The Riddle of Foxwood Grange

by Denis O. Smith

  “I thought you had a theory about that, Mr Blake,” said Whitemoor. “I seem to remember that when I was first here and you were showing it to me, you said you had covered dozens of sheets of paper with your ideas on it.”

  Blake laughed. “You’re quite right,” he said. “I certainly covered plenty of paper, trying out different possibilities, but none of them got me anywhere at all, and in the end I gave it up as impossible.”

  “Do you still have those sheets?” I asked. “After all, two heads are better than one, as they say - or four heads in this case. It may be that although you felt you had come to a dead end with your workings, they might suggest to one of us something that you hadn’t thought of.”

  “That’s a fair point, generally speaking,” returned Blake, “but unfortunately, in this instance, my workings really were all useless, believe me. In any case, I don’t have them any more. I think they were used to light the kitchen fire one day, which is all they were really any good for!”

  Holmes had been silent throughout this exchange, and when I glanced his way, I saw a thoughtful expression on his face. What he was thinking, I did not know, but I knew that he would not care overmuch that Blake’s papers had been destroyed. He was never what one might term a co-operative person; rather, he preferred to act alone, and reason things out for himself. When he spoke, it confirmed my reading of his thoughts.

  “No offence, Blake,” he said, “but it is probably a good thing that your papers are destroyed. If I were to see them, it might prejudice my mind irrevocably and thus hamper my own consideration of the matter.”

  “You intend to tackle the mysterious puzzle, Mr Holmes?” asked Whitemoor in a tone of surprise.

  “In a purely amateur sort of way,” returned Holmes. “I might as well see if I can get anywhere with it. Perhaps my efforts will end in failure, and will only provide more kindling for the kitchen fire. We shall see!”

  After lunch, Holmes announced, to my very great surprise, that he intended to take a walk over the local countryside, to experience the genius loci, as he put it. Although he generally kept himself fit, I knew he had no taste for taking exercise purely for its own sake, and I suspected that he had some specific goal in his mind. When I put the point to him, however, he was unforthcoming, and when I asked him if he would care to have a companion with him he declined the suggestion, so I remained in ignorance as to what the purpose of his expedition might be. Shortly after he had gone out, it occurred to me that he had not asked to borrow the field-glasses, from which I deduced that he was not intending to survey the countryside from a distance but to examine something closely, although what that might be, I could not imagine.

  A little later, Blake and Whitemoor were discussing some reference the latter had turned up in a volume of mathematical history. “I do apologise, Watson,” said Blake, turning to me, “but you will have to excuse me for a couple of hours. I’ve been commissioned to write an article on the ramifications of Pythagoras’s theorem for the Ludgate Magazine, and I’ve got to get it done this week.”

  “That is perfectly all right,” I returned. “I wouldn’t want my presence to hinder your work. Incidentally, although I’m of course familiar with Pythagoras’s theorem - we had to learn how to prove it at school - I didn’t know it had any ‘ramifications’, as you put it.”

  “You’d be surprised,” responded Blake. “I’ll show you the article when I’ve finished it. Anyway, I’ve got to hand it in this Friday at the latest, and I haven’t even started it yet, so I’ll have to get on with it! I’m afraid I shall have to leave you to your own devices this afternoon.”

  Blake and his young assistant thereupon disappeared into the study, discussing Pythagoras as they went, and I was left wondering what I should do with myself. It was a lovely summer’s day, and I strolled for a time round the pleasant gardens, and then sat a while in a sheltered corner, smoking my pipe. Eventually, though, this idleness bored me and I decided to go off on an expedition of my own. My chief concern was to avoid running across Holmes. I did not wish him to think that I was following him or getting in his way. As I made my way out of the side-gate from the garden into the field, I decided that I would not loiter in the ash spinney but pass straight through it and into the field on the other side.

  When I reached the crest of the ridge, I stood a moment, surveying the prospect ahead of me. The field before me was a large one, which sloped gently down to what Blake had described as the road to Thuxton village. As I let my gaze wander all round this pleasant rural prospect, I observed a small group of people walking along the bottom edge of the field, where it was separated from the road by a hedge and a row of trees. As I watched them, I saw that there were three of them, two men and a woman. The taller of the two men seemed to be striding out ahead, with his two companions following behind. I could not doubt that this was Professor Crook, his wife and secretary.

  Abruptly, the leading figure stopped and turned back to face the others. They were obviously discussing some point or other, the two men close together, the woman standing a little to the side. Then, as I watched, I had the impression that the discussion was becoming more heated. The two men moved even closer together, and both seemed to be raising their arms in gesticulation. All at once, the shorter man, whom I took to be the secretary, seemed to push the taller man violently in the chest. He staggered backwards and might have fallen, but the other two stepped forward and caught hold of him. A moment later, after a few more words had passed between them, they resumed their walk at a steady, even pace, as if nothing had happened.

  I did not know what to make of this. To see two grown men, presumably both highly educated, quarrelling in this violent fashion was both strange and shocking. But what was stranger still was the way the altercation had seemed to be instantly forgotten and the walk resumed as if it had never been interrupted. As I watched, this strange group of people reached a gate in the hedge, passed through it onto the road, and so vanished from my sight behind the hedge. On the other side of the road was a dense wood, where, Blake had said, the house of these singular people was situated. There and then, I resolved that I would walk over that way, and, if it were possible, see the house for myself.

  I sat on an old log at the edge of the ash spinney for five minutes, watching the fleecy clouds drifting slowly across the broad blue sky. I wanted to give Professor Crook and his companions time to reach home, so that I did not encounter them in the woods. It was a very peaceful spot, and as I sat there I found myself wondering where Holmes was, and what he was doing.

  At length I got to my feet, made my way down the margin of the field and passed through the gate at the bottom. There I turned right, towards the village of Thuxton, and strolled on until I came to a track on the left which disappeared into the woods. I stood there a moment, listening, but heard nothing but bird-song, then set off up the track. It was very narrow, scarcely wide enough for a farm-cart to pass, and deeply rutted. It must have been very muddy and difficult of passage in the winter, I reflected, but now the ruts were dry and hard, and walking was easy.

  After a few minutes, I came to a fork in the track. The main route, to judge from the deep ruts, continued straight on through the woods, but I decided to take what appeared to be a less-used branch to the right. A short distance along this way the track curved to the left, and as I rounded the bend I caught sight of chimneys and the roof of a house over a tall hedge to my right. I was just wondering if this might be Black Bank House, when a medium-sized, dark-bearded man emerged suddenly and in great haste through a gap in the hedge.

  I was somewhat startled by his abrupt appearance, but I doffed my hat and bade him “good afternoon”. He returned my greeting in a perfunctory sort of way and was hurrying past me when he abruptly stopped.

  “Excuse me for bothering you,” said he, “but have you seen an elderly man with a grey beard anywhere about?”

  I shoo
k my head. “Would that be Professor Crook?” I asked.

  He shot me a suspicious look. “Yes.” said he. “How do you know?”

  I explained that I was a visitor to the district and was staying at the Grange, where my host, Mr Blake, had mentioned that the eminent Professor Crook had a house over this way. “Have I the pleasure of addressing Dr Taylor?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he replied in an abstracted tone, as if his mind was absorbed by something else. “The fact is,” he added abruptly, “that Professor Crook and I had a slight disagreement about something earlier on, and he has gone off in a huff. I wanted to find him and apologise for what I said.”

  “Well, if I should see him, I’ll tell him that you’re looking for him,” I said.

  “Good,” said Dr Taylor in a preoccupied tone as he turned away. “Thank you,” he added over his shoulder. “I hope you enjoy your little holiday.”

  As he was making his way further up the track, away from me, and as I didn’t want to appear to be following him, I decided I would go back the way I had come, and return to the road. There was no sign there of Professor Crook, nor of anyone else. Not just the road, but the whole of the countryside appeared deserted and peaceful. For one accustomed to the constant tumult of the London streets, it felt strange and almost disconcerting to be all alone in those wide open spaces. For a moment I could not think what to do next. At length I decided I would return along the road towards Foxwood village, and see if I could find the quarry into which the elderly Mr Brookfield had apparently fallen to his death. It was not that I had any morbid desire to see the spot where he had lost his life, but I recalled that when we had first heard of the matter from Blake, the previous evening, Sherlock Holmes had seemed particularly struck by it, and if something was of interest to Holmes, then I thought that it might be worth my while to learn a little more about it.

  As I walked along, I pondered the household at Black Bank House. It was certainly a singular one, as Blake had described it to us, and I admit it puzzled me greatly. There was undoubtedly something strange about it, but what lay behind the strangeness I could not imagine. Dr Taylor, for instance, had been perfectly polite to me, but in a way that was so absent-minded as to make me feel that although he had spoken to me, he had in reality scarcely registered my presence there at all. I shook my head in puzzlement.

  Presently, I came to a cross-roads. If I had my bearings correct, the road to the left was the one that went past the Grange, the one to the right was the way to Pearson’s farm, Lower Cropley, and the one straight ahead was the more direct way to the village of Foxwood. It was along this last road that old Brookfield had come on the night of his death, on his way home from the Royal Oak at Foxwood, and that was the road I followed. On the right, a short distance past the crossroads, was a thick hedge. I walked on a little way, until I came to a narrow gap in this hedge. I pushed my way through it and found myself on a flat area of short, springy turf. Ahead of me lay a large quarry, its edge just a few yards from the hedge. At the farther end, the surrounding land was much lower. That was evidently the way the workmen and their vehicles had entered the quarry. But at the near end, where I stood, the ground was much higher, and it was a fearsome drop to the floor of the quarry. Lying on the grass at my feet was a small and faded wooden sign which had clearly fallen over some time ago. On it was painted in red the single word “DANGER”. Cautiously, I made my way to the edge of the quarry, crouched down and peered over. A sheer drop of about forty feet met my gaze. Anyone falling over that would undoubtedly be killed.

  Were it not for the recent tragic death there, it was a pleasant spot to sit on such a sunny day. I moved slightly forward, put my legs over the edge of the quarry and, sitting there, I took out my pipe, filled it and lit it. I am not one much given to foolhardy escapades, but it felt safe enough, as I sat there in the sunshine, smoking. It did occur to me, though, that if someone were to suddenly come up behind me and give me a good push, I would be quite unable to stop myself falling to my death. This thought had scarcely crossed my mind when the silence was broken by a rapid footstep behind me and the sound of someone pushing his way through the hedge. I turned in alarm as a figure loomed up behind me.

  7: A Balmy Evening

  “THAT DOES NOT LOOK the safest of spots in which to take a rest,” came a familiar, somewhat strident voice.

  “Holmes!” I cried. “You startled me!”

  “Perhaps so,” said he, “but I doubt you would have felt quite so startled had you not been sitting on the edge of the quarry in the first place.”

  “You may be right,” I conceded, rising to my feet. “Where have you appeared from so abruptly?”

  “I was up in the ash spinney, from where I had a very good view of the road and your progress along it. I saw you turn in here, and as my own investigations were concluded for the moment, I thought I would join you.”

  “And have your investigations - whatever they are - turned anything up?” I asked as I sat down beside him, next to the hedge.

  “A few details,” he replied as he filled his pipe and put a match to it. “I’d rather not say more at the moment, Watson. The details may not be significant, and may not lead anywhere. What about you, old fellow, have you learned anything of interest? I saw you enter the wood beyond the Thuxton road earlier.”

  “I ran across Professor Crook’s secretary, Dr Taylor, there,” I replied. “He struck me as pleasant enough, although the household as a whole is certainly an odd one.” I told him then all that I had seen, and my surprising encounter with Dr Taylor. “My impression,” I said, “is that Professor Crook is one of those people whose brilliant intellect makes him impatient with those not so quick-witted as himself, but whose great gifts do not extend to being polite to anyone.”

  Holmes chuckled. “They are certainly a singular group of people,” said he. “Still, if you look closely enough, no doubt every household in the country is ‘odd’ in its own particular way.”

  “That may be true,” I remarked, “and, in a way, that is the trouble. We are not really learning anything - so it seems to me, anyway. I have encountered an odd household, you have observed what you term ‘details’ in the wood, which you say, however, may be of no significance. In other words, we have between us come across nothing so far that sheds even the faintest of lights upon your client’s mystery, and I fear that that will be the case however long we stay here. I can’t see how we will ever learn anything of importance.”

  My companion shook his head. “I fear you are slipping into your old pessimistic ways, Watson. It is not true that we have learned nothing this afternoon. There is at least one interesting fact that we have both learned independently.”

  “Oh? What is that, pray?”

  “This hedge through which we have both pushed our way: it is very thick.”

  “What of it?”

  “Do you not see? Much of it is hawthorn. It is therefore not only thick, but prickly, too. Furthermore, there is no gap in it for thirty feet save only the one that we both found, which is by no means easy to penetrate. It is therefore extremely unlikely that the old man, Brookfield, could have stumbled through the hedge by accident. Nor is it very likely that Brookfield - an elderly man who had made the journey home from the village inn an uncountable number of times - would on this occasion have chosen to push his way through a prickly hedge in the dark to this narrow strip of turf by the quarry-edge. It is possible, of course, but highly unlikely.”

  “What, then?”

  “I believe he was murdered, Watson, murdered in cold blood on the road, and his lifeless body dragged through the hedge and cast into the quarry.”

  “But that is an appalling thought!” I cried. “Why should anyone murder a harmless old man?”

  “Perhaps because he was not so harmless as you suppose, Watson. Perhaps, by chance, he had witnessed something on the road that night wh
ich made him a danger to someone.”

  “Do you have any reason for advancing such a theory?”

  My friend hesitated for a moment. “I shall tell you one of the things that came to light when I was examining the path through the ash spinney,” he said at length, “but you must keep it to yourself. Around the base of the tree with rungs the ground is so scuffed up that it is difficult to make anything out. In general, however, the path is little used, and further along it I was able to pick out some individual footprints, although I can’t, of course, tell when they were made. At the far end of the path, where it meets the track which connects the Thuxton road to Abbeyfield House, one particular set of prints turned left, down to the road. This track meets the road just a short distance beyond that on the other side of the road which leads to Black Bank House, up which you ventured earlier and on which you met Dr Taylor. It is possible, then, that whoever removed the telescope went that way and emerged onto the road just as old Brookfield was walking past on his way home. If so, it was an unfortunate and tragic chance for him. I cannot say for certain that that was what occurred, but it is a distinct possibility. However, Watson, I should be obliged if you would say nothing of this view to Blake. I would not wish to cause him any further anxiety. He has had enough surprises and alarms recently, without our adding to the list. Would you not agree?”

  “Absolutely. I shall keep your theory to myself, and not say a word to anyone about it. Do you think that Blake himself may be in danger?”

  “It is difficult to say. It is possible. Part of our duty must therefore be to keep a watchful eye on our client. But, come,” he continued, as he consulted his watch, “the afternoon has almost passed. Let us return to the house and see if they can provide us with a little refreshment!”

  On our return to the Grange we were greeted by Farringdon Blake, who told us he had “had enough of Pythagoras for the day”, and rang for a pot of tea. He also informed us that in our absence a telegram had arrived, addressed to Holmes. My friend ripped it open and scanned the contents for a moment.