The Riddle of Foxwood Grange

by Denis O. Smith

  “It was no-one you had ever seen before?” Holmes interrupted.

  “No, never.”

  “Do you have any keen rivals in your line of work?” Holmes queried. “Is there anyone, that is, who might feel he could gain some kind of advantage over you by learning which editors you had been to see?”

  Blake shook his head. “Not really. I don’t think anyone else is producing the same sort of articles as I am. Besides, there is nothing secret or confidential about anything I do. My name is attached to almost everything I write, so anyone wishing to know who it is I am working for can find out by simply reading the various papers and magazines. Following me about town in a furtive manner would add absolutely nothing to that knowledge.”

  “So I imagined,” said Holmes, “but one must consider all possibilities. Pray continue with your account.”

  “One afternoon, a few days later, during that fine weather towards the end of June, I had been working hard in my study for several hours when I decided that I had had quite enough for the day of poring over books and journals, and took myself out for a walk. During my three years’ residence at Foxwood I have wandered all over the surrounding countryside in all the seasons of the year, but there are so many oddly-shaped little fields and woods in the area that there are still lots of places I am not very familiar with. On that day, I left the garden by a side-gate and followed a track up the hilly field beyond, into a narrow belt of trees which stands on the very crest of the hill and is known locally as the ash spinney. It separates one farmer’s land from that of another, and I had never been sure to which of the two the wood actually belonged. I have been that way many times before, but have usually passed straight through the trees and into another field on the other side of the hill. On this day, however, for no particular reason, I decided to turn to the right and follow the wood along the crest of the hill. I had wandered along a little way beneath the huge ash trees, when all at once I came across something odd and surprising. Into the trunk of one of the trees had been hammered several large iron staples, each one eighteen inches or so above the one beneath it and thus forming the rungs of a ladder up the side of the tree, rather like something out of a fairy story.

  “The staples didn’t look particularly new, although they were in good condition and not rusty. I had never seen anything quite like it, and stood there for some time, regarding it with amazement. I supposed that at some time in the past, whoever owned the wood had fixed these steps in the tree for his children to play on, and I looked up to see where they might lead to. There seemed to be some kind of wooden platform there, up among the leafy branches, and, on the spur of the moment I decided to climb up and have a look at it. It did not take me long to reach it. It was, I suppose, about twenty feet from the ground, although it seemed much higher than that as I was climbing up.”

  Farringdon Blake paused, and took another sip of water. “I like to think I am a fairly level-headed man, Mr Holmes. I take most things in my stride. But when I reached that wooden platform, I found something there that knocked all the sense out of my head, so that I thought I was losing my mind. The shock sent me reeling and dizzy, so that I had to grip the branches about me to prevent myself tumbling off the platform. I doubt you could ever imagine what it was I found there, what it was that made me feel I was losing my wits.”

  3: The Man in the Street

  “WELL?” SAID HOLMES in an affable tone, as Farringdon Blake paused. “If we could never imagine what you found, you will have to tell us.”

  Blake took a long draught of water. The hum of conversation in the dining-room seemed to have subsided a little as we waited to hear what he would say. “You may think it foolish,” he began at length as he put down his glass, “that such a thing could disconcert me quite so much; but please hear my whole account before forming your opinion.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Upon the platform, high in that ash tree, was a telescope, standing on a tripod. It was a large, modern and expensive-looking piece of equipment. I was very surprised to see it there, and, just out of curiosity, leaned down to look through it. Imagine my shock when I found that it was pointed at my own house, Foxwood Grange, which was clearly visible from that vantage-point up the tree. Not only that, but it was pointed at, and precisely focused on, my study window. The telescope was a very powerful one. Through it I could see right into the room and clearly see my large desk, spread with books and papers, where I had been sitting, just half an hour previously.”

  “That is where you sit to work?” asked Holmes.

  “Yes, with my back to the window. It is the lightest place in the house.”

  “Could the telescope have simply slipped into that position?”

  “Absolutely not. The nuts and screws on it were all tightened, to hold it exactly in the position in which I found it. When you consider my circumstances, you will perhaps appreciate why this discovery came as such a very great shock to me. There was I, happy and content, writing my scientific essays in a lovely old house in beautiful countryside, pleased that everything seemed to be going so well, when suddenly - quite by chance - I had discovered that someone had been secretly and furtively spying on me. My equanimity and confidence have been utterly destroyed, Mr Holmes, and I have found it a terrific struggle these last two weeks just to keep my mind on my work.”

  “It is certainly an interesting and curious state of affairs,” remarked Holmes after a moment. “It is always possible, though, that the explanation for the telescope is a simple and innocent one. Perhaps someone was up on the viewing platform, observing the countryside or the local bird-life, and at the end, purely on a whim, turned the telescope in the direction of your house, without any malice in his heart. Perhaps something had just caught his eye: your opening or closing the study window, for instance, might have caused a momentary flash of light as the window caught the rays of the sun.”

  “That was the sort of thing I kept telling myself, Mr Holmes, but against that was the fact that the screws were all fastened to hold the telescope in that precise position. Then, as I tried to consider the matter calmly, I recalled the man I had seen in the street in London, and I could not help wondering if the two things were related, and I was being spied upon by the same agency, both at home at Foxwood and here in London.”

  Sherlock Holmes nodded his head, and considered the matter for a moment. “I take it you have not discovered to whom the telescope belongs,” said he at length.

  Blake shook his head. “I wanted someone else to bear witness as soon as possible to what I had discovered. The following day, therefore, when my secretary returned from a visit to his mother, I took him up to the tree with rungs. To my great disappointment, however, the telescope had vanished from the wooden platform, and there was no sign that it had ever been there. Later that same day, I called on two of the local farmers to try to establish who owns the land on which the ash spinney stands, and learnt that it belongs to the farm on the other side of the hill, Lower Cropley, owned by a man called Thomas Pearson. He has farmed there for about twenty years, but he informed me that, so far as he could remember, he had in all that time set foot in that little wood only once or twice, and had never noticed the rungs on the tree. He suggested that his predecessor, a man called Davis, who had had a large family, had fixed the staples to the tree so that his children could have a tree-house to play in - much as I myself had initially surmised.”

  “You are not aware of anyone in the district who possesses a telescope such as you saw?”

  “No, although my enquiries have not been exhaustive.”

  “Very well. Has anything further occurred?”

  “Yes. Last Friday, a few days after I had discovered the telescope, I came up to town as usual. I looked out for the man in the light overcoat as I was leaving the station, but, to my relief, I did not see him anywhere. Later that day, however, when I was visiting the offices of the Pall Mall Gazett
e, I was in an upstairs room and happened to glance out of the window. Across the street, standing in a doorway, was the very same man. It was then I decided that I must consult you, Mr Holmes.”

  “And yet you were still not certain.”

  Blake’s features expressed doubt and indecision. “Despite the relative shallowness of my scientific credentials, as I confessed to you earlier, I am of a naturally logical and scientific turn of mind, and am always ready to see and admit alternative explanations for anything. In this case, it was still possible, I thought, that I was mistaken, and that these things were, after all, simply coincidence. I wrote you a letter, but, as you know, I did not post it. Then, this morning, as I arrived here at Paddington, I thought I saw the same man again. There was a large crowd of people by the station entrance, though, and when I looked for him again, he seemed to have disappeared. Had I really seen him? I don’t know. My nerves are shot, and I am beginning to start at shadows. Who is this man? What does he want with me? It is horribly unpleasant to think that, wherever you go, some unknown person is secretly watching you. I cannot go on like this, Mr Holmes.”

  Again Holmes nodded his head. “It was, I take it, because of this man that you did not wish to come to my chambers.”

  “Exactly. I thought he might just follow me there and make enquiries as to your business. Then he would know who it was I was consulting and perhaps be able to guess the reason, which would put him on his guard. I wished my consultation with you to be private, so that whoever it is that is watching me has no knowledge of it.”

  “Can you describe the man to us?”

  “Yes, but not very helpfully, I’m afraid. He appears to be middle-aged and somewhat taller than average, with a broad chest. He has a greying moustache, and wears a light brown overcoat and a bowler hat.”

  Holmes sat in silent thought for a few moments. “Tell me,” he said at last, “where did you go this morning?”

  “An office in Fleet Street.”

  “You did not see the man there?”

  “No. He may have been there, but I did not see him. The street was very crowded.”

  “And your plans for this afternoon?”

  “I have another appointment in Fleet Street. Ordinarily, I should have found somewhere down there to take lunch. I only suggested that you and I meet here as I thought that Paddington would be more convenient for you.”

  “That was very considerate of you. What I suggest now is that when we have finished our meal, I will leave first, while you and Dr Watson sit here talking for a few minutes. Unless the man following you is in this dining-room now, which I very much doubt, he will not know that we have dined together and that there is any connection between you and me, so I should be able to pass out of the hotel unremarked. Then, when you leave, do not take a cab straight away, but walk off together, at least as far as Marble Arch. I will be loitering further along Praed Street and will follow you at a distance. I should be able to see if there is anyone else following you. Do you understand?”

  “Certainly. Might I know what else you intend to do?”

  “Would you be able to put us up at Foxwood Grange for a night or two?”

  “With pleasure.”

  “Then if you would give Dr Watson directions as to how to get there, what I propose is that we run down to Foxwood tomorrow, equipped with a good map and Dr Watson’s excellent field-glasses. I should very much like to have a look about there for myself. Is that agreeable to you, Watson?”

  “Very definitely. I am absolutely fascinated by Mr Blake’s problem.”

  “It is certainly a recherché little mystery! Indeed, it is quite the most outré little problem I have come across in some time! Now, Mr Blake, there are a number of questions I wish to ask you, but they can wait until I see you again. The first thing I hope to do is to identify this man who appears to be dogging your footsteps in London, as that is the more immediate question.”

  The street was very crowded when Farringdon Blake and I left the hotel. Holmes had instructed him that he was on no account to look about him in a searching manner, but that if he did happen to catch sight of the man in the light overcoat, he was to raise his hat with his right hand and scratch his head with his left. As we looked to right and left before crossing the street, however, Blake’s hat was never raised. Along Praed Street we walked in a leisurely manner, and so down the Edgware Road towards Marble Arch. There, Blake and I said goodbye, he hailed a passing cab and I strolled into Hyde Park and sat on a bench for some time, smoking my pipe.

  I had no idea whether we had been followed or not, but my thinking was that if we had, and if our pursuer had decided to turn his attentions to me, then I would try to exhaust his patience by sitting there for half an hour or more. When I eventually rose to my feet, after about forty minutes, I saw no-one there who had been there when I sat down. In an unhurried fashion, I made my way back to our lodgings in Baker Street.

  Sherlock Holmes had not returned, and it was almost five o’clock before he did so. He seemed in good spirits, and I asked him if he had had any success in identifying the man who had been following his client.

  “More than that,” returned my friend. “I now know all there is to know about him. I soon picked him out, standing in a doorway across the street from the hotel. Then, when he set off to follow you, I set off to follow him. There was something about him that struck me as vaguely familiar, and, as I followed you all down to Marble Arch, I tried to remember where I had seen him before.

  “When Blake took a cab and you strolled in your ostentatiously leisurely fashion into the Park, your shadow stood a moment and appeared undecided whether to follow Blake or follow you. In the end, after watching you fill your pipe, he did neither, but hailed a passing four-wheeler. There was quite a crowd on the pavement at the time, and I was able to get close enough to hear him call out ‘Long Acre’ to the driver. A minute later, I managed to secure an empty hansom, and set off for the same destination. As we clattered along, it became evident that my brain had been chugging away quietly by itself, like a little steam engine set in motion, for into my mind, for no apparent reason, came the name ‘Wilson Baines’, and I recognized at once that that was the man I was following. He is by way of being a private enquiry agent, Watson, with a somewhat dubious reputation. As I recollected his name, I also remembered that he had at one time been among the ranks of the detective force at Scotland Yard, although no-one there ever mentions him now.

  “When I reached Long Acre, Baines had just paid off his cab and was entering a large, drab-looking building. I told my cabbie to carry on a little further, then, when I was sure that Baines was out of the way, I walked back to see where it was he had gone to ground. It is one of those fairly modern but depressingly gloomy buildings that are let out to dozens of different businesses. Just inside the main entrance is an array of small brass plates, and there, among those of the second-floor occupants, was one declaring ‘John Wilson Baines. Private and discreet enquiries undertaken’. Satisfied that I had confirmed my suspicions as to who it was I had been following, I then made my way down to Scotland Yard. My idea was that if one of the policemen I know well was about, I might be able to learn a little more about Wilson Baines.

  “I was in luck, as Inspector Lestrade was in his office, working on some papers. He was reluctant to speak of Baines at first, but when I assured him that any information he was able to give me was for my own personal interest and would not be passed on to others, he nodded his head.

  “‘Very well,’ said he. ‘You have done me one or two favours, Mr Holmes, I can’t deny that, so I’ll tell you what you want to know. But,’ he added, sinking his voice to a whisper, ‘you must swear not to pass it on to anyone - except for your colleague, Dr Watson, of course - I’ll make an exception in his case.’

  “I gave him my assurances once more, and this, in brief, is what he told me. Wilson
Baines had been some years on the force when several of his colleagues began to have serious doubts about his honesty. He seemed to some to be just a little bit too close to the villains they were supposed to be keeping an eye on, and there was more than one instance when someone who was about to be arrested appeared to have got wind of the fact and had disappeared just before the arresting party arrived. In every such instance, Baines had been involved in the case.

  “Matters came to a head one evening when Baines was seen by one of his colleagues apparently accepting a bribe from a suspected criminal. Of course, he tried to talk his way out of it, but no-one believed him. The difficulty though, was that although they knew Baines was guilty, there was not really sufficient evidence to guarantee a conviction in court. In the end, Baines was offered a choice. He could stay on the force, but he would be reduced in rank - and, in any case, none of his colleagues would work with him any more - or he could voluntarily resign his position, in which case no further action would be taken, and the charges against him would be struck from the record. Understandably, he chose the latter option.”