by David Marcum
We found the gun room easily enough, but our knocking went unanswered, and when we entered we found ourselves in an empty room. There were no guns to be seen; they were, no doubt, behind the stout locked cupboards that lined one side of the room. Nor were there any people in the room. An aged dog approached us, slowly wagging its tail, and, having made itself known to us, wandered off again to slump down in its basket. We saw no other sign of life.
“The enquiry does not appear to be proceeding at full pelt, does it?” said I. But I spoke too soon, for at that very moment a door on the opposite side of the room flew open and two men strode in.
“Monstrous!” cried the first man. “How am I to make a report when half the witnesses have fled to the four corners of the earth? ‘Tis beyond me.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the other, leaning forward to brush some cartridges off a rough table with his sleeve. The first slammed down a heavy ledger onto the table and, looking up, caught sight of Holmes and myself. He glared at us across the room.
“How may I help you gentlemen?” he asked, in no very friendly tone of voice. We introduced ourselves. “Inspector Shaw, of King’s Lynn,” he responded. “We’re honoured, I’m sure, to have you here, Mr. Holmes, but I’m afraid you’ve missed the boat this time. We already have our man, safely under lock and key in the station.”
“Yes, so I heard,” replied my friend. “Commendably speedy of you. However, I am privately retained to look into this case. I hope it will not inconvenience you if I do so?”
“Not at all, I’m sure,” was the muttered answer.
“Thank you, Inspector. I suppose you have little doubt that it was the prisoner Oblonsky who killed Sir William?”
“No doubt of it.”
“Poisoned the sandwiches, I hear. The police surgeon examined the body?”
“He did. Found enough arsenic in the body to kill a horse, and enough in what were the rest of the sandwiches to kill another horse. Now, a good supply of arsenic is kept in a locked cupboard in the scullery, as rat poison, and what would you think? Most of it is missing.”
“Has the cupboard been forced?”
“I don’t think so - Constable?”
The constable pulled a notebook from his pocket and consulted it. “No, sir. ‘Cupboard door locked, remaining powder on shelf.’”
“Any idea as to the motive?” continued Holmes.
“Motive? There’s no mystery there - theft. The greater part of Sir William’s personal jewellery was missing, and we found several pieces hidden in Oblonsky’s bag - some shirt studs and a tie-pin. All set with diamonds, of course. Sir William was no fool, and when he missed his jewellery he would guess who had taken it. Oblonsky had to silence him.”
“And the other stolen jewels?” asked Holmes. “Where were they?”
“We haven’t found them yet. We’ve searched the man’s room, of course. It’s my guess that the sly fellow has hidden them in some other part of the castle. We may never find them.”
“I wonder why he did not hide all the jewellery in that way, then.”
“Because he didn’t have time. He had to leave his room to prepare for the morning shoot before he had finished hiding the jewellery. Or perhaps in his hurry he simply overlooked them.”
The inspector shot Holmes a knowing glance. “I can guess what you’re thinking, Mr. Holmes. You’re thinking, ‘This is all well and good, but it’s just supposition. Where’s the proof?’”
“Ah! You are right, Inspector Shaw. I was thinking something along those lines.”
“‘Tis a question of access,” explained the Inspector. “You’ll be wanting to make your own enquiries, of course, but here’s my advice. We have three vital items in this murder: the arsenic, the jewellery, and the sandwiches. Who had access to all three? A simple question, but ’tis sometimes the simple questions that count.
“Now, I’ll be getting back to my report. ‘Tis a shame you weren’t in time to catch your man. We beat you to it this time, Mr. Holmes!”
“Nonetheless, I’d like to have a word with Oblonsky. Perhaps you’ll be good enough to write an order to your man at the station.
“But before we go to the station to see Oblonsky,” said Holmes as we left the gunroom, “there are one or two other people here I’d like to speak to. It would be as well to hear what the butler can tell us, first of all. He’s likely to be as well informed as anyone about yesterday’s arrangements.”
The butler was in his pantry, a stout, dignified silver-whiskered man named Meades. Holmes had guessed rightly, for although the butler had remained in the castle during the shoots, he was, nevertheless, aware of the whereabouts of the guests and servants at all times. The sport for that day, he told us, had taken place in the lower Midden woods, a part of the estate that lay at such a distance from the castle - some twelve or thirteen miles - that it had been decided that the guests would not return for their luncheon, but would take a light meal in the woods, and return to the castle late in the afternoon. The eight guests and their host, Lord Ambleside, formed three groups of three Guns for that morning’s shoot, stationed some two or three furlongs apart. Sir William’s group also included the novelist Peake Aubrey, and Lord Henry, Lord Ambleside’s son.
Oblonsky had prepared Sir William’s food in the kitchen in the morning, and then accompanied him on the shoot. It was not unusual, Meades explained, for a valet to prepare his master’s outside meals in this way, as he would know better than the castle staff the gentleman’s requirements. The regular staff did, however, prepare the food for Mr. Aubrey and Lord Henry, who were not accompanied by a manservant. Oblonsky used the same kitchen as the regular staff, but on being asked exactly where the various servants were working, Meades regretted that he was unable to say. Nor was he well placed to give first-hand information about the arsenic, advising us to apply to Mrs. Olds the housekeeper on both these subjects.
He did, however, give precise information about the times at which events took place. He assured us that Oblonsky must have gone to the kitchen before nine o’clock to prepare the sandwiches required by his master, the shooting party having left the castle at ten past nine in the morning. As to the time and circumstances of Sir William’s death, the butler, having been at the time in the castle itself, twelve miles from the scene of the tragedy, was able to give us only an indirect report. He had been informed, however, and had no reason to doubt, that nothing out of the way had occurred within the Voigt threesome until Voigt ate the sandwich served him by his valet. Shortly after eating the sandwich, he had fallen to the ground in pain, and within less than a minute was dead. There was little doubt that it was the sandwich that had poisoned him, for one of the dogs, in the confusion, snapped up one of the fallen sandwiches, wolfed it down, and quickly met the same fate as Sir William.
The dreadful event had, of course, brought to a premature end the weekend’s sport, and many of the guests had already left or were on the point of leaving. The two Guns who had been of Sir William’s party, however, remained; Lord Henry and Mr. Peake Aubrey.
“Those two,” asked Holmes; “are they still at the castle?”
“They are, sir. I am given to understand that Lord Henry will be staying for some little time. Mr. Aubrey will leave us this afternoon.”
“At least are still here. Many of the guests seem to have left already. Indeed, a carriage on its way out passed us as we came in.”
“Yes, sir. That would have been General Oliphant and his party. You will readily understand that the misadventure has brought the sport to an unexpectedly early end. Only Mr. Aubrey, Sir Lumsden Grey and General Lamb are still at the castle.”
“And Lord Henry?”
“Indeed so, sir. I was thinking of the guests only.”
“Where am I to find Lord Henry and Mr. Aubrey?”
“Mr. Aubrey, I believe, is in the
library. As for Lord Henry, I cannot say with any certainty, but he is often to be found in the billiards-room at this time of the day.”
In the billiards-room, we found two young men in the midst of a frame, one stretching over the table to play a shot, the other leaning against the back of a chair with his hands in his pockets, watching his opponent. The onlooker identified himself as Lord Henry and his friend at the table as Mr. Walter Willoughby. “Fire away with your questions, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “We have plenty of time, I’m sorry to say. Willoughby’s well into his stride, and once he gets going like this there’s no stopping him.”
Although he responded willingly enough to Holmes’s questions, Lord Henry’s answers were something of a disappointment, for they told us nothing we did not already know. I shall, therefore, not weary the reader with every question and answer that passed between Sherlock Holmes and Lord Henry. Suffice it to say that the young man’s account of events only confirmed what we had heard before.
Mr. Aubrey, who, as the butler had predicted, was to be found in the library, had, at first, equally little to tell that was new. After the morning’s shooting, Sir William, he said, had settled himself on his shooting-stick in a clearing and taken a sandwich from the little hamper presented by his valet, Oblonsky. He had offered to share the sandwiches with his fellow Guns. “A dashed close shave,” as Aubrey put it, for had the sandwiches not contained mustard he would have accepted Sir William’s offer, a decision which would surely have proved fatal. Soon Voigt complained of feeling unwell. A minute later he was grimacing in pain and wavering on his seat; and then he crashed to the ground, clutching his stomach. Within a minute he was dead. In these matters, Aubrey’s answers, like Lord Henry’s, served only to corroborate those accounts of the morning’s events that we had already heard, but on the topic of his fellow guests, Aubrey was more informative. Asked to describe them, he pondered a moment, pushed back a lock of hair from his forehead, and settled back in his chair.
“I have no interest in tittle-tattle,” began the novelist, “but as a simple spinner of tales, I take a keen interest in the foibles of my fellow creatures; and I may say that I am a seasoned traveller in the ways of the human heart. Of course,” he added, “you gentlemen understand that these observations are not to be repeated willy-nilly. They are of a private nature.
“Youth first: Lord Henry. I’ve known him since he was a boy, and he’s become a very pleasant young man, though whether he’ll measure up when he becomes Marquess, I don’t know. Well, that day is a long way off, we all hope. Perhaps he’s rather in his father’s shade at present. I know nothing of his friend, Willoughby, I’m afraid.
“Two other young men, the Mainwaring brothers. Hugo is a charming fellow, but his brother Ralph is quite another kettle of fish. He was drunk most of the time. In fact, he had to cry off the shoot. Rude to the servants, too. To be frank with you, he’s a blackguard of the first water. Why Ambleside keeps inviting him I cannot imagine.
“Now, General Lamb. I hadn’t seen him since Majuba, but he’s the same as ever: a fine old soldier. He fell out with Voigt after dinner, you know. I don’t know what it was all about, but voices were certainly raised. The port was flowing rather too freely, I dare say. There was another General, too, Oliphant. He was quite unlike one’s idea of a military man. Very quiet. I could scarcely get a word out of him, and he looked as if he’d spent his life at a desk. Rotten shot, too. He kept himself to himself.” Aubrey counted off the guests on his fingers.
“That’s six. There were ten Guns in all. Well, poor Voigt, of course. I was with him and Lord Henry, you know. Saw him die.” The writer’s flow of words dried up for a few moments. “We spoke about that. As to the man himself, I hadn’t met him before, but of course with a man like that, his reputation precedes him. He was a touch vulgar, it must be said, red of face and loud of mouth, though one doesn’t wish to speak ill of the dead. He was very friendly and gregarious, though. You couldn’t help yourself liking the man. Now, who else? Your humble servant, of course, and there’s Ambleside, our host. I have no secret information for you there, I’m afraid. Just a very fine gentleman of the old school. That’s nine. Who else?” He rubbed his jaw as he tried to call the last Gun to mind. “Grey!” he cried. “Lumsden Grey. How could I forget? I was at school with him. He’s in the Privy Council now, if you can believe me. I let him have a few home truths about his damned government, and he had to admit I spoke a good deal of sense.”
“Thank you, Mr. Aubrey,” said Holmes. “Tell me, do you know if any of these men had some quarrel with Sir William? Or of any other enemies he may have had?”
“Enemies? A man like that probably has enemies in three continents. He won’t have built up the world’s biggest diamond business without treading on a few toes. And I’m not only talking about personal enemies. There are those who can’t bear to see a man do well - anarchists, socialists, nihilists - they hate to see any man make his way to the top.”
“You think this was a murder motivated by envy?”
The writer shrugged his shoulders.
“Why not? We all know of the outrages these monsters perpetrate. They are not above killing innocent people, Mr. Holmes. Indeed, they glory in murder. The fouler their misdeeds, the louder they boast of them. You know who I mean: anarchists.” He moved a little closer and lowered his voice. “Oblonsky is one of them!” he hissed.
If Lord Henry had given too little information, Mr. Peake Aubrey had perhaps given too much.
“What do you make of it all, Watson?” Holmes asked me as we left the library. “Who might have been enemy enough of Voigt to kill him? Any idea?”
“Well, perhaps if Oblonsky is indeed an anarchist - or if Voigt has made an enemy who crossed his path here - or - dash it, Holmes, I don’t know. It all seems so vague and confusing; I’m afraid I’m quite in the dark.”
“I’m with you there, old man; all this seems to be leading nowhere,” he said, shaking his head. “Let us hope that a talk with Oblonsky will shed some light on the matter. But before I speak to him, I’d better have a word with Mrs. Olds, the housekeeper. I’d very much like to see her poison cupboard and find out who had access to it.”
Mrs. Olds was in her scullery, in a cap and apron, sitting at a plain deal table on which was heaped a score or so of freshly shot birds. A kitchen maid stood by as the housekeeper ran a thick finger down the columns of the game-book that lay open before her, no doubt checking that the records and the bag matched. At our approach, she pushed the book aside and rose to her feet.
“The arsenic? I wish I’d never set eyes on it, that I do. It’s kept in that cupboard in the corner there.”
Holmes strode over to it and bent over the lock, running his fingertips over it and examining it through his pocket lens. He turned to the housekeeper.
“The key, if you please.”
She took a key from her apron pocket and unlocked a wall-cupboard. From the row of keys inside she selected one and handed it to Holmes. He glanced at her keenly.
“Is this key always kept there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And who has a key to the key-cupboard?”
“Mr. Meades and myself.”
“And the key to the poison cupboard is always kept locked in there?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Holmes!”
“On no, Mrs. Olds!”
She looked at him in astonishment.
“Now tell me the truth,” he continued. “Why was the arsenic cupboard left unlocked yesterday?”
His certainty and hawk-like gaze were more than a match for her feeble protests, and she gave up her pretence. “I can’t say, sir, really I can’t. It was locked first thing yesterday, but on these busy days a person can’t always keep an eye on everything at once. All I can tell you is this; when we were cleaning up after luncheon yesterday, there was the key left in the cupboard
door.”
Holmes and I left the kitchen and came back up the stairs. I was still struggling to make sense of the case.
“So anyone in the kitchen could have slipped into the scullery when it was empty and taken the arsenic, with no-one any the wiser.”
“Exactly,” Holmes agreed. “We have not narrowed the field much. In fact, I don’t seem to be making much progress at all.”
“What do you intend to do?” I asked.
“I intend to see Oblonsky. Perhaps he will be able to cast some light on this murky business.”
A two-wheeler awaited us at the stables, and soon we were rattling along the misty lanes to the village of Carre and its police station.
The sergeant in charge carefully wrote our names in his ledger and walked with us down to the cell, locking the door behind us once we had entered. Oblonsky was a small man with thick hair greying at the temples. He was neatly dressed, but his jaw told me that he had not shaved since his imprisonment the previous day. He was sitting on a bench that jutted from the wall, his hands clasped before him. On our entrance, he jumped briskly to his feet and gave a short bow. Holmes explained that we were there at his sister’s behest, at which the prisoner expressed his gratitude and assured us of his innocence.
“In that case, Oblonsky, there is good reason to hope that in a few hours the charges against you will be dropped, and that you will walk from here a free man.” So said my friend; but his words brought little cheer to Oblonsky, who received them with a weary shake of the head. “I have held back nothing from the police, I assure you, and yet here I am,” he said, indicating the walls around him, “a prisoner, to be tried for murder.” Again he shook his head and cast his eyes to the floor of his cell.
“Come now, do not be downhearted,” insisted Holmes. “Although things seem black from your police-cell here, the case against you is much weaker than it appears. There is every chance that you will soon be free. But if that is to happen, you must give me the information I seek as fully and accurately as you can. It is of the first importance that you do not pass over some detail because you think it trivial. You must allow me to judge what is germane to your case, and what is not.”
