The Riddle of Foxwood Grange

by Denis O. Smith

  THE RIDDLE OF FOXWOOD GRANGE

  A Sherlock Holmes Mystery

  Denis O. Smith

  First edition published in 2016 by

  MX Publishing

  335 Princess Park Manor

  Royal Drive

  London, N11 3GX

  www.mxpublishing.co.uk

  Digital edition converted and distributed by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  © Copyright 2016 Denis O Smith

  The right of Denis O Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

  All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect those of MX Publishing or Andrews UK Limited.

  Cover illustration by Ann Cordery & Stuart Dorman

  For Phyllis, with love, for all her help and encouragement

  1: The Science of Deduction

  SHERLOCK HOLMES stood up from the breakfast-table and selected his long-stemmed cherrywood pipe from the rack on the mantelpiece, as he was wont to do when in a discursive rather than a reflective mood. It was a pleasant morning in the summer, and although my friend had been continuously busy for several weeks with a succession of interesting cases, he had no immediate calls upon his time that morning, and we had been discussing his theories with regard to the detection of crime. I had ventured the opinion that although he frequently referred to his theories as forming the basis of a science, the fact that no-one but Holmes himself seemed able to apply his theories in practice suggested that it might more accurately be termed an art.

  “I could not disagree with you more,” said he, as he seated himself beside the hearth and put a match to his pipe. “The fact that no-one else yet applies my methods in a regular sort of way indicates only that no-one else has yet been taught to do so. It is, in essence, simply a matter of education.”

  “Of course, I am aware that you have written numerous monographs upon the subject,” I remarked, “but there is as yet no standard general text-book that students could consult.”

  “You are quite correct, Watson. That is a deficiency which I shall remedy as soon as I get the opportunity. It is my intention that The Science of Criminal Detection will be the magnum opus of my later years, perhaps preceded by A Scientific Approach to Observation and Deduction.”

  “You raise another matter there which has often puzzled me,” I responded after a moment. “You frequently speak of observation and deduction as if they were separate; but, surely, the one implies the other. How would you distinguish between them?”

  My companion nodded his head. “There is indeed a single continuum of mental processes on which both these activities lie, and the one passes imperceptibly into the other, so that it can sometimes be difficult to draw a dividing line between the two of them. Nevertheless, there are instances which one would unhesitatingly place in one category or the other. To take an elementary example: one evening, a week ago, I was working at my chemical bench when you pushed the door open and entered the room, having been out for a time. I glanced up and thought ‘Watson has returned’. That was clearly an instance of observation.”

  I burst out laughing. “If I may say so,” I said when I had recovered myself, “that strikes me as a ridiculous example, Holmes, scarcely even deserving the name of observation. Why, it is simply a matter of instant recognition. No-one could possibly suppose otherwise!”

  “Perhaps not,” returned my companion in a serious tone, “and yet the matter is not so straightforward as you seem to suppose. For all that I knew, the man who entered the room might not have been you, Watson, but someone who closely resembled you - after all, there are those who claim that each of us has an exact double, somewhere in the world - and the fact that he entered without knocking may simply have been because he was ill-mannered or absent-minded.”

  “But that is absurdly unlikely!”

  “Perhaps so, but it is still possible. You should never confuse the two. All our ideas are either possible or impossible, and whether something is regarded as likely or unlikely does not affect that. Indeed, to say that something is unlikely implies by its very definition that it is possible. However, in that instant when I glanced up from my test-tubes, I observed that the newcomer was wearing exactly the same clothes as you had been wearing when you went out an hour previously, and I recalled also that you had said before you left that you would be absent for about an hour. With these supporting facts, I concluded in an instant that the newcomer was indeed you, and returned to the contemplation of my chemicals. In the most elementary of observations, you see, we rely on innumerable items of memory to assist us in reaching a conclusion. But the facts we rely on are themselves elementary and directly related to that which we are observing. They occur to us in an instant, and require no conscious process of thought to link them with the present circumstances.

  “Now,” he continued, “to give a simple example of deduction: two days ago, if you recall, I was the one returning to these chambers, when I found you sitting in a chair with a teapot and a cup beside you. I remarked that I was sorry that you had missed your friend Stamford at the Criterion Bar, and expressed the hope that he was not ill. You replied that he was perfectly well, so far as you were aware, but you had learned from someone else that he had left London for a few days to visit relatives. You then asked me how I knew that you had failed to find him.”

  “Yes, I recall the the conversation very well. We were then interrupted by the door-bell. Inspector Lestrade had called with some information for you, the two of you left together soon afterwards, and our conversation was never concluded. I never did learn how you knew I had missed Stamford.”

  Holmes nodded. “I shall explain it to you now, then,” said he. “It is a very elementary matter, but it does at least illustrate the difference between deduction and the simple observation of the previous example.

  “In the first place,” he continued, ticking off the points on his fingers with the stem of his pipe, “we had left the house together, at which time you had remarked to me that you hoped to run across Stamford at the Criterion. You had made no specific arrangement with him, you said, but you knew that it was his habit to have a drink with friends at the Criterion on Wednesday lunchtime. When I returned, I touched the teapot, thinking that I might join you in a cup of tea. I found, however, that it was almost cold, and also noted that there was very little tea left in it. I then drew on my knowledge that when Mrs Hudson makes a pot of tea, there is always enough in it for three or four cups, and it was clear to me that you had been back some time. A rough calculation for how long it would take for you to call for a pot of tea, how long it would take for the kettle to boil and how long it would take for you to consume, say, three cups, suggested that you had been back home for at least an hour and a quarter. If that were so, then, subtracting the time it must have taken you to reach the Criterion and get back home again, you had clearly spent little more than five minutes there.

  “Furth
ermore, this implied that you had not only failed to run across Stamford, but you had not bothered to wait fifteen or twenty minutes to see if he turned up. Evidently, you had been given some information as soon as you reached the bar which made it certain that he would not be coming. I then expressed the hope that Stamford was not ill, and you replied that, on the contrary, he was taking a short holiday.

  “Why this counts as a series of deductions and my other example did not is because in reaching my conclusion I did not draw simply on recollections from earlier in the day, but also on other general truths - of Mrs Hudson’s usual speed in making a pot of tea, of the rate at which you usually consume it, of how long you would generally wait to see if someone turned up at the bar and so on. Only by consciously - if very swiftly - bringing these facts together could I arrive at my conclusion. That is therefore a deduction.”

  “I understand,” said I, although I could not help thinking that, knowing my habits as well as he did, it was all rather a simple matter for him.

  “Of course, it is a very elementary example,” he remarked, responding to my thoughts rather than my words, as was his wont. “I should not have mentioned it at all, but for your request that I attempt to define the distinction between observation and deduction.”

  As he was speaking, there came a ring at the door-bell. A brief conversation at the front door ensued, and a moment later Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway of our room.

  “There is a man downstairs with a message for you, Mr Holmes,” said she. “I told him I would bring it up, but he says he would rather hand it to you himself.”

  “By all means,” returned Holmes. “Pray show him up, Mrs Hudson.”

  The man who entered our chamber a moment later was about forty years old, of medium height, clean shaven save for a neat dark moustache, and clad in a black overcoat and cap. For a moment he looked from one to the other of us.

  “I believe you have a message for me,” said Holmes, holding out his hand. “Is it from one of your colleagues at Paddington?”

  “No, sir,” the other replied, as he unfastened his coat: “a stranger to me, a very respectable-looking gentleman in a tweed suit - respectable, but mighty nervous.”

  “What made you think he was nervous?” Holmes queried.

  “Why, sir, he kept looking over his shoulder as we were speaking. He showed me this envelope and asked me if I knew of anyone coming this way who might deliver it for him. When I saw what the address was, I said I could go this way, and would do it myself.”

  “I see. You were presumably just coming off night duty at the time.”

  “That is correct, sir.”

  “At the goods depot on the far side of Paddington station, where you are employed as a checker.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You have not been there all your career, though,” Holmes continued. “I imagine that your employment with the Great Western Railway commenced in Bristol - no doubt at the goods depot there - and that your move to London was occasioned by the offer of promotion to checker - or perhaps from checker to senior checker.”

  “The latter, sir. I have been here just two years.”

  “I trust that you are not always on night duty?”

  “No, sir; just one week in three.”

  “I am glad to hear it, especially now that the fishing season has begun, for I know you take a keen interest in angling.”

  “I do indeed, sir,” replied the man with a chuckle. “I am a member of both the Paddington Angling Club and the one at Brentford.”

  “Thank you,” said Holmes, taking the envelope which the man held out to him. He took a coin from his pocket and offered it to his visitor, but the latter shook his head and declined it.

  “The other gentleman has already paid me adequately for the job,” said he.

  “It is always a pleasure to meet a man of integrity,” remarked Holmes with a smile. He held out his hand which the other man took and shook vigorously. “Might I know who it is I am addressing? You already know my name.”

  “Yes, Mr Holmes,” the visitor replied. “My name is Coleford, John Coleford. I wonder, sir,” he added after a moment, “if you would not mind doing me a small favour?”

  “Certainly,” said Holmes. “What is it?”

  “I should be obliged if you would explain to me how you know all those things about me, when we have never met before.”

  Holmes nodded. “Just before you arrived, Mr Coleford, my esteemed friend and colleague, Dr Watson, and I had been discussing the subject of observation and deduction - that is, the reading of facts about a person from details of his appearance - and your arrival provided an opportunity for a practical demonstration. You do not mind that I used you as a laboratory specimen?”

  “Not at all, sir. I am honoured.”

  “Very well,” said Holmes, laughing. “I will explain. When you entered the room, I, of course, knew nothing whatever about you. Your coat, however, appeared to be of railway issue, a conjecture which was supported by your cap, which appeared to be from the same source, and the monogram ‘GWR’ on the buttons of your coat. You were therefore employed by the Great Western Railway, probably at Paddington. No doubt you observed these points, Watson?”

  “I thought Mr Coleford’s coat might be that of a railway man,” I replied. “I did not notice the monogram on the buttons.”

  “So far we are in the realm of simple observation. But then I asked myself why our visitor should be wearing such a heavy-looking coat on such a balmy morning. The obvious answer is that he had been working through the night, for although the days may be fair at present, the nights can be very chilly,”

  “They can indeed, sir,” interjected Coleford, “especially when you are working in a large shed which is open to the sky at one end!”

  “But if Mr Coleford had been on night-shift at Paddington, he was almost certainly employed in the goods depot rather than the passenger station. There are generally no passenger trains in the night time, but the goods side of the business, I imagine, continues without remission throughout the twenty-four hours.”

  “It certainly does, sir,” said Coleford. “Oftentimes the night is busier than the day.”

  “Now, the fact that Mr Coleford is wearing an official uniform suggests he is not simply engaged in clerical duties in an office. But his bearing, which speaks of authority and experience, suggests that neither is he simply a porter. Then, as he unfastened his overcoat to take out the envelope, the answer was given to me by that horizontal line on his regulation waistcoat.”

  I looked and saw that there was a faint but definite line across the middle of his waistcoat, as if the material had been constantly rubbed by something.

  “It comes from continually leaning upon the little portable desk on legs that the checkers carry about with them and use to lean their papers on. It was clear, then, that Mr Coleford was a checker, one of the most important and responsible positions in the goods depot. But his accent, although not strong, is not quite a London accent, and I thought I detected a mild west-country intonation in it, such as one hears in Bristol. He has clearly not lived in London long enough to lose this accent, and I conjectured that his change of residence might have come upon the occasion of his promotion. As to the interest in matters piscatorial, there is a rolled-up newspaper protruding from his right-hand coat pocket which looks to me like the Angling Chronicle.”

  “It is indeed, sir,” said our visitor, glancing down at his pocket in surprise.

  “I was a little puzzled at first,” Holmes continued, “as to why a man of Mr Coleford’s obvious seniority should have offered to bring the message himself, rather than directing the gentleman to some more orthodox messenger service. We had heard from Mrs Hudson that he had declined her offer to bring the message upstairs, from which I had rather assumed that in delivering the message
himself, he had perhaps hoped to receive payment from me. His refusal of what I offered, however, disabused me of that notion and made matters clearer. I believe, Mr Coleford, that you have seen my name in the paper in connection with some investigation or other, and thought it might be interesting to see this great detective enterprise for yourself, from the inside, as it were. Am I correct?”

  “You are indeed, sir,” replied our visitor, looking a little discomfited. “You have divined my motive exactly. I hope you do not mind my intruding,” he added in an embarrassed tone.

  “Not at all,” cried Holmes, breaking into a smile. “This, I’m afraid, is all there is to it,” he continued, waving his arm about the room. “No super-modern equipment for the detection of crime, no rows of desks at which clerks are busily recording facts and figures, nothing, in short, but me, my colleague, Dr Watson, and a couple of shelves of books. The solution of crimes is not done at desks but up here,” he added, tapping the side of his head.

  “I can’t wait to tell the wife,” said Coleford, looking about him. “She will be mightily interested, I know.”

  “I hope so,” said Holmes with a laugh, as Coleford nodded his head to us and wished us good day. “Now,” said he, as we heard Coleford’s heavy step descending the stair, “let us see what this is all about.”

  He tore open the envelope and extracted the letter, which he studied in silence for a few moments. Then he passed it to me and I read the following:

  My Dear Mr Holmes,

  I flatter myself that I am generally quite adept at negotiating myself through the vicissitudes of life, but something has occurred recently which has left me quite at a loss. It is both inexplicable and sinister, and I really do not know what to make of it.

  I wish to consult you with some urgency, but for reasons I shall explain to you later I would very much prefer not to call at your chambers. I wonder, therefore, if you would be so good as to take lunch with me at one o’clock on Friday, at the Great Western Hotel in Praed Street.