Instantly, I was wide awake. I looked up at a clock on the library wall. Six fifteen. I had been asleep for two hours, I was shocked to discover.
“When did Mr Holmes leave?” I asked, struggling to my feet and wondering where I had put down my boots.
“About an hour and a half ago, Watson! Time to walk to the village and come back again.”
Holmes appeared, silhouetted in the doorway, alternately rubbing his hands together and blowing on his fingers.
“It’s lucky that I did not wait for you,” he went on with a smile, slipping into the seat opposite me. “I came downstairs ten minutes or so after you left me, and found you already fast asleep.”
I ignored Holmes’s attempt at humour. “But why did you go back to the village? Surely you had done all you needed to do when you were there just a few hours ago?”
Holmes suddenly looked grave. “Not quite all, Watson. When I was at the post office I sent one or two other telegrams which I did not mention.” He held up a hand to forestall my inevitable objection. “Do not think that I was hiding anything from you, old friend, but they might have amounted to nothing. In fact, I do not know that they are of consequence even now, but I have spent the past hour attempting to test the validity of one element, without success.”
“What element, Holmes?”
“I would prefer to keep that information to myself for now, Watson. But I will have need of your medical skills in the village tomorrow, if you are willing?”
“Of course. Just give me a little warning, and I will be at your disposal.”
“Thank you. It is a trifling matter, but one which it would be best I did not explain in advance.” Holmes gave an apologetic smile. “Forgive me for the secrecy, but in this case it is necessary, I think.”
I had plenty of experience of Holmes’s methods, and so was not excessively concerned that he was unable to take me into his confidence. I had no doubt that he would tell me what he could, when he could.
In the meantime, my nap had left me with an appetite. Holmes had not eaten in The Silent Man after all and was similarly famished after his walk to and from the village, and so we set out for the dining room in search of Alice.
* * *
In contrast to our first evening in the manor, the atmosphere in the dining room was subdued. Partly this was due to a paucity of diners. Only Pennington, Watt and Hopkirk joined Holmes and me in a substandard beef stew, with Lawrence Buxton making his apologies part way through the soup, claiming that the day’s events had destroyed his appetite. Of the Schells and Reilly we had no word, and I could only assume that they too had been sufficiently moved by Alim Salah’s murder to find the idea of food distasteful.
Pennington was as scathing of Buxton’s weak stomach as he seemed to be about everything he encountered. “What can you expect of a man like that?” he asked the room in general. “A life spent nose-deep in books with no exposure to the real world leads to a weak constitution and an unwillingness to face realities.”
“It’s not every day you come across a dead body,” Amicable Watt protested mildly, his perennial smile noticeable by its absence. “Buxton’s surely entitled to a little consideration, given that he found the poor man’s corpse. I can’t help thinking that any of us would have reacted the same.”
“Not I,” Pennington declared. “I have sent more than one man to the gallows and have always held that if one is willing to do so, one should also be willing to pull the lever that hangs the guilty man.”
Watt whistled between his teeth. “So you’ve operated a gallows, your worship!” he said. “In which case, I stand corrected and apologise. You, at least, are made of sterner stuff than I.”
Pennington looked momentarily discomfited by Watt’s apology and Hopkirk, noticing this, requested some clarification with barely concealed delight. “Have you, Judge? Hanged a man with your own hands, that is? I admit I didn’t think that the law allowed for that sort of thing nowadays.”
The judge glared at him, but was forced after a second’s thought to shake his head. “No, I have not actually done so myself, but I would do so without hesitation, should the opportunity arise. The one great failing of the law of this country is that we are too soft on criminals. Murderers and thieves go free every day who should, by rights, be dangling at the end of the hangman’s noose. That would not be the case were it up to me.”
“I am sure it would not,” Holmes said. “But I have been thinking about what you said earlier, Judge – about the possibility that the killer might strike again – and I have a suggestion to make which may put your mind at rest. Why do we not double up this evening? The Schells already share a room, obviously, and Watson and I have done so on previous occasions. Reilly and Buxton could share, which leaves you three gentlemen to do similarly, if you are willing? Alice informs me that there are unused rooms which already have extra beds in them.”
From the frown that immediately creased his face, I thought Pennington would object, but he merely grumbled, “I did not expect to engage in dormitory living again at my age, but I suppose that is a sensible suggestion.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Watt chipped in, with a smile. “It reminds me of when I was a kid. There was eight of us in the one room, seven nippers and the old man as well. Friendly, it was.”
The look that flashed across Pennington’s face fell somewhere between shock and revulsion. “I have heard your story, Watt,” he said, “and I have no doubt you take pride in your accomplishments, but I cannot believe you would ever wish to return to the filthy conditions in which you were reared.”
The change in Watt was immediate, and I was instantly reminded that one does not rise from the depths of London’s slums to become one of the capital’s richest men simply due to a friendly disposition. The smile was wiped from his face as though it had never been there and he stared, unblinking, across the table.
“I earned my place, your worship,” he growled, “unlike some at this table. My old dad didn’t have two brass pins to rub together but he worked all his days and taught me to do the same. When I was running with a bad crowd, he grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and tanned my hide, though I thought myself a man. That’s how I got where I am today and I’m thankful for it. And I say that makes me a better man than anyone born with a purse of silver in their pocket. Anyone who wants to argue with me over that, well, I’ve had to use my fists a time or two before now, and no doubt will do again.”
“I shouldn’t let the inspector hear you say that, old man,” Hopkirk laughed, in an attempt to lighten the mood, but nobody joined in.
Watt’s words and Holmes’s mention of the murder had killed what little appetite for conversation there was and the remainder of the meal passed largely in silence. I was glad, at its conclusion, to bid everyone goodnight.
Holmes and I stayed downstairs for a nightcap, while everyone else went to make their sleeping arrangements.
“Amicable Watt is a surprisingly quick-tempered man,” I said as soon as we were settled.
“He felt he had been insulted. He was not incorrect. Any man at the table would have reacted in similar fashion.”
“I suppose that’s true,” I admitted. “But even so…” I shrugged, unsure of what I meant but sure that there was something amiss.
“Even so…” Holmes repeated but did not go on, and a silence fell over us.
“Do you really think there is a chance of a second murder?” I asked after a minute, changing the subject to one likely to have a more definitive answer.
Holmes was non-committal. “Nothing is certain,” he said.
“But this way potential panic is avoided and everyone is reassured,” I said, with a smile.
Holmes’s face was impassive as he replied. “So long as nobody wonders if they are sharing a room with a killer,” he murmured, with a small smile of his own.
Chapter Eleven
Inspector Fisher
If a lifetime spent in medicine, in the army and then working
with Sherlock Holmes has taught me one thing, it is that plans seldom work out as expected. So it proved the following morning, when our planned trip to the village was postponed before I had even had breakfast.
It was exactly twenty past eight when Holmes re-entered the room we were sharing, and drove all thoughts of food from my mind with the news that the police had arrived twenty minutes before and asked everyone to gather in the main hall.
“The maid has just been up, asking that we all present ourselves at half past eight precisely, so that Inspector Fisher might introduce himself.” He shrugged on his jacket and brushed a speck of lint from the collar. “I would rather have spoken to the man privately first, but I suppose we shall have to abide by his wishes.”
“It would be polite, Holmes.”
Holmes made a non-committal sound, ensured he had his cigarettes with him, and led the way to the main hall.
* * *
The figure with his back to us, busily engaged in giving instructions to the two uniformed constables who flanked him, could only be Inspector Fisher.
Our fellow guests stood arranged in two distinct groups around him, the Schells chatting with Captain Hopkirk and Watt, Reilly standing silently with Buxton and Pennington (the latter of whom glowered with surprising, and unconcealed, displeasure at the inspector), but each group kept their distance both from one another and from the trio of policemen.
Whatever the inspector was saying, it was enough to have both of his subordinates listening intently, but his voice was too quiet for me to make anything out distinctly. As Holmes and I approached, he suddenly stopped and turned quickly round, snapping shut the large notebook he held in his hand and eyeing us curiously. He waved a hand at the constables, evidently an indication that they should now carry out the orders he had just given them, for they split off from him and, with a few quiet words, guided the other guests out of the hall, leaving the inspector alone with me and Holmes. From the corner of my eye, I could see the smallest of smiles flicker about Holmes’s mouth at this indication of Fisher’s good sense.
The inspector was a fair-haired man of above average height and build. Clean shaven, his face had a lugubrious cast to it, with down-turned mouth and eyes and a sallow tinge to the skin. He held out a hand as he crossed towards us and, when I took it, gave a firm if brief handshake.
“I’ve seen your pictures in the newspapers, gentlemen,” he said, as he shook Holmes’s hand. “You’ve solved some astonishing cases – if the reports are to be believed.”
There was a note of doubt in Fisher’s voice but Holmes, as ever uninterested in revisiting old cases, was indifferent to either insult or compliment. “How do you do,” he said politely. “I hope that the journey from Stainforth was not too unpleasant, Inspector. Any problem with your carriage is no light matter in weather such as this, especially one which forced you to return to your station so soon after you set out.”
At this, Fisher gave a grunt of surprise. “Perhaps the reports are to be believed then, Mr Holmes,” he exclaimed. “I’d ask how you could know these things, but if the papers are right, I’m sure you’ll be happy to tell us!”
“Your waistcoat and shoes,” Holmes replied. “An examination of those alone is enough to draw similar conclusions to my own.”
“My waistcoat…?” Fisher looked down at himself. I did the same, and could see nothing exceptional. Fisher was smartly dressed, and both his waistcoat and his shoes were spotlessly clean.
“You have lost me, I must admit, Holmes,” I said. “Both waistcoat and shoes are entirely ordinary so far as I can see.”
“But it is their ordinariness which is most telling, Watson,” replied Holmes. He sighed theatrically and turned to Fisher. “You are immaculately turned out, Inspector, and a credit to the police force, but the thread in your waistcoat does not quite match that in your trousers and jacket. Your shoes have recently been cleaned and buffed, but the laces are soaking wet. I deduce, therefore, that there was a problem with your carriage, which necessitated you alighting from the vehicle, at which point you dirtied your shoes and the lower part of your trousers. You had left the town, else the ground would not have been so filthy, but were not so far away that it would be expedient to press on to Thorpe Manor. Therefore, you returned to the station, where you keep a spare suit, but no waistcoat. I happen to know that Lestrade also keeps an extra jacket and trousers handy, for court appearances and the like.”
“I could have gone home, and not had the time to change my waistcoat,” Fisher protested. “You admit yourself that the pattern is almost a match for my jacket.”
“But then you would have changed your shoes, rather than being forced to wash the pair you had on, and your laces would be dry.”
Fisher put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Well done, Mr Holmes,” he said, less enthusiastically than I expected. In fact, he seemed put out that Holmes had so accurately described his journey.
Holmes again gave no sign that he had noticed. “As I said in my telegram, Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard can vouch that I have been of assistance to the police in the past, and I am at your disposal here, though obviously I understand that both Watson and I are currently as much suspects as everyone else.”
I had not considered that. Holmes was correct, of course. Unlike our previous cases together, on this occasion we were not interested parties arriving after a murder had taken place, but were instead intimately involved with the crime itself. No matter our previous service to Scotland Yard, Inspector Fisher was obliged to view us as potential suspects.
Clearly, the inspector had already considered the matter. “Perhaps not quite as much as the others, Mr Holmes, but I’m gratified that you realise there can be no special treatment for you and the doctor. As I was forced to remind Mr Pennington, we do not play favourites here in Yorkshire, no matter what reputation folk might have in London. That said, I understand from Mr Thompson that he asked you to carry out preliminary investigations, while memories were fresh, in case I was unable to get through to the house for several days?”
“He did, Inspector. I spoke to most of my fellow guests yesterday.”
“Not them all?”
“Unfortunately not. Judge Pennington did not believe it would be useful, and Mr Reilly was of the opinion that it was a waste of his time to speak to me and then repeat himself to you.”
“Was he now? That’s interesting.” Fisher pulled a pencil from his jacket, and began to take notes. “Reilly’s the colonial, isn’t he? Come back to England after half a lifetime in the tropics? I had one of those a couple of years back, fellow made a fortune in tea in Ceylon, bought some land outside Hatfield, built a big house and proceeded to act like he was still on the plantation.” He underlined something in his notebook. “I had to explain to him that Yorkshire is not Ceylon.”
Holmes glanced down at the notebook and gestured to his right, towards the rear of the house. “Perhaps we could take a seat, Inspector, and I can pass on what information I was able to glean from my brief discussions?”
“A capital idea.” Fisher waved a hand to a constable whom I had not heard returning to the hall. “Halliday, see if you can rustle up a pot of tea from somewhere and bring it here. The kitchen is likely to be through the back, I imagine.”
* * *
As we drank our tea, Fisher listened closely while Holmes recounted his conversations with the other guests, interrupting only now and again to ask for clarification on certain points.
“Did Mr Buxton ever actually threaten violence against the dead man?” he asked at one point, after Holmes had replayed the historian’s agitation regarding the possible fate of his manuscript. When Holmes replied in the negative, he tapped his pencil against the table and frowned. “Not even when he was angry as you say he was?” Holmes shook his head and when the inspector looked at me, so did I. “Well, fair enough,” he conceded grudgingly. “If you’re sure.”
He made a final note on Buxton and moved on
to the Schells.
“An old man and a young girl? Not very likely killers, are they?” he said, but his interest was piqued when he asked Holmes to describe the fight between Captain Hopkirk and Alim Salah.
“Are Mrs Schell and Captain Hopkirk very close friends, would you say?” he asked.
“They are undeniably friendly,” Holmes said, “but if you are asking whether there is any truth in the allegation made by Mr Salah, I can only say that I am not aware of any proof one way or the other.”
Fisher gave a tut of disappointment and made another mark in his notebook. “But he would have killed the man during their scuffle in the hall?” he went on.
“I would not go that far, Inspector,” Holmes corrected him. “All I can say is that he would have struck Mr Salah a considerable blow had I not intervened.”
“A dangerous blow though? Would you call it that, Dr Watson?” Fisher pressed, turning to me.
“If it had connected, it might have been, yes,” I was forced to agree. “Any blow to the head with a hard object is likely to be potentially dangerous.”
“Potentially dangerous,” he repeated. “Would you not go further than that, Doctor? I’ve seen the object in question and it has a wickedly sharp edge to it. Would ‘definitely dangerous’ not be closer to the mark? Potentially deadly, even?”
“Perhaps.” Oddly, I felt as though I were defending Hopkirk, and in some ways I was. I had been shocked by his lapse in judgement during the fight, but I had been impressed with him otherwise, and considered it only that – a temporary lapse, prompted by a rush of blood to the head.
“Perhaps deadly,” Fisher said, writing the words down in this notebook. “Well, let’s put that to one side for now, shall we? Mr Holmes, you were saying that the maid…” he glanced down at his notebook “… Alice, is it?… told you that she overheard the dead man say that he would not allow himself to be assaulted without retaliation?”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--Sherlock Holmes and the Crusader's Curse Page 11
