The Riddle of Foxwood Grange

by Denis O. Smith

  “It leaves us looking for a heart into which to put the error,” replied Holmes.

  “That seems somewhat cryptic,” remarked Blake. “Surely the error is in the heart of a man.”

  “Yes, in the context of the poem,” returned Holmes. “But don’t forget that we are now considering that the poem’s opening line has a double meaning which we have now related to a single letter, the letter ‘u’. Where is a heart into which we could place the letter ‘u’?”

  “Of course!” I cried. “The puzzle-square!”

  “Precisely, Watson. The puzzle-square consists of one hundred and sixty-nine tiles, and, that being an odd number, it follows that there is one tile - number eighty-five - which is inarguably the central one, or ‘heart’ of the whole array. We must therefore place the letter ‘u’ - the error - into the position of the eighty-fifth tile and fill in the remainder of the poem, minus the first line, accordingly.”

  “That certainly makes sense,” said Blake after a moment, “but I can’t see that that will get us anywhere. What will it achieve?”

  “We cannot say.” replied Holmes. “But as we have no idea what the purpose of the puzzle is, that is not so surprising. At least we shall have arranged the wooden blocks in a way which has never been done in over a hundred years. The sensible course of action, it seems to me, therefore, is to re-arrange the blocks as I suggest and consider how we might proceed once we have done that.”

  “It is possible,” I said as a fresh thought struck me, “that when we have arranged the blocks as you propose, they may perhaps, reading down the columns, spell out a message of some kind.”

  “That would certainly be a plausible idea,” said Holmes. “A similar possibility occurred to me. Unfortunately, however, it is not the case. I know because I have already drawn up a revised version of the puzzle-square with the ‘u’ of ‘unto’ in the central position. I filled in the rest of the poem in order from that point until I came to the bottom right-hand corner. I then went up to the top left-hand corner and continued from there, until I put in the last letter, immediately before the central ‘u’. Here,” he continued, “take a look.”

  He had unfolded another large sheet of paper on the table as he had been speaking. Now, Blake and I bent over to study it.

  “As you can see,” Holmes continued, “there are, unfortunately, no hidden messages revealed when one reads up or down the columns or diagonals. I have tried numerous other approaches, but none of them makes any sense. That is a pity, but, still, I am sure we are on the right track. As I have worked out the position of every letter, it will not be necessary for us to shuffle the wooden blocks about individually and risk confusing ourselves. What I suggest instead, is that we remove all the blocks before we attempt to begin positioning any of them correctly, and arrange them into separate piles on the floor, one for each letter of the alphabet.”

  “There is a little number in the corner of each block,” said Blake. “What do you think is the meaning of those?”

  “I imagine that the numbers simply indicate the order in which each of the blocks of a particular letter should be placed in the array,” said Holmes. He glanced at the sheet on which he had listed the number of instances of each letter in the puzzle. “If I have counted them all correctly, there should, for instance, be fifteen blocks with the letter ‘A’ on, numbered one to fifteen, six blocks with the letter ‘U’ on, numbered one to six, and so on. It matters which instance of each letter we use in a particular position because of the differing number of wooden prongs on the backs of the blocks.”

  My friend gathered up his papers as he spoke and folded them into a neat bundle. “One thing we do not know yet,” he said, “is if we should begin counting off the numbers from the ‘U’ in the centre square or from the top left-hand corner, but no doubt we shall discover which is the correct procedure once we start trying to fit the blocks in position. What I propose is that we make a start on the task at once. I am keen to get on with it as quickly as possible.”

  Both Blake and I expressed our enthusiasm for this proposal, and we followed Holmes as he led the way from the library to the back door, across the yard and into the orangery. There he spread out his papers again on one of the old wooden tables, and we set about removing the wooden blocks from the large array on the rear wall. It was a fine, warm evening, and the low rays of the sinking sun sent bright shafts of light between the trees to the west of the house and bathed the orangery in their golden glow.

  We set about our work with an energy born of enthusiasm, but removing the wooden blocks of the puzzle proved to be a little more difficult than I think any of us had expected. Some of them felt as if they had never been moved since they were first placed there, and were jammed in very tightly. Blake fetched some more tools to help us from one of the other outhouses, but it was still surprisingly slow and warm work, and after ten minutes’ effort all three of us had taken off our jackets.

  We had managed to pull out almost three-quarters of the blocks when we heard the sound of a gong from the house.

  “Supper will be served in ten minutes,” said Blake. “If you can tear yourself away from this work, Mr Holmes, we can continue afterwards. I’m sure a little nourishment will not go amiss.”

  A faint trace of annoyance crossed my friend’s face. “You are probably right,” said he, “but it is a pity. I had hoped to have finished removing the blocks by now. The light will have almost gone by the time we get back to it. We shall need several lamps in here.”

  Our meal was a hasty one. It was not only Holmes who was impatient to return to the task in the orangery. Neither Blake nor I had any inclination to prolong our supper for longer than was absolutely necessary and were keen to get on with Samuel Harley’s puzzle. The excitement we felt at the possibility of solving this hundred-year-old riddle was almost palpable. For myself, I confess I had no idea what we would do when we had re-fitted all the wooden blocks according to Holmes’s scheme. I just hoped that something, some fresh idea, would then occur to us.

  In no time at all, therefore, we were back in the orangery, where the maid brought us a large pot of coffee and a tray of cups. As she set it down on one of the old tables there, I observed that there was an expression of the most intense curiosity upon her face. A few moments later, Caxton brought in an armful of oil-lamps which he proceeded to light. This was timely, for the sun had now sunk below the trees and the twilight was turning the orangery into a grey, shadowed place.

  In a few minutes, we had removed the remaining blocks, and added these to the twenty-odd piles which I had arranged on the floor. Blake poured out some coffee for us, and we stood a moment, surveying the black expanse of the empty puzzle-square.

  “Now,” said Holmes, as he put down his cup, “let us see what will go where. If you will pass me the ‘U’ which has a ‘1’ on it, Watson, I will see if that will fit in the heart of the array. No,” he continued after a moment, “It won’t. This block has five prongs on the back, and there are only two proper holes available in that position. This suggests that the numbering on the blocks begins at the top left-hand corner. Starting from that position, Blake, can you tell me where the first ‘U’ occurs?”

  “The first square on the sixth row down,” replied Blake after a moment, as he studied Holmes’s chart.

  “Hum! It certainly fits there,” said Holmes, “but it is a little difficult to get in. The wood has probably swollen a little. Can you supply a hammer, Blake, and a piece of cloth, to protect the face of the block when I hit it?”

  Blake brought a hammer and a yellow duster from one of the nearby outhouses, and, after a couple of smart taps, the wooden block went into position to Holmes’s satisfaction.

  “Now,” said he: “the ‘U’ which is in the central position, the heart of the puzzle: what number will that be?”

  “That is the second ‘U’,” returned Blake.<
br />
  I passed Holmes the block inscribed with a ‘U’ and a ‘2’, and he pushed it into position.

  “I think that establishes clearly enough that the numbering is indeed from the top left-hand corner,” said Holmes, “so let us now begin from there. What is the very first letter?”

  “An ‘I’,” said Blake.

  I passed Holmes the block inscribed with an ‘I’ and a ‘1’, and he fitted it into position, although it needed a sharp blow from the hammer to drive it fully home.

  “So far, so good,” said Holmes. “What I suggest, Blake, is that you read out all the letters in order, row by row, Watson passes me the relevant block and I fit it into position.”

  So we proceeded. Most of the blocks fitted fairly easily, a few were more difficult and needed attention from the hammer, and about seven or eight would not seem to go in properly at all, although the number of prongs appeared correct for the holes available. These few Holmes decided to leave until the end to finish off.

  It was just over an hour later that Holmes fitted an ‘L’ into the bottom right-hand corner and the array was complete.

  “What now?” said Blake, sitting himself down on the bench beside the table, as the maid brought in another tray of coffee. “The puzzle is complete, the ‘error’ is in the heart, but where does that leave us?”

  “It is not quite finished yet,” replied Holmes. “I shall have to apply a little more force to the refractory blocks.” He sat down, filled his pipe and put a match to it, as the maid poured out the coffee, then he sat for a time in silence, gazing at the array of letters. “You have no doubt observed,” he remarked at length, “that most of the blocks which have so far resisted my efforts to force them home form a rough pattern.”

  “Why, so they do,” said I. “there is a line of them, passing diagonally from the top right corner to the bottom left, and another line passing horizontally from somewhere near the middle to the right-hand edge.”

  “That is suggestive, is it not?” said Holmes with a chuckle.

  “I suppose so,” I replied, “but of what, I don’t know.”

  “We shall soon find out,” said Holmes. “When I have finished this coffee and this pipe, I shall try to hammer home the remaining blocks.”

  As he spoke, I thought I heard something, a footstep, perhaps, in the yard outside the orangery. I turned, but the night was now pitch black, and I could see nothing.

  “Was that a spot of rain?” asked Blake.

  “I don’t think so,” I replied. “Perhaps it was the wind, or a moth against the window.”

  Presently, Holmes drained his coffee-cup and put down his pipe. Then he took up the hammer and duster, and proceeded to tap on the blocks that still stood out a little from the rest. Each one in turn resisted being driven fully home, but gradually, as he moved back and forth across the whole expanse, giving each a sharp tap in turn, by tiny degrees they moved further in.

  “There seems to be at least one cross-piece - perhaps more - behind the back-board of this array,” Holmes remarked, “which is getting in the way of the prongs on the back of the blocks. I noted, however, that the some of the dowels which form the prongs are bevelled at the end, as if designed to get beneath something and lift it out of the way as they are driven home. Whatever it is, I believe I am now slowly forcing it out of the way. Whether its presence is intentional or a flaw in the design, it is impossible to say, although I think the former is more likely. Whichever it is, I think I am getting the better of it. There!” he cried as he gave one of the blocks a sharp blow with the hammer and forced it fully home, so that its surface was level with the blocks around it. At the same moment, there came a dull, clattering noise from behind the array.

  “What was that?” asked Blake.

  “I don’t know for certain,” replied Holmes, “but, whatever it was, I think I’ve got rid of it.” As he continued banging the projecting blocks into place, there came another clatter. “There goes another impediment,” he cried, a note of excitement in his voice. “I’ll just finish this last two off!”

  Then a very strange and surprising thing occurred. As Holmes banged the last two blocks firmly into place, the whole array moved slightly, and a narrow dark gap was revealed at the right-hand edge.

  “The right-hand side has moved inwards!” I cried, excited by this surprising new development.

  “Yes,” said Holmes. “The array appears to be hinged on the left side. Put your shoulders to it, gentlemen, and let us see if we cannot force it open a little more!”

  The three of us pushed as hard as we could against that strange wooden puzzle-square, and slowly, with much creaking and groaning, it swung inwards, until the gap was wide enough for us to pass through. Holmes took up a lamp from the table and passed into the darkness behind the back wall of the orangery.

  “Bring the other lamps!” he called. “There is a large chamber of some kind here.”

  We followed him in, both bearing a lamp, and an astonishing sight met our eyes. It was indeed a large chamber, like a cave, carved out of the hill behind the orangery. About ten feet back from the entrance was an old wooden table, covered with dust, on which stood a couple of glass bottles, a tumbler and some papers, the whole festooned with cobwebs. Beside the table was a wooden chair, and on the chair was the skeleton of a man, a few rags and tatters of leather and clothing hanging from the bones.

  For a long minute we did not speak, but gazed dumbstruck at this strange and terrible sight. At length, Sherlock Holmes broke the silence.

  “It is Samuel Harley,” said he. “It must be. He never left Foxwood at all. The story of his travelling to Italy and living out his last days there is untrue. No doubt he got a friend to spread the rumour, to conceal his true intentions.”

  “And no doubt he got the same friend to post the letter in Italy which was later received by Harley’s cousin,” said Blake.

  Holmes nodded. “And all the time his intention was to die here, where he had spent most of his life. Well, well. I think that suits rather better what we know of his character. Having prepared his riddle, he entered this chamber, sealed himself in, took poison of some kind, washed it down with a bottle of wine and then passed forever from this earthly realm.”

  “So the only ‘treasure’ hidden here,” I remarked, “was Samuel Harley’s own decaying corpse, an object lesson in morality for those who came after him.”

  “Not necessarily,” returned Holmes. “There is something on the table there.” He leaned forward and poked with his finger at a small, dust-covered bundle. As far as I could see, it was the rotten, decaying shreds of a small canvas bag, and as my companion disturbed the shredded remains, the contents of the bag were revealed as a dozen or more large pearls.

  “There is a paper here,” said Holmes, carefully picking up a grimy sheet from the table and blowing the dust off it. “It is still legible,” he continued. “The absence of all light in this chamber has saved the writing from fading. If you will hold your lamp up to it, Watson, I will try to make out what it says.”

  I did as he asked, and for a moment my friend squinted at it in silence.

  “The signature at the bottom is that of Samuel Harley,” said Holmes at length, “which confirms all our suppositions. The message is as follows:

  Here before me in this little pouch

  lies all my worldly wealth. Do

  with it as you will, but heed my warning.

  These baubles may purchase for you some

  fleeting pleasures but can never buy true happiness.

  One pearl alone can purchase happiness.

  It is a pearl which cannot be seen,

  but only sensed with the soul.

  That pearl I have never possessed.

  It is called Love.”

  Holmes looked up from the paper and appeared about t
o pass some comment on what he had just read, when there came a sudden interruption from the doorway behind us.

  “Hand those pearls to me now,” came a sharp voice, as the three of us turned round in surprise.

  15: Resolution

  “PRAY, COME IN,” SAID SHERLOCK HOLMES. “I have been expecting you.”

  “Whitemoor!” cried Blake. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “Never mind that!” returned Whitemoor dismissively. “Just hand me the pearls!” As he spoke he made a gesture with his hand, and I saw that he was holding a pistol.

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Blake. “Why should I hand them to you?”

  “Because they’re mine by right, and you know it!”

  “I don’t know what you mean. Samuel Harley left these pearls here.”

  “Yes, for his heir. I am that heir. I have more right to them than anyone else. This house should be mine, too. Harley was swindled out of it. Everyone knows that.”

  “No,” said Blake. “It may have been a disaster for Harley, but there’s no evidence he was cheated in any way.”

  “Yes,” persisted Whitemoor. “George Darcy was a swindler who took advantage of the fact that Harley was drunk to cheat him. He was a swine if ever there was one. I have studied the matter. You have, too, so you know I am right. You wouldn’t show me your research, but I knew you were secretly working on it all the time. I have been watching you.”

  “Would you like me to read you the message Harley left with these pearls?” Holmes interrupted.

  “No. I heard it. It’s not surprising he was melancholic, having been cheated out of all he possessed. Just give me the pearls!”

  “I thought you were visiting your mother,” said Blake.

  “He can’t visit his mother,” said Holmes, in a calm, unhurried tone, “not unless he calls at the cemetery. She is dead. She passed away nearly three months ago. He has used his supposed visits to his mother to secretly hide in the woods here and spy on you.”