by william Todd
We were met on the walkway by an officer of the law. His steps as he approached were swift and pithy, which reminded me of the prickly energy of a terrier. He was small and lean with close-set, grey eyes and a bushy brown mustache. His perpetually up-turned left brow, along with his pursed, thin lips and clenched jaw gave him the air of one who knew more than he let on but also of one who would not tolerate any invasion into that knowledge.
“May I help the two of you gentlemen?” he asked.
“Not as much as you may hinder us,” mumbled Holmes as he squinted through strong, dappled sunlight at the grounds bemarked in muddy footprints.
“Excuse me?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my companion, Dr. Watson. We have been employed by one Stanley Hopkins for the purpose of recovering his abducted sister.”
“I am Cyril Brock from the local constabulary,” he said with a quick tip of his hat and, what seemed to me, a forced smile. “And I’d be hard as a brick, Mr. Holmes, if I said I’d never heard of you and your extraordinary talents of deduction, even in this little part of the country. But I’m not sure this situation is as bad as all that.”
“You’ve wrapped up the case then?” I asked.
“Not quite like that,” said he, “but our investigation thus far has shown no evidence of an abduction.”
“I would be most grateful if you would enlighten me on how you’ve come to that conclusion,” said Holmes holding back a sly grin.
The young officer obliged. “When I arrived, I was met just as we stand here by the panicked mother. She briefly told me the circumstances, and I, at that time, summoned for help. The lot of us started here at the edge of the front yard and in a straight line, we proceeded to examine the entire grounds for footprints and other markings, seeing how it’s been quite soggy in these parts the last few days. We paid particular attention to the area below the young girl’s bedroom, seeing that her bedroom window had recently been broken and not replaced. I can attest with one hundred percent certainty that there was found not one footprint upon the grass. No muddy prints on the top of the park’s parapet. No other single piece of evidence could be found that would suggest any intruders.
“Now I haven’t asked the young man just yet, but the mother swears that every door and window, bar the broken one in the girl’s bedroom, was closed and locked. If that be the case, the only conclusion that could possibly make sense is that the girl left on her own, through the front door, along the cobblestone walkway where no footprints could be left, and departed to some unknown destination. You see, Mr. Holmes, she wasn’t abducted but left of her own accord.”
Holmes pondered the theory thoughtfully, but my keen sense of my companion told me it was a blind.
“It is a most thorough job you have done here, Mr. Brock, and I commend you on that point. I do have a question though. Is there a key missing?”
“I never asked,” he said with a slight flush of his cheeks.
“For if she left on her own, through the front door, as you have suggested, she would have had to take a key with her and lock the door behind her as she left . . . that is if in fact the door was locked, as you say. That can be verified easily enough with young Mr. Hopkins. Ah, here he is now.”
Stanley had returned from his home and joined us on the walkway. His cheeks were blushed with embarrassment.
“I apologize, Mr. Holmes,” he said as he turned a stern but quick glance at Cyril Brock. “My mother is quite at a loss over this ordeal. In a nervous fit, she called upon the police when she feared I was taking too long in London.”
“Quite alright, young Hopkins. I suspect we can still piece things together.”
The constable Brock cut in with a less genial tone and with more obdurate features than those with which he had met us, “I still believe she left on her own. She is of age and quite the pretty young woman, if I do say so myself. Full of infatuation, I believe she quieted away to meet a young love and will most likely return before day’s end.”
“There’s still the problem of the key, my good Mr. Brock,” said Holmes.
“If she is coming back then she would no doubt keep the key with her to let herself back in.”
At that point Stanley interjected, pulling a ring of keys from his pocket. “My sister has no keys. I am in charge of locking up at night and unlocking in the morning. These are the only keys we have. And I distinctly remember unlocking both the front and back doors this morning.”
“Well, there we have it,” said Holmes. “Argument over the key is now mute. She could not have taken flight through the front door if she had no key and the door was still locked in the morning.”
“Well, what do you say about the complete lack of any physical evidence in the yard? If she had been abducted against her will, there would be marks in the grass from a ladder, at least, for how else could they get her down from the second floor except by ladder. There would be footprints of her abductors in the muddy soil but none were found. There were no cries for help heard, and who would let a stranger carry them off without struggle? I fear, Mr. Holmes, my theory lends itself more to the evidence at hand. I may be missing a few links in the chain, but I believe I am closer to the truth than you give me credit for.”
Holmes bowed in acquiescence. “You are absolutely right, Mr. Brock. If there were indeed no physical evidence of abduction, then your hypothesis would fit very nicely the facts at hand, even if not all facts were presenting themselves at present.”
“Then why do you insist on your point?”
“I do not insist on any point. I make no presumptions until I can review every detail. My point with you, Mr. Brock, is that you have already discarded one theory and based on what? A cursory glance through the yard? You need to learn to cast a wider net, and you will do well in your profession.”
“Well, do you have any theory better than mine?” prodded Brock in a tone as heated as his face.
“Please forgive me, but I share nothing until I have a chance to collect all evidence and test my suppositions. Then and only then will I share with the authorities that which I have found. You may proceed down whichever path suits your hypothesis, and we in our turn will do the same. In the end, we shall see whose fits the evidence best by our results.”
“Aye, we will, Mr. Holmes,” Brock said bitterly. “We will indeed.”
At that, the young policeman stormed off the seek refuge among his fellow comrades.
“I fear, Watson, that I have offended the young man of the law.”
“Well, Holmes,” said I, “you do have a particular disposition that seems to rub certain personalities against the grain.”
Holmes sighed. “If I have not said so, let me say that I am indeed grateful that you are not one of those personalities with which I rub so irritably.”
To Stanley, he said, “Young Mr. Hopkins, may we first start on the inside of your home and proceed to the outside, if you will lead the way?”
“Of course,” he said.
Holmes and I followed the young man up the cobblestone walkway, but before we entered, Holmes examined the front door and lock. “No evidence of force, but that is just as I thought,” he said more to himself than to us.
The home was meager and uncluttered but welcoming. Its few furnishings and even fewer accoutrements were well worn, but great care had been taken to give the home a feminine touch, which gave the dwelling a coziness it would not have otherwise had. Immediately in front of us was the stairway to the second floor. Stanley’s room, which I believe was a converted parlor, was to the right of the stairway.
“Let me introduce you to mother,” said Stanley as he led us through the living room.
The woman’s back was to us when we were ushered into the kitchen. She was peeling away at some vegetables at the counter next to the sink. The room was heavy with a stifling, moist air admixed with the aroma of sautéed onions and mushrooms.
“Mother,” said Stanley. “I’d like for you to meet Mr. Sher
lock Holmes and his friend Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes is the great detective for whom I had dashed into London.”
She hesitated momentarily then slowly turned to us. Her eyes were red and swollen as she blinked back tears. She was a woman of middle age, with the pale, weathered skin and haphazard, wooly, golden hair reminiscent of the resilient Viking stock. It wasn’t a hard task to see that at one time she had been an attractive woman, but the year since her husband’s death and now the disappearance of her daughter had obviously taken a grave toll on her spirit.
“Thank you so kindly, sir, for helping us through this horrible ordeal,” she said. “Do you really think you can find my little Fiona?”
Holmes tilted his head in sympathy after a cursory glance at her person and the work in which she was at task. “I can promise nothing at this point, Mrs. Hopkins, but I can assure you that everything within my power shall be done to find her whereabouts and return her safely home.”
The woman set down her cutlery and wiped her hands on what looked to be a splendidly crafted apron before shaking Holmes’ hand vigorously. “I apologize for my lapse in prudence and calling upon the police when I knew Stanley was off to fetch you. My only defense is that I am at my wits’ end.”
“Understandably, madam,” said Holmes. “We—the police and I—are on the same side, though we tend to stray from one another on the path of investigation. I assure you, though, that no harm was done, and our avenues will converge once more at the conclusion of this little mystery. Now, if we have your permission, I should like to take a look through the house before retiring to the outer grounds.”
“Absolutely,” she implored. “Stanley, show them whatever they ask for.”
Stanley nodded and hugged his mother warmly.
He then turned to us and said, “If you gentlemen will follow me, I believe the best place to start is Fiona’s bedroom.”
4
Just as Stanley had mentioned, I counted four stairs on our ascent that protested mightily under foot. Holmes stopped several times along the way to scrutinize the wall, the stairs, and the banister. A curt chuff when we reached the top told us that nothing of substance was found.
“I agree with your assessment, young Mr. Hopkins,” said Holmes as he turned and studied the staircase with an intent brow. “It would have been a sound sleeper indeed who would not have heard someone upon these stairs. But we must also take into consideration that unless your sister is a robust young woman, which seems unlikely given everyone’s rather flattering descriptions of her, her weight would not have stressed the stairs in the same way as ours have just done.”
“That is correct,” replied Stanley, “but you must take me at my word that even little Fiona could make quite a racket upon these stairs.”
“And your word is fine with me,” replied Holmes genially. “Now, which is her room?”
Stanley led us down the right side of the hallway and opened the door on the right. He showed us into the room with a sweep of his hand. “Unless Brock and his men have been in here to further hinder you, the room should be just as it was left.”
There was a quiet petulance in the statement from Stanley, which Holmes seemed to take as more than a professional aversion to the local constabulary.
“Is there something about Mr. Brock that you find unappealing?” he asked as we entered the room.
Stanley’s youthful countenance hardened. “I must say, Mr. Holmes, that my dislike for the local force, and Cyril Brock in particular, is why I have set my sights higher in law enforcement and came to you in my time of need. You are a just man with extraordinary talents. This man is a miscreant with a badge.”
“Why do you hold such a low opinion of the man?” I asked.
“I am not like my sister. I admit that I can be a very judgmental individual. This is a small community, and there are some unsavory rumours being circulated about Cyril Brock and his misuse of authority, his catching people in minor infractions and coercing from them…certain favors for his looking the other way. Now granted, these are only rumours. I cannot validate any of the stories, for I have seen none of this first hand. I am, however, a good judge of character, and I have seen enough of him and how he works to know something is amiss.”
“Gossip has ruined many a good man,” I replied. “Without proof, these rumors are but fables.”
“True, but I am not so young as to be ignorant of the fact that all fables have a grain of truth to them, and in my mind, the fact that stories such as these are even being circulated of him tells me he is not an honest man, and I believe possibly worse than even that.”
“May I give you a bit of advice, Mr. Hopkins?” asked Holmes, as he carefully examined the glassless window frame.
“I would count it as an honor for any advice coming from you, Mr. Holmes.”
“If you are ever to become a respectable detective—for the Yard, if you choose—then it will do you well to realize that emotions play no role in a field such as this. The focus must interminably be on facts. Feelings will only dilute one’s focus, which in turn, will lead inexorably away from the truth instead of to it.”
“You are right, of course, Mr. Holmes, and I will certainly work on that personal deficiency.”
As Holmes moved from the window, two photographs on Fiona’s dressing table caught his attention. “Is this the young woman for whom we are searching?” he asked as he plucked one of the pictures from its perch for a closer look.
“That is Fiona,” affirmed Stanley. “It was taken down at the boardwalk by a traveling photographer who has been summering here for the last three years. This picture was taken just before our father died. It was the last time Fiona and I had gone to the beach together. I no longer have the time for such things. The other photograph,” he said, nodding to the second picture, “was taken just month ago.”
Sherlock Holmes paid no attention to Stanley. He seemed mesmerized by the picture. His tense muscles slackened, the rigidity of his pursed lips softened, the tight knit of his brow loosened, and the squint of his intense gaze released. He looked like one in the trance of a fond memory.
I gazed over his shoulder at the photograph. She was a beautiful young woman, indeed. She possessed full, curly locks of flaxen hair that fell onto porcelain-like skin. She had gazed into the camera with deep and focused eyes that were spiritual and sympathetic. Her smile was shy, delicate, yet she exuded a soft confidence in how she held her head upon her shoulders. It was no wonder that she commanded attention wherever she placed herself.
As I have mentioned in previous memoirs, Sherlock Holmes seemed to eschew the emotions involved in relating to the fairer sex. Until now, I had attributed this to the critical methodologies of his brain. After having seen his singular reaction to the photo of Fiona, I must allow for the possibility that he may have indeed had the capacity for attraction to the opposite sex but quite possibly had been irreparably spurned, perhaps in his youth. The man is my closest friend in the entire world, and I stand in awe of his abilities as a detective; but I believe this was the first time I had seen the humanness in Sherlock Holmes that I, at times, wondered if he ever possessed, as he gazed upon the photograph of this young girl.
After a long moment in that trance-like state, with the photograph clutched between his long, delicate fingers, he recovered himself. A fire of determination suddenly passed over his gaze. I knew at once that the responsible party for the disappearance of this young girl would have the entire weight of Holmes’s abilities upon their heads.
He gently replaced the photograph upon the dresser and briefly scrutinized the second before setting it back down. “She is indeed, as you say, a human flower, young Mr. Hopkins,” said Holmes in a humble tone. “You do her a service by being so protective.”
I then watched with usual awe as Holmes, with a renewed vigor, inspected the window once more, taking time to lean his torso outside and inspect the outer frame. He then went from the window to the floor, to the walls around the bed, then back to
the floor, scrutinizing every particle, every smudge with his convex lens.
Next, Holmes fixed his cold, precise mind onto the disheveled bed. He examined every crease, every indentation, every minutia found. Something then caught his attention. He scratched then snuffled at an area of the bed sheet just below the bottom right of the pillow.
Suddenly, his bowed torso quickly straightened. “Halloa! What is this?” He bent down and smelled the area once again. “Yes, I do believe it is.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“There is a small oily spot right here by the pillow. Its odour has dissipated during the day, but I believe enough of its pungency has remained to decipher it.”
“Well what do you think it is?”
“I shall hold off on my revelation until I am certain of its place in the interesting puzzle we are piecing together.”
Stanley joined us at the bedside and regarded the small, discolored spot upon the bed sheet with some surprise. “I must say that I didn’t notice that earlier.”
“I’m certain that upon the discovery of your missing sister you would not have been in the state of mind to notice such de minimis.”
“Is there anything to it that would require us to inform Mr. Brock?” I asked.
Holmes gave his answer with a dogmatic waive of his hand. “The evidence is here in plain sight for all to see. Who am I to tread upon Cyril Brock’s own investigation? If he wishes to investigate the interior of the house, he will see it sure enough.”
He then turned to Stanley. “I would like to see every room on this floor, then we can proceed outside.”
“But what is there to see in the other rooms? Surely here is where the deed was done.”
“I hold within my grasp several threads of possibilities, at the moment. I would be negligent if I did not test each of these to see which frays and breaks under the weight of scrutiny and which stays strong and true. Even though the vile event commenced in this very room, I am not yet convinced this is where it terminated. We must search elsewhere before I make that determination.”
