morning. We know no-one entered his room - it was locked and his key was on the bedside table. No-one went through my room once I settled down to my end of day tasks at nine. No-one was out of sight of anyone else at any time when he could have been killed. And yet, he is dead.”
“There is no duplicate key?” asked Holmes.
“Only one that I hold, in case of emergency. I can vouch it was not away from my person all night.”
“Could not someone have got into the room from the window?” I asked. “He slept on the ground floor, you say.” Almost as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew the mistake I had made.
“Locked and bolted out of use, as I said, and all the glass intact. And of course the wolves...”
“Keep up, Watson!” interrupted Holmes impatiently. Then to our visitor, “What do you know of the three guests?”
“Turner has been dealing with matters of the Estate - land sales, lettings, purchases - for as long as I have been at the House. His father before him held the same station, with the elder Mr. Wolfe. My master looked after him and his family well. Graham owns the lodge next to Ellington House, and has been a family friend for many years. He is a regular visitor and takes great interest in the well-being of the children. I admit I don’t know much about Wilson, but he and my master seemed to get on very well. They had not met up these past twenty years, evidently. He was fascinated and frightened in equal measure by the wolves.”
“What did your late master think of Mr. Graham’s interest in the children?” I asked.
“I have never detected any concern on his part.”
Holmes turned to me with a twinkle in his eye. “Your thoughts?”
I took a deep breath, and looked to Reynolds with a resigned smile. “He does this, just to show how good he is. Inevitably, whatever I say will be wrong.”
“Far from it, my dear fellow!” interrupted Holmes. “But I do value your often refreshing views.”
“Very well. We know nothing about this man Wilson. What brought him to the House just at this time? Surely suspicion has to fall first on him. Somehow he got into Wolfe’s room and did the deed during the night.”
“Very well; but how, Watson? That is what I am after.”
“That’s your job, Holmes,” I replied. “You will draw me no further.”
“Well, a fascinating diversion awaits us,” said Holmes, suddenly warming to the task. “I think we will return with you to Ellington House. Let’s see if we can help the local constabulary - and our friend Lestrade - make some progress. But first, gentlemen, I need to spend a little time making use of ‘Who’s Who’ and see i
f my library holds any clues. You may order a cab to the station for one hour’s time, Watson. And there will be a telegram to send shortly.”
Ellington House was reached by a short ride from the village station. The afternoon sun was starting to set behind the trees as we were driven along the curving driveway through park lands until the House came into view. It was not a large house, as such houses go, but, reflecting the reported character of its pedantic owner, not a blade of grass seemed out of place. Nonetheless, and perhaps unsurprisingly, an air of gloom seemed to hang over it. Off to the left, I noted we were being watched - two wolves lay under a stand of trees. Other shapes moved furtively in the bushes away to our right. On the light wind a single howl echoed around the gardens.
We came to a second gate, which was unlocked by Reynolds. A short ride onwards, and we were greeted at the front door of the house by Maddison. Most of the other staff had been given leave of absence, so only the family, their three visitors, and a young policeman from the local constabulary were about, along with Lady Wolfe’s maid and the cook. Lestrade, or anyone else from the Metropolitan force for that matter, was no-where to be seen.
Holmes was led into the Games Room and had a short conversation with each of the three guests in turn. Turner was open and affable, but I thought the man Graham looked uncomfortable on questioning about his interest in the family; his statement that such interest was only made in light of Sir Cedric’s coldness towards them, and his concern over their future education and well-being, seemed forced and unlikely to me, whilst Wilson seemed a most disagreeable sort, furtive and secretive.
“It’s those blasted wolves, Mr. Holmes!” he exclaimed. “I’m sure one of these days no good will come of keeping them so unnaturally. Howling and calling to one another as they do, it’s enough to put anyone off their game. Or their meal.” The glass of whisky he held betrayed the shaking of his hand.
“Well, no good has come, Mr. Wilson. They seem quiet enough now,” replied Holmes.
“Yes, I suppose so,” he blustered. “But they frighten me, and I’m not sorry to say it. How anyone could go wandering about after dark knowing those things were around is beyond me. Only a ghost would want to do so.”
The man who had been introduced as Turner sighed. “I tell you, no-one else saw it.”
“What did you see?” asked Holmes sharply.
“I saw a figure moving across the lawn, after dark, whilst I was taking a break from the game. I’m convinced it could not have been anything from this world.”
“No-one else saw it, Mr. Holmes,” replied Turner, “even though he called me to the window. I think it was the drink playing tricks.”
“I was as sober as any man!” exclaimed Wilson. “I did see it I tell you! A ghostly figure, making quickly towards the outbuildings.”
“Come, my friend,” soothed Graham. “Take no heed. If you say you saw it, well, I believe you.”
Turner snorted. “You were trying to put me off my game,” he retorted to Wilson. “The boy was slowing us down, and you could see how that was affecting me.”
“Gentlemen, please!” exclaimed Reynolds. “We have all suffered a great shock, and Mr. Holmes is here to help. Have respect, please!”
Holmes seemed satisfied of his enquiries. Wilson looked especially discomforted, and my suspicions of him grew. This story of his seeing a figure outside was clearly meant to distract attention, and once we were out of the room I shared this with Holmes.
His only reply was, “It may be of interest, Watson.” I decided not to tempt Holmes’s disapproval further by repeating my growing conviction that Wilson was somehow involved. Holmes would get to the truth, I knew.
Holmes spent a few minutes talking to the cook, and then, the interviews seemingly complete, spent the next half hour or so subjecting Sir Cedric’s bedroom to a minute examination. The room had been sealed by the police as soon as they had arrived. On hands and knees, or even on occasion almost lying flat, he worked his way across the floor; and as he went he picked up various small items that had fallen on the carpet; here a few hairs, there a short piece of string. All went into an envelope. When he had finished he went to the window, checked the lock and bolts, and stood quietly looking out over the lawn towards a lake as the sun set, the curtains half drawn as usual across the French windows. He was seemingly in a world of his own. At one point he looked again at the contents of the envelope. Reynolds and I waited patiently.
“Was there anything - anything, mark you - out of the ordinary that night that you have not shared?” he asked at length. Reynolds thought long and hard. “I don’t think so, Mr. Holmes,” he replied. “There were the three guests of course in the house, so the routine was different in that respect... Ah, there was one thing which they commented on. Especially our Mr. Wilson. The wolves broke into howling at about eight. Only for a short time - I remember thinking they must have caught a deer, perhaps.”
Holmes eyes were suddenly bright. “That is most suggestive, is it not, Watson?” he said. Regrettably the mystery was lost on me. He fell into silence again. “I would like to speak with her Ladyship, please,” he then continued.
A few minutes later the lady was duly ushered into the room. Her eyes were red with crying; with her, her daughter also came for support. They sat together on the edge of the bed, holding hands.
“Please accept our sympathy in your sad loss,” I said. I caught Holmes’s sideways glance. “I know you wouldn’t say it,” I mouthed silently to him.
“Indeed,” added Holmes. “Please, Lady Wolfe, I will not keep you a moment. I have but one question, just to clarify my thoughts you understand - you were with your daughter all evening once you had left the gentlemen to their games, yes?”
“Yes.”
“All evening?” There was a definite emphasis on the ‘all’.
“As I said, yes.”
“Oh. Then that is very sad,” replied Holmes.
She looked at him in shock - and I likewise. “What do you mean by that, Holmes?” I muttered quietly. “Of course it is sad. This dear lady has lost her husband, and the young lady her father, in the most awful circumstances.”
Holmes ignored my protestations. “Thank you, that will be all,” he said, and dismissed them with a wave of his hand. When they had left, I addressed him angrily. “Do you really not understand the effect your thoughtless behaviour has on people, Holmes? The ladies need our sympathy and support, not your rudeness!”
“Perhaps they do,” said Holmes. “But the case is all but solved nonetheless. I know who, and I know the when and broadly the why. I just need a few moments to determine the how.” He produced a telegram from his pocket. “This is the response to the telegram I asked you to send whilst we were in Baker Street.”
“Yes, I know it full well,” I replied. “It came as we were leaving.”
“It holds some interesting information about Colonel Sir Jerome Russett.”
“You mean, he did it? But how? He wasn’t seen in the house that night.”
Holmes sighed. I could feel the approach of another assault on my already battered pride. “Watson, sometimes your inputs are most valuable. Other times - No, he did not do it, but he is the reason for why it was done.”
“Pray, then, tell us,” said Reynolds.
“First I must have a quiet word with the constable,” said Holmes. He left the room; Reynolds and I exchanged glances whilst we waited. He returned a few minutes later, smiling broadly. “Capital! So, now, let us join the others. We have an old friend joining us as well.”
Lestrade had just arrived, and was having his coat taken by Maddison as we entered the Great Hall. “Well, Mr. Holmes,” he said, “I heard that you had been engaged, and I have to say that on this occasion I would be somewhat grateful of any assistance you can offer.”
“This is a change, Lestrade!” I exclai
med.
“Come, come Watson,” replied Holmes, “Do not be so harsh on our friend. Do not worry, Lestrade, I will not take this as a sign of your desire for regular use of my meagre talents. I am always ready and willing to help, as you well know, should help be requested. The story Mr. Reynolds has unfolded today merely piqued my interest.”
“And I am glad of it, Mr. Holmes,” replied the policeman. “I cannot make head or tail of how the deed was done. From ten in the evening no-one was out of sight of anyone else, and yet murder was committed. After I was summoned, I spent most of yesterday and again today trying to see how it could work, but...”
“Have no fear, Lestrade,” continued Holmes. “I believe I can help you with the solution, although of course the credit will be to the Metropolitan force. I have no desire for fame.” I coughed quietly. “Beyond what has already been thrust upon me by the good Doctor of course,” he continued, barely breaking his stride. “But first, a quiet word please.”
Holmes and Lestrade left the room for a few moments and I heard snatches of a whispered conversation outside the door. “Arrest... walking... ghost...”
They returned and Lestrade took the constable aside as Holmes started to speak. “Key to the solution is that the murder did not take place when you think it did. Not at or after ten. It took place earlier. And if you ignore the supposed time of the murder, other opportunities present themselves. What I needed was a motive. Once I had that, then I merely had to construct the events of the night to place the murderer in the right place at the right time.”
“So what is the motive, Holmes?” I asked.
“It is the oldest motive, I am afraid, Watson. But we will come to that.”
“But, Mr. Holmes, I don’t understand.” Reynolds’ voice was flat, shocked. “We know the murder could not be earlier than ten. The candle. It had not yet gone out as we broke the door down at eight in the morning. It is a ten hour candle. Even allowing for a few minutes’ variation in the manufacture, I’m sorry, but you can’t get the murder to happen earlier than when I was in my room next door to Sir Cedric. There just is not the variation in the candles to do that. I tell you, Sir Cedric was a man extremely upset by anything out of its usual routine. Samples were regularly tested. A candle burning longer than ten hours would have driven him mad.”
