I helped the boy gather his soldiers into the box, then followed Blake and Mrs Booth out to the back garden, where a table and chairs were set out in the shade of a large apple tree. As we sat down, she turned to me once more.
“Do you also write scientific essays, like Mr Blake?” she asked me.
I shook my head. “I do not have that sort of knowledge,” I replied. “In any case, I am a mere beginner. I have written a couple of pieces on criminological matters, that is all.”
Mrs Booth’s features expressed doubt. “I am sure that that must be interesting in its own way,” she remarked in a thoughtful tone, “but is it not also a little lowering, to be dwelling so much on the bad things people have done? Oh, forgive me,” she added quickly; “I didn’t mean to be rude. It was simply the first thought that came into my head. I am sorry if I have offended you.”
“Not at all,” I said with a smile. “You are quite right. Crime and criminals could certainly be lowering - and more than a little, too - if one were to spend one’s time dwelling on them. But I tend to gloss over the bad things people have done, as you put it, and concentrate on the way the crime was solved. A friend of mine, Sherlock Holmes, is particularly skilled at solving mysteries - criminal and otherwise - and as he has no real interest in recording his own exploits, I thought I should do it for him.”
“I see. That does sound interesting.”
“It is. It is the mystery that attracts Holmes, you see, rather than the crime in itself. If we lived in a perfect world, in which there were no crime, he would no doubt devote himself to other mysteries. I imagine he would probably be an experimental chemist, discovering new elements.”
“It is a pity this Mr Sherlock Holmes is not also staying with you,” said Mrs Booth to Blake with a smile. “He could apply his skills to that mysterious letter-puzzle you have in your greenhouse!”
Blake laughed. “As a matter of fact he is staying with us - and already bending his mind to that puzzle - but he has had to return to London today on professional business.”
The maid reappeared then with a jug of lemonade and some glasses on a tray, which she set out on the table. As the lemonade was being poured out, Blake asked Mrs Booth what it was she had been making when we arrived.
She laughed, a light, musical laugh. “You would never guess,” said she. “It is a miniature Tudor dress - something like one of Queen Elizabeth’s, but for a girl of nine! She is going to take part in the village summer pageant in a few weeks’ time.”
“I was not aware that you did such needlework,” said Blake in a tone of surprise.
“I used not to - I was hopeless at it when I was younger - but I got the sewing-machine two years ago, and that has revolutionized my existence. You can do the routine sewing so much more quickly, you see, so that you can spend more time on the tricky bits that you have to do by hand. To begin with, I made a few outfits for myself and for Henry - they weren’t very good - and then, last summer, I offered to make something for the child of a neighbour who was an even worse seamstress than I used to be. She was very pleased with it, and told everyone else, and I soon started to receive commissions from all and sundry. It’s not just children’s clothes, either; I make things for their parents, too!”
“Well, I never!” exclaimed Blake. “Good for you!”
Mrs Booth laughed again. “I do my best,” she said. “People generally seem pleased with what I do for them, and it brings me in a few shillings fairly regularly which is very useful. I don’t know how I could get by if it weren’t for the needlework. It keeps Mr Stubbs at the draper’s shop very happy, too, as I’m always ordering odd bits of fabric from him!”
For a few minutes we discussed the intricacies of Mrs Booth’s needlework and other matters, then, as the conversation lapsed, Blake leaned forward.
“Penelope,” said he, “I must be honest with you. This visit is not simply a social call. There is something I must ask you.”
The lady’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “You sound very serious,” she remarked.
“I am,” said he. He then described to her the events of the previous evening, and Holmes’s suggestion that her husband might be our mystery assailant, and asked her if she had seen him recently.
Mrs Booth shook her head. “No, I haven’t,” she replied, “but it is an odd coincidence that you should ask, for I have recently received several letters from him, after not hearing anything from him for a long time.” She paused then, as if collecting her thoughts on the matter.
“I am sorry to be asking you about such personal matters,” said Blake.
“That is all right,” she returned. “You already know, I think, how things stand between my husband and me, and, after the events of last night and the discussion you must have had, I imagine Dr Watson, too, is privy to the matter. The fact is that Richard - my husband - wrote to say he wished to pay me a visit. I wrote back and said I did not wish to see him. He then wrote again, saying that he wished to discuss our situation with me, with a view to my returning to the marital home. I wrote back to say that I was not interested in this proposal, at least for the moment. He then wrote a third letter, making vague threats of legal action.”
“Legal action?” Blake queried. “Of what sort?”
In answer she nodded her head slightly in the direction of the little boy, who was playing with his soldiers in a nearby flower-bed.
“You must be very anxious,” said Blake in a voice full of concern.
“I will cross each bridge when I come to it,” returned Mrs Booth. “There is no point in worrying too much about things that may never happen. Anyway,” she added after a moment, “the last letter I received was about two weeks ago. I have heard nothing since, and, so far as I know, he has dropped the idea of coming here.”
“Has he ever visited you since you moved to Foxwood?” asked Blake.
“Yes, just once, about eighteen months ago, but the visit ended in our having a violent quarrel, and I vowed to myself that I would not have him here again. He has a very short temper, and although he is a small man, he is certainly capable of great violence, as I know from personal experience. But, although I might be mistaken, I cannot think that he would come all this way without trying to see me. And as for throwing a stone at you, I can’t see why he should. He can know no more about you than he knows about anyone else in the parish. I have never mentioned anything about my friends and neighbours here in any correspondence I have had with him, so I think you may have to look elsewhere to find your stone-thrower.”
“I see,” said Blake with a frown. “It is all very puzzling, I must say. Incidentally,” he continued after a moment in a lighter tone, “speaking of neighbours, have you seen anyone else lately - Mr Ashton, for instance?”
Mrs Booth hesitated a moment, and looked, I thought, slightly embarrassed at the question. “No,” she responded at length. “I haven’t seen Mr Ashton for some time. But your question reminds me: I ran across your cousin, Mr Stannard, in the street the other day and he asked me if I had seen anything of you. I got the impression that he thought you had neglected him a little recently.”
“It’s true. I haven’t seen him for several weeks,” said Blake. “Perhaps we should pay him a visit now. Would you mind, Watson?”
“Not at all” I replied.
Shortly afterwards, therefore, when we had finished our lemonade, we bade farewell to Mrs Booth and her little boy, and retraced our steps along the village high street.
“She is a charming woman,” I remarked. “I can well understand why you enjoy visiting her.”
“I’m glad you think so,” returned Blake. “However,” he continued as we walked along, “I don’t really know what to think about what she told us. Mr Holmes’s suggestion that it was Booth who attacked us certainly seemed to make sense. And, if Booth did think I was seeing too much of his wife,
he must surely be the likeliest person to have spied on me through the telescope.”
I nodded my head in agreement. “He might also have had a motive for hiring that enquiry agent to follow you about London,” I observed. “He might have thought, for instance, that you might be going to consult a lawyer there on Mrs Booth’s behalf.”
“About the possibility of a divorce, do you mean?”
“Yes, something on those lines. Look, I know it’s none of my business, Blake, but don’t take offence. I’m simply suggesting to you what Booth might have thought.”
“I understand. You may be right, Watson, although, if so, it would still be a complete mystery as to why Booth should have murdered his hired spy.”
“Perhaps he simply lost his temper for a moment and struck out at the other man, not intending to do him serious harm, far less kill him. Mrs Booth describes him as having a very short temper.”
Blake nodded, but there was an expression of puzzlement on his features. “It must be so,” he said, “and yet Penny - Mrs Booth - seems sure that her husband has not been here in the last eighteen months or so. If that is the case, how could he possibly know anything about me? It is not yet a year since I spoke to Mrs Booth for the first time in my life.”
“It is certainly a puzzle,” I agreed.
We had been passing the churchyard as we spoke, and now came to a narrow lane on our left. “Mr Stannard’s cottage is just up here,” said my companion. We turned into the lane, which I could see led up to a side-entrance of the churchyard. On either side were neat little cottages, several of which had window-boxes overflowing with bright summer flowers.
“This is a very attractive little nook,” I remarked.
“I think Mr Stannard would agree with you,” returned Blake. “I know he is very content, living here. He makes his own contribution to the summer gaiety, incidentally, as you will see. His is the house with a climbing rose in the tub by the door,” he continued, indicating a white-washed cottage a little way ahead.
Our knock at the door was answered by a ruddy-cheeked, middle-aged woman with a duster in her hand. She smiled as she recognized my companion, and ushered us into the house. “Mr Stannard is in the garden, catching up with his newspaper-reading,” said she, leading the way towards the back of the house.
In the narrow garden behind the house, an elderly, white-haired man was sitting at a small green-painted table, a newspaper spread out before him. My first impression of him was that he was bent and frail-looking, but he surprised me by springing to his feet when he saw us.
“My dear boy!” he cried in an enthusiastic tone, addressing Blake. “It is good to see you! I had thought you had quite forgotten me!”
“Not at all,” returned Blake, laughing, “but I have been rather busy lately.” He introduced me and the old man shook my hand vigorously.
“A doctor, eh? Are you a medical man, sir? A doctor of divinity? Or perhaps a doctor of philosophy?”
“Medical,” I said. “I am a retired Army surgeon.”
“‘Retired’?” he queried. “You look a bit young to be retired!”
“Well, not so much retired as invalided out of the service,” I explained. “I was badly wounded in Afghanistan.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. It often seems to be the fate of medical men in the Army. You join up to treat others and end up needing treatment yourself! Exactly that happened to a friend of mine. He told me he was known as the most frequently injured man in his regiment. Mind you, even he admitted he was somewhat injury-prone: when he first went to India, he slipped and broke his leg just getting off the boat. Anyway, enough of these reminiscences! Come and sit down and we can share our news! Have you heard the latest folly that our idiotic Government are considering?”
We sat round Mr Stannard’s little table and had an enjoyable discussion about every subject imaginable, from the latest news from overseas to the most recent happenings in Foxwood. Mr Stannard delivered his opinions in a very forceful manner, but always with a tinge of humour, which made his conversation highly entertaining. He was interested when Blake mentioned that Sherlock Holmes was staying at the Grange for a few days.
“I believe I know that name,” said Mr Stannard. “I think he was mentioned in a newspaper report concerning the theft of the Temperley Emeralds some months ago.”
“That is possible,” said Blake. “He is a man who is rather good at solving puzzles and unravelling mysteries.”
“You must get him to look at Samuel Harley’s puzzle while he is with you, then,” said Mr Stannard.
Blake laughed. “He is already working on it,” he said. “I didn’t need to ask him. He seemed naturally drawn to it.”
This appeared to trigger some train of reflection in Mr Stannard’s mind, for after a moment he abruptly asked if Blake had seen anything of Mr Needham lately.
Blake shook his head. “Why do you ask?”
“He was always interested in Samuel Harley and his puzzles.” replied Mr Stannard. “In fact, ‘interested’ scarcely does his state of mind justice; ‘obsessed’ would be a more accurate description of it. He stole two books from me as a result of it.”
“You never mentioned this to me before,” said Blake in a tone of astonishment. “Are you sure about it?”
“I’m morally certain of it,” said Stannard, “although of course I can’t prove it. He borrowed a book of local history from me once, some years ago - there was a lot in there about Samuel Harley - and returned it a few weeks later. When I happened to look for it in the library some months afterwards, however, I couldn’t find it anywhere. Then I remembered that Needham had called round to see me one day when I happened to be out, and had waited for me in the library for half an hour. I think he must have taken the opportunity to slip the book inside his coat. It was only a slim volume. I could think of no other explanation for its disappearance. No other visitor had ever been in the library when I wasn’t there. I later discovered that my grandfather’s note-book, in which he wrote down all his thoughts about Harley and his puzzle, had also disappeared, and I could only conclude that that book had vanished in the same direction as the other. I seem to remember that I had showed it to Needham once, and he had been very interested in what it contained.
“The reason I didn’t mention this to you before is that you were new in these parts, and I didn’t want you to get off on the wrong foot with your neighbours. But you’ve been here long enough now to form your own opinions of them, so I feel I can speak more freely. And quite honestly, I always thought of Needham as deceitful and dishonest. To myself I always called him ‘Mr Sly Needham’. If I were you, I shouldn’t trust him an inch, or believe a word that he says.”
“I don’t really know what to say to that, I am so surprised,” returned Blake after a moment, sounding utterly taken aback. “But I thank you for your honesty.”
We spoke a few minutes longer without Mr Stannard really adding anything to what he had already said, and, just as we were leaving, he asked Blake if he would be attending the inquest into the death of Brookfield.
“When is it?” asked Blake.
“Ten o’clock tomorrow morning, in the Royal Oak.”
As we left Mr Stannard’s cottage and made our way back down the lane to the high street, Blake shook his head in a gesture of perplexity.
“Well,” said he, “I don’t know how you see it, Watson, but I don’t know what to make of anything we have heard this morning. I feel more confused than ever, and feel I know nothing of what is going on about me. The only thing I do know for certain is that I am very thankful that you are here.”
“I am glad if my presence is of any help to you,” I returned, “although - to speak frankly - I think I am probably as confused about everything as you are. I feel we ought to do something - act in some sort of positive way, rather than simply wait to see what
happens next - but I cannot think what to suggest.”
“I’ll tell you what we will do,” said Blake after a moment. “We’ll go and see Needham, and see what he has to say for himself!”
9: A Visit to Lower Cropley
LIKE A SCENE FROM a children’s story-book, the village appeared to have sprung to life as if by magic while we were in Mr Stannard’s cottage. The high street was now very busy, with all manner of folk passing this way and that with their shopping-baskets, small groups pausing to exchange their news, and even a queue outside the baker’s shop.
“Well, there is a surprise,” said Blake to me as we strolled along. “Over there,” he continued, nodding his head in the direction of a youth of seventeen or eighteen and a girl a little younger, who were some distance away, on the other side of the street. “That is Ashton’s son and daughter. We don’t see them in the village high street very often. In any case, I thought they were still away at school.”
“Perhaps the school terms have ended,” I suggested.
“You are probably right, Watson. Let’s go and say hello.”
We crossed the street and approached the young couple. As we did so, I observed an unusual thing. I have often seen, in satirical cartoons and the like, the depiction of those who regard themselves as superior to the mass of mankind as passing among their fellow-citizens with their noses held high in the air. I think I had always assumed it was some sort of artists’ convention, an exaggeration of reality, as I had certainly never seen such an expression in real life. But as we drew nearer to Ashton’s children, I realized that that was precisely how they were holding themselves, the girl especially. I realized, too, at the same moment, why they were doing so. It was not, as I think I had always assumed, that they were avoiding the smell of their social inferiors, but rather that they were endeavouring to avoid their eyes meeting those of another, which might have obliged them to engage in conversation.
The Riddle of Foxwood Grange Page 11
