The Riddle of Foxwood Grange

by Denis O. Smith

  “There is nothing I should like better,” I replied. “Now we know that Holmes is returning some time today, I feel at something of a loose end. There is nothing in particular that I wish to do, either, so a leisurely tour of the gardens would be ideal.”

  An hour later, therefore, the two of us made our way, with many a detour to terraces and quaint corners I had not seen before, by winding paths and stone steps towards the bottom of the garden. There, Blake showed me a little spring, which trickled down a low rock face and fed a small, reed-girt pool. On the other side of the pool was an old, lichen-covered stone wall, about six feet high, beyond which, as far as I could see, was a wood.

  “That wall marks the boundary with Ashton’s land,” said Blake as we sat down on a wooden bench beside the pool and filled our pipes. “The wood is his, and his house is just the other side of it.”

  It was a pleasant, shady spot in which to sit on such a balmy summer’s day, and for some time we remained in companionable silence, watching the little birds flitting in and out of the trees, and listening to the trickle of the spring into the pool.

  “You certainly have some curious neighbours,” I remarked at length, breaking the silence.

  “That can scarcely be denied,” returned Blake. “Did you have anyone in particular in mind?”

  “I was just reflecting again on my encounter yesterday with Professor Crook and his household.”

  Blake nodded. “It sounds, to judge from what Dr Taylor told you yesterday, as if they have just about reached the end of their tether, and it won’t be possible for Crook to stay there much longer.”

  “So I should say,” I agreed. “It is certainly a sad state of affairs, but his family must face the reality. A potentially violent man cannot be allowed to go wandering off round the countryside by himself, however eminent he may be. In any case, it doesn’t sound as if he is able to do much work or write anything much these days.”

  We discussed Crook further, and Blake told me of some of the professor’s contributions to astronomical theory and practice over the years. Eventually, when we had exhausted the subject, Blake suggested we return to the house for a little late-morning refreshment.

  “In the light of the latest information you gleaned from Dr Taylor yesterday,” remarked Blake, as we made our way up the narrow, twisting paths of the garden, “I have been wondering if it was in fact Professor Crook who was spying on me through a telescope. He may have conceived the notion that I was in league with his imaginary enemy, Hargreaves, or even that I myself was Hargreaves.”

  “Indeed,” I said, “although I doubt whether he could have been responsible for hiring that private detective to follow you about London.”

  “That is certainly a problem,” agreed Blake, “unless, of course, someone else agreed to do it, to humour his delusions. I suppose we must accept that what Dr Taylor told you was all true - we have no reason to think otherwise - but it seems a little odd and unlikely to me that he should claim not to know where the professor’s telescope is at the moment.”

  As he was speaking, we ascended a shallow flight of stone steps and came onto a grassy terrace, when Blake abruptly stopped. I followed his gaze. Off to the right, in a secluded bower, half-hidden by climbing roses, was a wooden bench which faced away from us, and upon that bench a man was sitting. I could make out very little of him other than a rural-looking soft cap of some sort and the left sleeve of a tweed jacket.

  “Hello!” cried Blake, taking a step towards the bench. “Are you waiting for me?”

  For a second there was no response, then the man sprang to his feet and turned to face us, and I saw that it was none other than Sherlock Holmes himself.

  “Holmes!” I cried. “What are you doing here?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was just examining the behaviour of some honey-bees on the flowers,” returned Holmes. “I heard your approach, but it was so fascinating I found it difficult to tear myself away!”

  “But we were not expecting you until some time this afternoon,” said Blake in a tone of puzzlement. “How on earth did you manage to get back so early?”

  “I came a different way,” replied Holmes.

  “Not to Rushfield station?”

  “The station is irrelevant to my time of arrival, although, as it happens, I did not alight at Rushfield, but at the next stop on the line, Little Broadstone Halt.”

  “That would seem an odd choice,” said Blake. “It is the other side of Thuxton, and quite a bit further to walk from there.”

  “Perhaps it is,” responded Holmes, “but I had a particular reason to come via Little Broadstone. As a matter of fact, that is also the station I used when I left here the other day. Anyhow, I am here now, so, if we could postpone this discussion of trains and stations to a later time, I should very much like to get on with the matter in hand.”

  “I saw in the telegram you sent Dr Watson that you think you may have solved Samuel Harley’s riddle,” said Blake in a hesitant tone. “Of course, I was fascinated to hear that, but I was a little surprised that that was the main point of your telegram. I had understood from what you said when you were here before that you regarded the old puzzle as something of a recreation, which you might look at if you had any time to spare when not pursuing my own very current and pressing mystery. Might I ask if you have made any progress in the latter business?”

  “I spoke lightly of Harley’s riddle before for two reasons, Mr Blake. In the first place, I did not wish to raise hopes which I could not satisfy - some of these old riddles are the very devil to understand, let alone solve - and, in the second place, although I already suspected that Harley’s puzzle might be connected to what you term the current mystery, I could not be certain. Now, however, it is clear to me that the two mysteries are indeed intimately connected, the threads of the one intertwined with the threads of the other. The reason I am so certain about this is because I have solved both mysteries, the current one and the hundred-year-old one. Before I explain it all to you, however, I wish to make sure I am in possession of all relevant information. Has anything of significance occurred in my absence?”

  “You could say that,” I replied with a chuckle. “I have been physically attacked twice, once by a dog and once by a man, and that is not all.”

  “Have you made a note of all these things, Watson?”

  “I have made very detailed notes,” I replied. “I have kept what amounts to a diary these last few days, and I am sure you will find it of interest.”

  “Where is this diary?”

  “Such as it is - a note-book and a pile of loose foolscap sheets donated by Blake for the purpose - it is in my bedroom.”

  “Then let us waste no more time,” said Holmes, turning and leading the way to the house. “If you will fetch your materials, Watson, I will seclude myself in the library for a little while and study it all.”

  Forty minutes later, Blake and I were sitting on the little terrace outside the French windows of the drawing-room, enjoying a cup of coffee, when Holmes joined us.

  “Thank you, a cup of coffee would be most welcome,” said he in answer to Blake’s query. “Now, Watson,” he continued, “I have read your diary with great care, and it is indeed most interesting! You have a decided gift for observation, which I don’t think you fully recognize.”

  “It is kind of you to say so.”

  Holmes shook his head. “Not at all. It is not a mere empty compliment, but a statement of fact, and there is thus no kindness involved. I have remarked your powers of observation before when I have read other things you have written. Sometimes you compare yourself unfavourably to me and exaggerate my achievements in the field of deduction, but if I am indeed more accomplished than you are at deduction, it is often only because you are too timid in drawing conclusions from what you see before you. In the fundamental power of observation,
you are arguably my equal, at least when circumstances - such as having to keep a diary for my benefit - push you into making an effort. Your reports in here,” he continued, tapping the bundle of papers in his hand, “illustrate the matter perfectly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you have recorded numerous interesting facts, with great clarity of expression, and yet you have failed to draw the inferences that the facts suggest.”

  “I have gone over and over those events in my mind,” I responded, “but, save only the belief that Needham did indeed purloin Mr Stannard’s book, have been unable to reach any conclusions.”

  “Very well. Let us look at one particular incident, then, the mystery of the footsteps you heard the night before last, which you describe so very vividly. As I understand it from your report, the three of you - you, Blake and Whitemoor - were making your way down the back hall towards the kitchen. The noise of the rain seemed unusually loud - a circumstance subsequently explained by your discovery of the open window - when all three of you thought you heard a footstep, outside in the cobbled yard. Am I correct so far?”

  “Precisely so.”

  “Then, as you stood there a moment, pondering the open window, you thought you heard another footstep, this time inside the house, from somewhere upstairs. You quickly ascended the back staircase, but found no-one on the first landing or in the rooms there. You then ascended to the attic, and, after establishing that there could be no-one in any of the other rooms, knocked and entered the bedroom of the maid, Ann Wallingford.”

  “That is correct.”

  “The room was in darkness and she was in bed, but sat up in alarm as you entered - not surprisingly, under the circumstances. You had a look round the room?”

  “Yes, because as I mentioned in my report, I thought it possible that if she had been asleep someone might have slipped in there quietly and hidden in a dark corner. However, there was no-one there.”

  “Did you look behind the door?”

  “Yes, there was no-one there.”

  “Was anything hanging on the back of the door?”

  I paused, closed my eyes and tried to recreate in my mind the scene as I saw it on Wednesday night. “Yes,” I said at length, “there was a dressing-gown hanging there.”

  “Colour?”

  “Dark red.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “What about the wall behind the door?”

  “There was a wash-stand there, with a jug on it, a bar of soap in a saucer and so on. There was nothing else on that wall.”

  “And the rest of the room?”

  “It is not a very big room, and there is not much furniture in it. While Blake was speaking to the girl, I had a good look round. Against the right-hand wall was a small chest of drawers, on top of which was a hair-brush, a comb and some small ornamental boxes such as might have contained trinkets.”

  “Was there a wardrobe in the room?”

  “No, but in an alcove on the wall facing us, to the right of the chimney-breast, was a rail, with a shelf above it.”

  “Was anything hanging on the rail?”

  “Yes,” I said. Again I closed my eyes to concentrate. “There was an outdoor coat, and, next to that, another outdoor costume of some kind.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “And to the left of this alcove was a chimney-breast, you say?”

  “Yes, with a small fireplace. Above the fireplace was a small mantelpiece with a candlestick and a few small ornaments on it. To the left of the chimney-breast was another alcove. That is where the bed was. To the right of the bed as we looked was a wooden chair.”

  “Anything hanging on the back of it?”

  “No, but upon the seat was the maid’s cap and some hair-pins, and, beside it, a pair of shoes. To the left of the bed, between the bed and the window, was a small, circular table. On that,” I continued, pausing to concentrate my thoughts once more, “was a candle in a holder, and a book. The casement window, as I mentioned in my report, was wide open. There! I think I have mentioned everything that was to be seen in the room.”

  “Do you agree?” Holmes asked Blake.

  “Yes,” replied Blake, “although I’m not clear what the point of this exercise is. Watson is certainly very observant - I don’t think I would have remembered all the details he has mentioned - but why are you asking? If you wish to see the room, I can take you up there now.”

  “It is not how the room is now, but how it was on Wednesday night which is the question at issue,” returned Holmes. “I trust Watson’s powers of observation, and, because of that, I feel justified in reaching a conclusion.”

  “Which is?” queried Blake.

  Holmes leaned forward and lowered his voice slightly. “That Ann has not been entirely honest with you.”

  “But she scarcely said anything,” returned Blake in surprise. “I apologized for intruding into her bedroom, and asked her if she had heard any footsteps. She said she hadn’t, Watson closed the window for her, we withdrew after a brief glance round, and that was that.”

  “I am not saying that she lied directly to you,” said Holmes. “Rather, she lied by omission.”

  “What do you mean?” queried Blake in a tone of bafflement.

  “Watson’s detailed description of the room and its contents can surely mean only one thing,” said Holmes. “Something is missing. Can you not see it, and see what it must mean?”

  “Although I have described to you everything I can remember,” I said, as Blake shook his head, “I may have missed a few odd details. I think, for instance, that there may have been a box of matches on that small table by the bed.”

  Holmes shook his head. “It is a somewhat larger omission than that,” said he. “Where, in your inventory, is the maid’s dress? It was not hanging on the back of the door, it was not hanging on the rail in the alcove, it was not thrown over the back of the chair by the bed, so where was it?”

  “I have no idea,” I said.

  “Surely,” said Holmes, “the most likely explanation for its apparent absence is that the girl was still wearing it. You state in your report of the incident that when you entered the maid’s bedroom she sat up in bed, a startled expression on her face and with the sheet pulled up to her chin. What I suggest is that this was not simply a matter of maidenly modesty, but was to prevent you from seeing that she was still wearing her maid’s uniform. What this in turn suggests is that there was indeed an audible footstep on the stair, as you initially supposed, but that the footstep was that of Ann Wallingford herself, hurrying ahead of you up the staircase. I imagine she just had time to remove her shoes and cap before climbing into bed fully clothed, mere moments before you knocked on her door.”

  “There is something else I remember now,” I interjected. “As we were speaking to her, I noticed a piece of white cloth sticking out from under her pillow. I gave it no thought - I think I took it to be a part of the pillow-case - but now I consider it again, I think the texture of the cloth was different from that of the pillow-case, and that it was more likely to be a corner of her nightdress which, if your theory is correct, she had not had time to put on.”

  “How observant of you,” said Blake. “I didn’t notice that at all.”

  “That illustrates admirably the point I was making before,” said Holmes, “that your powers of observation are indeed excellent, but you do not make the inferences that your observations warrant. There is something else, too, which supports my view of the matter.”

  “What is that?” I asked.

  “The open window in the maid’s bedroom. It was a chilly and damp evening. Why, then, was her window open so wide? What I suggest is that just after she retired to her bedroom, someone, seeing the light in her room,
called up to her from the yard below or perhaps threw a pebble up at her window to catch her attention. She opened the window wide, and leaned out to see who it was. Recognizing the caller, she descended to the downstairs hall to converse more conveniently through the open window there. Upon your sudden arrival in the hall, she dashed back upstairs, but had no time to close either of the windows.”

  “Are you suggesting,” I asked, “that the maid is in league with Blake’s mysterious enemy?”

  “I can’t believe it of her,” said Blake. “I’ll send for the girl straight away, so that we can get to the bottom of this business once and for all.”

  Holmes shook his head. “No,” said he in a firm tone. “I would rather leave the matter there for the moment. I am confident that I know who it was she was speaking to, and there are other issues I wish to pursue first.”

  “As you have suggested that Samuel Harley’s old puzzle is inextricably bound up with Blake’s modern mystery, will you explain to us your thinking on that?” I asked.

  “All in good time, Watson. First I wish to put some questions to one of your neighbours, Blake, and I should be obliged if you would introduce us.”

  “Certainly,” responded Blake. “Who is it you wish to interview?”

  “Mrs Booth.”

  “Mrs Booth?” cried Blake in surprise. “I’m sure she knows nothing of relevance to your investigation. Besides, Dr Watson and I have already spoken to her at some length.”

  “Perhaps so, but the questions I wish to ask her are different from the ones you asked, so the answers may be different, too.”

  “Very well,” said Blake, somewhat reluctantly. “If you insist.” He glanced at his watch. “She and the boy will probably be having their lunch now, so what I suggest is that we do likewise, and go to see her afterwards.”