Usually I was called to Baker Street, but sometimes Holmes came to me, either at my home or to the offices I maintained as my surgery. It was such a visit I received late one afternoon on a crisp September Friday afternoon during the last decade of the century. My final patient had just left and I was tiding my consulting room, putting my cleaned instruments away into the glass-fronted cabinets, when the door opened and Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Stanley Hopkins of Scotland Yard entered.
I had not seen Holmes in some weeks. He had been out of England, working a case in Italy involving a little boy who had disappeared with a travelling puppet show. The English newspapers had followed the progress of the case, which came to a satisfactory conclusion with the return of the little boy to his father. I shook hands warmly with both men and urged them to enter. Holmes looked thinner than usual, and I noticed that his hair seemed a little greyer at the temples. He smiled at me and seated himself in the chair behind my consulting desk. I greeted Hopkins, an old friend from Scotland Yard, and we turned to Holmes. He had spread out a large map of England over my blotter.
I stood behind him and peered at the map. It was folded to display a large section of the Midlands and the south-east area. Traced in red ink from Birmingham to West London was a twisting, convoluted line, running through miles of country roads from the great manufacturing city south toward Bath and then eastward to London.
“You may well look puzzled, Watson,” Holmes laughed. He pointed to the wavy, contorted red line. “This is the route of one of the most unusual road races ever staged in Great Britain. Sir Harvey Harris, who owns several steel mills in Birmingham, has developed an experimental gasoline motor car. He spent a lot of time and money on it, employing the best engineering minds of the Midlands. He was proud of his “Fast Leap”. But he found a fly buzzing about his head just as he was ready to unveil it to the public, an annoying fly that would not go away and let him enjoy his triumph.
“Egbert Shelby is a former mechanic in one of Harris’ factories, a worker with a dream. He laboured on his own time, studied the literature, built his own parts, and tinkered for years on his own automobile invention. He rolled out his “Shelby Sled” one day before Harris announced his accomplishment. The public took up his side, preferring to champion the little inventor, working in his back garden, over the rich and powerful Sir Harvey Harris, with his hired minds and muscles.
“A feud quickly developed in the newspapers. The entire mess has culminated in a road race, from Birmingham to London, and may the best motor win. The Birmingham Voice offered a prize of 2,000 pounds to the winner. This writhing course, designed to test the machines’ endurance involving every variation of road condition available in England, is supposed to prove which is the better invention.
“The rules of the race as set forth by the Birmingham Voice stated that each motorcar owner was allowed one assistant to help with maintenance and relief driving. Sir Harvey Harris chose Kit Travelore, the second son of General Travelore, the hero of Point Ramble. After leaving Oxford early, the boy had devoted himself to mechanics and become quite an expert on internal combustion engines.
“Shelby asked his son, Miles, who helped him in building the “Shelby Sled”, to assist him.”
“I read about the race in the morning paper.” I mused. “It began Monday morning, from in front of the Birmingham Botanical Gardens, and is due to finish at the London Botanical Gardens in Regents Park on Saturday, which is tomorrow.”
“That’s right, Dr. Watson,” said Stanley Hopkins. He indicated a point on the map where the red line ended in the nearby London park. “I have been assigned to be at the finish line. Each leg of the race has been divided into fifty-mile sections, with a resting place reserved each night at a local inn or hotel. They will stay at Walker-on-Thames tonight, which is fifty miles from Regent’s Park. Sir Harvey Harris and Mr. Shelby are expected to complete the race tomorrow. The race results depend upon the time spent to complete each leg, plus extra points given for crossing the finish line first.”
“But, Inspector, what has this to do with you? I see no crime here.”
“On Wednesday the fifty-mile race section ended at the “Pilgrim’s Rest” Inn near Standhill Abbey, the ancestral home of the Duke of Treadlow. That night a dinner was given with the contestants as guests of honour by the Duke and Duchess. The Duke has investments in one of Sir Harvey’s factories. The guest list included several local dignitaries. Thursday morning, after the vehicles left on the next leg of their trip, an alarm was raised. Two important jewellery pieces, a diamond and gold necklace worn the night before by the Duchess and the famous Mitgleid rope of pearls owned by her mother-in-law, the Dowager Duchess, were missing. The Duke demanded Scotland Yard be called in at once. Detective Sergeant Proudfoot and I left for Standhill Abbey by the next train. I met Mr. Holmes on the station platform, just returning from Italy, and invited him to accompany us.”
“What was found?”
Holmes took over the story. “We arrived at mid-morning. The Abbey is situated on an estate of over 20,000 acres, with extensive gardens, woods, several working farms, a small village and a large lake. The main building was constructed on the ruins of an ancient Catholic abbey destroyed by Viking invaders long before Henry VIII had the same thought. The modern construction shows its Tudor bones, along with early Norman and later Georgian traces, and stands at the top of the highest hill in the district. Hence it was given the name Standhill. The main road runs past at the bottom of the hill and was part of the race course.
“The entrance, flanked by a pair of granite pillars topped with the Treadlow eagles, splotched and stained with centuries of lichen and mosses, led through nearly a mile of old-growth forest to the massive stone porch of the ancient pile owned by the Treadlow family. A broad sweep of crushed gravel brought our carriage to the wide, shallow steps. A silent, dignified butler stood ready to admit us as we approached the iron strap-hinged double doors that opened to the vast grade-room, now used as an entrance-hall.
“We were ushered past an intricately carved oaken staircase into the presence of the Duke and Duchess of Treadlow. He is a tall, broad man, his Norman heritage plain on his face and demeanour. She is a slight, richly-dressed woman, well-known for her head of lustrous copper hair. The Dowager Duchess remained upstairs in her bedroom, unwilling to sully herself with any contact with the police. The Duke did the majority of the talking.
“After the dinner Wednesday evening the jewels had been locked in a drawer in the Duke’s walnut armoire in his dressing room on the second floor, down the hall from the oaken stairs. That was the normal practice after parties; it saved the servants a special trip down to the wine cellar where the safe is kept. The next morning the two custom-made cases would have been transferred downstairs to the basement safe, situated in a special stone room, well-fortified by steel gates and the latest in locks. The valet entered the dressing room early Thursday morning and found the drawer had been forced with a narrow metal tool like a narrow chisel. There were no footprints on the carpets or stairways but that was not surprising, since the weather had been dry for the past two weeks. The immediate windows, including those of the dressing room, the Duke’s bedroom and the window at the end of the hallway outside his doors, were securely fastened and showed no sign of tampering. These physical facts I determined for myself, upon examination of the crime scene.
“The gravel of the driveway sweep was normally kept neat and even by twice-daily raking. It had been cleaned and rolled very early that morning, as scheduled, and was useless for indicating any sign of the thief or thieves.
“I spent the day with Hopkins, interviewing the occupants of the Abbey, including the family, the twenty-five house servants, the fourteen outside servants and eight of the twelve guests that were available from the local population. The Duke and Duchess were co-operative, but you have never been royally snubbed until you have tried to questi
on the Dowager Duchess of Treadlow about a criminal case. The interview took place in her boudoir, a great favour, to be sure.
“She did tell us that Sir Harvey Harris talked a lot during dinner, giving them an elaborate, highly detailed account of the race, starting at the gates of the Birmingham Botanical Gardens and including every breakdown, repair and delay of the trip. The captive audience included the family, the vicar, the local magistrate, the doctor, and the largest landowner in the district besides the Duke, along with their wives.
“The four guests we couldn’t interview were Sir Harvey, Kit Travelore, and Egbert Shelby and his son Miles. You remember that Travelore and young Shelby served as members of the motorcars’ crews.
“It was determined by higher-ups at Scotland Yard that during the early investigation Stanley Hopkins was not to interrupt the race but to wait and question Sir Harvey and Mr. Shelby at Regents Park after the winner is declared.
“We couldn’t complete all the interviews that day so we put up at the “Pilgrim’s Rest”. After we saw the last of the witnesses this afternoon, Hopkins and I took the afternoon train home. A thorough search of the Abbey and its extensive grounds is still being conducted under the guidance of Sergeant Proudfoot.”
“What had you discovered, Holmes?” I asked.
“Nothing unusual happened during the festivities. After the meal was over and the locals and the contestants left, the Duchess’ maid removed her diamond and gold necklace and placed it in its custom-made case. The rope of pearls was put into a similar case and both were locked in a drawer in the Duke’s dressing room by his valet.
“Both servants slept in the servants’ wing that night, as they usually did. They had strong alibis. The Duke’s head housemaid had a bad toothache and was up and down all night, prowling the servants’ quarters for relief. Her story was backed by that of the housekeeper, who was treating her. The ladies’ maid never left her room. The valet shares his room with the under-butler. He had a history of sleepwalking in the past, so the under-butler routinely locks the door and sleeps with the key under his pillow. He swears the valet could never have left the room. All the servants with any possible contact with the jewels have worked for the Duke’s family for years and have no criminal records.
“There was one odd occurrence. Bootner, the valet, said that on his way up to his room in the servants’ quarters after locking up the jewel-cases, he thought he saw a shadow on the wall as he rounded the landing right above the Duke’s floor. It was below and behind him, in the corridor outside the Duke’s rooms. He retraced his steps and examined the entire hallway but saw and heard nothing more. After a minute or so he decided he must have been mistaken and went up to his bed.
“Stanley Hopkins and I spoke to the other guests. They were the vicar, Dr. Goodpastures, the local magistrate, Col. Lawson, the physician Dr. Steele, and Sir Richard Landers, who owns the second-largest estate in the county. We also talked to their wives. On the train ride back to London today we compared notes. We gleaned a wealth of information on the subjects of county gossip and local politics, but nothing about the burglary. The contestants wanted to get an early start, so the party broke up by ten. All the guests had left before eleven o’clock, saying goodbye in the driveway as they were put into their carriages.
“Indications are that the theft is not an inside job. The outside door to the pantry storeroom had been forced. There was also a new break in the hedge in the direction of the main road.”
Stanley Hopkins shook his head. “Sir Harvey and Mr. Shelby, since they were guests of the Duke and Duchess that night, need to be interviewed also, along with their crews. That is why Mr. Holmes and I are meeting them right after the race tomorrow.”
“I took the liberty of suggesting to Inspector Hopkins that you come along, Watson.” Holmes began folding up the map. “I thought you might enjoy the diversion.”
I accepted eagerly. A time was set for me to be met by Inspector Hopkins Saturday and the two men left. I locked up my surgery and headed home through the waning light of the streets. As I walked past the buildings that lined my usual path through the labyrinth of London, I noticed the traffic around me. The streets were filled with the ordinary carriages, drays, hansom cabs and growlers that daily crawled through the capital city. I saw horses that were well-cared for and old hacks that barely could pull the loads they were lashed to trudge past me in an unceasing tide. Then the sounds of horses’ hooves and the rumble of steel-shod wooden wheels were interrupted by the putt-putt of an internal combustion engine and the smell of oil.
I looked around. One of the new-fangled automobiles, its polished mahogany bodywork gleaming in the gaslight and with its front seat occupants resplendent in white dusters and round-lens goggles, was chugging up the street. I recognized Lord Spedwell, the MP, and his chauffeur as they headed to the Houses of Parliament for a night session. One thing was true, I thought to myself. Motoring was a rich man’s game, with toys so expensive that they would never be able to be afforded by regular citizens. The most that might be expected by John Bull would be public transit in the form of large, awkward omnibuses. I looked forward to the opportunity to examine closely these dashing new inventions while Holmes and Hopkins talked to the two contestants.
Saturday I held surgery as usual in the morning and returned home for lunch. I perused the latest edition of the paper with my meal. The Treadlow robbery was the headline, with news that the two jewel cases taken from the Duke’s dressing room had been found in a copse of trees near the main road as a result of the search of the grounds. The case designed to carry the diamond and gold necklace was empty, but the other still contained the Mitgleid rope of pearls.
What could be the meaning of such a find? I wondered. The diamond necklace was worth 24, 000 pounds, according to the paper. But the rope of perfectly matched Oriental pearls handed down in the Mitgleid family since the time of Charles I was reported to be priceless and could be sold on the Continent for twice that amount. Why had such a valuable item been left behind?
The rope of pearls was historically important. Yet the pearls were never taken out of their case. If they were not to be stolen, why was the case taken at all? As I mulled over those baffling questions, the maid announced the arrival of Stanley Hopkins’ cab. I joined him in the growler and we swung past Baker Street to pick up Holmes on our way to Regents Park and the London Botanical Gardens.
In the cab with the great detective, I was bursting with questions, but Holmes turned them back with a raised eyebrow. “Must I remind you, Watson, that it is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the data? Thanks to young Hopkins here, I’ve been receiving regular reports from Standhill Abbey since yesterday. I sent Wiggins, my Baker Street irregular lieutenant, to the telegraph office asking for particular information from several sources. I received two answers and I expect the third to arrive momentarily. Wiggins is waiting back in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, making deep inroads on yesterday’s cold steak and kidney pie, ready to deliver the final message to me at the race’s finish line. Meanwhile, I see the crowds are gathering. We must be near the Botanical Gardens entrance.”
Indeed, the press of the crowds hurrying to see the end of the celebrated race was growing and the cab was finding the way increasingly impossible. Finally we dismounted from the growler and pushed our way to the imposing Administration building. Grandstands had been erected before its front door to mark the finish line and to hold invited dignitaries and the press. We passed through the doors and were met inside by the Director of the London Botanical Gardens, Sir William Jardin. He was a short man in his middle years, formally garbed, with a brown pompadour and a monocle stuck in his right eye.
“Indeed, it is an honour to meet such a famous neighbour as you, Mr. Holmes. Baker Street is so near it is a wonder we haven’t met before this. And Dr. Watson! I have followed your stories with great interest. Inspector Hopkins, I don’t quit
e understand what you need from me. The officers of the Metropolitan Police are doing a fine job with the crowds. Even the members of the press, including newsmen from all over the British Isles and abroad, have behaved well. I see no reason for the presence of the C. I. D.”
“Mr. Holmes and I just need a few minutes with the two contestants, Sir Harvey Harris and Mr. Shelby, after the race is over. It is in connection with the theft of the Treadlow diamond necklace.”
“Oh, yes. I did hear something about a jewel robbery earlier in the week from my wife, but I have been so busy preparing for today I didn’t pay it any attention. The latest word from the racers is that their scores are equal and the final decision will be decided by the automobile that gets over the finish line first. I have reserved seats in the grandstand for you all, just behind myself and Lord Spedwell. Lord Spedwell is presenting the prize, you know. Look at the time! This way, please, gentlemen.”
We walked out of the Administration Building into a mob of people. As far as the eye could see the crowds spread out to the horizon, surrounding the Botanical greenhouses and other buildings like a human sea. Thousands of men, women and children were thronging across the Park grounds, jostling for space to see the finish. Many were laden with picnic baskets, umbrellas and folding chairs. Muffin men were selling hot treats, and ginger beer sellers ranged about, doing a brisk business. I even recognized some bookies working the crowds, money changing hands discreetly.
Sherlock Holmes and the Folk Tale Mysteries - Volume 2 Page 6
