“That’s blood!” he exclaimed. “And fresh too.”
He knelt down and levered at the nearest trellis board. Holmes, with an expression of immense annoyance on his face, stepped forward and placed a hand on top of the board, preventing its removal.
“It is not just the blood, Inspector,” he explained. “There is also the shape of the snow on the ground. The boards are there to prevent it being erased by accident.”
“The shape of the snow?”
“Exactly so. If you would move over here?”
Fisher nodded and the two men stood back and examined the enclosure from a short distance. Holmes pointed to the compacted snow.
“As you know, I initially believed that Alim Salah had been outside the house shortly before he was murdered and had fallen in deep snow, possibly during the violent altercation that led to his death. I further posited that his body was then carried into the house via the back door and the servants’ stair, which leads to the cellar.”
“I know all this, Mr Holmes,” Fisher complained impatiently. “And I told you, my theory is that Captain Hopkirk, enraged by the dead man’s slur on the character of Mrs Schell, followed him on his night-time excursions. Having then killed Salah, possibly by accident, he hid the body in the nearest possible location, the cellar, intending that it would not be found until after he had left the house, and possibly the country.”
Holmes was not a petty man, but he was certainly capable of enjoying a moment of triumphant drama. “That theory can now be discarded, Inspector. It is, in several respects, demonstrably incorrect.”
Fisher coloured, and was immediately belligerent. “In what way?” he barked.
“As I said, observe the shape the indentation makes in the snow, Inspector. It is not a straight line, such as might be made by a thick branch or even a slide of snow from the roof. It begins slightly thinner at the bottom,” he indicated the left-hand side, which was indeed decidedly narrower than the middle section, “then curves into a long thicker section, before ending in this distinct, deeper area at the top.” He pointed to the far right-hand side, close to the patch of blood. As he had described, this part was deeper, more of a rounded hole than the rest. “It is the form of a man, running from his legs to his head. I would suggest that this is where Salah’s body was dropped while the killer checked the back door was unlocked and made sure there was nobody about inside.”
“And he could not have been killed here because there is no sign of a struggle in the snow nearby. Thus it is unlikely that the cellar was the nearest useful hiding place to the murder itself.” Fisher was a touchy man, and made it no secret that he did not desire Holmes’s help, but he was no fool.
“Indeed. There are plenty of footprints, but it is impossible now to differentiate those made by your constables from those made by the killer. We are fortunate that this small section is both sheltered by these trees and sufficiently far from the back entrance that nobody has walked over it.”
Inspector Fisher grunted his agreement. “Thank you, Mr Holmes. My men did make a search of the area, but the significance of this apparently eluded them.”
“Easily done, Inspector,” Holmes suggested kindly. He looked down at the fenced-off area then back up at the house. “They might also want to take another look at the path which runs along the side of the house. I can think of no other way in which the body can have been brought to this point.”
“Naturally,” replied Fisher. “But you said that my theory was incorrect in several respects? I can’t believe you’d be so imprecise as to say several and mean only one.”
“Thank you for the reminder, Inspector. I must tell you that Captain Hopkirk has been provided with an alibi by Mrs Schell for the period during which we believe the murder was carried out.”
Holmes delivered this news in the same matter-of-fact tone that one might use when describing a new hall carpet, and Fisher, to his credit, took it in the same calm manner – though close examination of his voice when he spoke suggested that he was controlling his temper with some difficulty.
“Is that so, Mr Holmes? Well, that is rather important, do you not agree? So important that I wonder why Mrs Schell chose to speak to you, rather than a policeman. But in any case, I think we need to put the matter to Captain Hopkirk. He has some explaining to do, wouldn’t you say?”
He did not wait for an answer, but turned on his heel, slipping a little on the snow. He had just reached the door when a new thought occurred to him, and he turned to look at us with a grim smile on his face.
“Of course, while this lifts suspicion from Hopkirk, it lays it a little more firmly upon Reilly. He was no more than twenty feet from the body, and at about the same time. Mr Hopkirk is not the only one with whom I shall need to speak.”
With that, he went indoors. I heard him shout for Constable Halliday, and give him some indistinct orders, and then he was too far away for his voice to be made out. I turned to Holmes, but he merely looked down for a moment at the compacted snow and the splash of blood, then stalked over to a heap of rotten tarpaulins, which lay piled in the lee of a snow-covered woodpile. He pulled the top canvas away and carried it across, then draped it loosely over the little fence he had created, leaving plenty of space for the cold air to circulate.
“To prevent the rain and wind from disturbing it,” he explained, rubbing the dirt from his hands. “I think perhaps we should not follow the inspector,” he went on. “I do not think he would thank us for our company at the moment.”
He turned on his heel and passed under the trees to the little path that ran along the side of the house. Not for the first time that day, I trailed along in Holmes’s wake, keeping as far as I could to the cartwheel tracks which provided the only break in the deep snow, and shaking my head in wonder at his unfailing ability to antagonise police inspectors.
Chapter Sixteen
Hopkirk is Reprieved
“It’s not so very complicated, I’m afraid. In fact, it’s the oldest story of them all. A fellow falls for his friend’s wife and she for him, and… well… and they prove to be weaker than they’d should have been.”
In contrast to his earlier appearance before Inspector Fisher, James Hopkirk now sat slumped dejectedly in his chair. I did not doubt his sincerity, nor his contrition. I had known men like Hopkirk before, during my time in the army. Men used exclusively to male company who, once returned to a more civilised world, quickly found themselves overwhelmed and liable to fall into unsuitable romances, seemingly incapable of acting otherwise. It was plain that one such sat before us now. He hung his head low, unable to look any of us in the eye, as he continued his story.
“I met Frederick and Julieanne… Mrs Schell, I should say… just as I said, on the continent. What I did not mention, however, was that I had recently been asked to resign my commission from the regiment. The matter was not a dishonourable one, please believe me, but it involved my striking a senior officer, and resignation or a court martial were my only choices.”
“You assaulted a senior officer?” Fisher had been disconsolate since Holmes had relayed Julieanne Schell’s account of her affair with Hopkirk, but now he was revitalised. His eyes crinkled with interest and his notebook, left undisturbed in his pocket until now, was taken out and placed on the table before him. He laid a pencil alongside it and lined the two up, then, as though a ritual had been completed, repeated his question. “I said, you assaulted a senior officer, Captain Hopkirk?”
“I did.”
“Just as you attacked Alim Salah?”
Hopkirk flushed and half shook his head, but said nothing. Evidently, it had not occurred to him that the two incidents would strike anyone as similar.
Holmes broke the silence. “Perhaps you can tell us what did happen?” he said.
Gratefully, Hopkirk tore his eyes from Fisher’s and addressed himself to Holmes. “There’s little to tell, in truth, but what there is, I imagine a lawyer might well twist to my disadvantage.” He sat up s
traighter, and took a deep breath. “Still, there’s nothing to be gained by silence now, I suppose. The officer I struck was a major in my company by the name of McLaughlin, a dour Dundonian religious sort, who saw the devil in every man he met and thought all women an inducement to sin. He made a disparaging remark about a nurse of our mutual acquaintance and then refused to withdraw it.” He looked across at me and a smile flickered over his face. “So I punched him on the jaw and knocked the sanctimonious buzzard out cold. Unlike my bout of fisticuffs with the late lamented Mr Salah, however, I do not regret the action at all, only the consequences. The major’s brother was a staff officer with far more influence than I could ever hope to bring to bear, and out the army I went, barely able to hold on to my good name.”
Fisher’s eyes had not left Hopkirk throughout his speech. In the pause that followed the captain’s confession, he growled his own opinion of the affair.
“That all seems very familiar, Captain Hopkirk. A female friend of yours insulted and you losing your temper and assaulting the man you considered to have done the insulting. That’s what we in the police force call a pattern of behaviour. It’s the kind of thing we look out for, in fact.” He scribbled a note and tapped his pencil thoughtfully on the paper. “Was this lady also a romantic conquest of yours? Was she too already married? Do you make a habit of seducing married women, Captain Hopkirk?”
If Fisher hoped to throw Hopkirk off balance by these rapid queries, he was unsuccessful. If anything, the barrage of questions served only to strengthen the captain’s resolve. Some of the despondency which had been so evident in his posture and speech seemed to lift as he answered the inspector.
“She was an elderly nurse, Inspector,” he said. “Sixty if she was a day and, I believe, happily married to one of the chaplains. So no, old man, I was not romantically involved with the lady. I must say, though, that it says something for your own character that you would apparently only speak up for a wronged lady if she were your lover.”
Now it was Fisher’s turn to flush as his temper flared. “I said nothing of the sort! Of course, I would defend a lady if called upon!”
“So you admit that you would have acted in the exact same way that I did?”
“I… that is… I am not the one being questioned, Hopkirk, and I’ll thank you to remember that!”
Amusing though this exchange had been, it was taking us no further forward. Holmes obviously felt the same way, for he chose that moment to speak for the first time. “Perhaps you could tell us about your relationship with Mrs Schell,” he said smoothly. “You say that you met her three years ago, while she and her husband were on holiday in France?”
“I did.”
“You were recently out of the army and, presumably, at a loose end?” Holmes glanced across at me. “I recall Watson was much the same when I met him.”
“I was.”
“You became friends with Mr Schell first? You have a mutual love of horses?”
“That’s how we first got to talking, yes. Freddie has a small stable at home in the United States, and I’ve always ridden. We discussed the relative standard of British and American horses for a while, and then Julieanne joined us, and Freddie invited me to dine with them.”
“And you became firm friends. The three of you.”
“That’s simply how it ended up. There was no intention on my part, I assure you.”
Fisher gave an exaggerated grunt of disbelief, but he did not interrupt.
“And how long did it take before the friendship between you and Mrs Schell grew into something more than that?”
Hopkirk, who had entirely regained his equilibrium as he spoke to Holmes, suddenly coloured and looked down at the floor.
“Two and a half years,” he said quietly.
“So your affair is quite new? You have been romantically entangled for only six months?”
“Since this summer. September, to be exact.”
“Less than six months then?”
Hopkirk nodded, apparently confused by Holmes’s concentration on this trivial detail. Inspector Fisher, too, was plainly of the opinion that valuable time was being wasted. He rapped his knuckles on the table, drawing every eye in the room towards him.
“And the affair has continued until the present day? You do not deny, I assume, that you were with Mrs Schell at the time Salah was murdered?”
Hopkirk’s face fell, and he shook his head sadly. “I do not deny it, Inspector, now that she has chosen to make our relationship a matter of public record. But I wish she had never done so. It will destroy both a friendship and a marriage.” He sighed heavily. “I would happily have remained under suspicion until we returned to London, rather than hurt Freddie Schell as badly as this revelation is bound to.”
“You did not fear the noose then?” Fisher’s voice was incredulous.
“I did not kill Salah, Inspector. Any policeman worth his salt would soon have realised that.”
Again, Fisher only controlled his temper with difficulty. “A damn sight easier when supposedly innocent men tell us the truth,” he barked. “So, you agree with Mrs Schell that you and she were together when we believe Mr Salah was killed? You will swear to that?”
“I will. Much as it pains me to do so.” He raised an eyebrow and smiled crookedly. “Unless you’d be willing to turn a deaf ear to Mrs Schell’s confession? Play along with the idea that I’m the killer and then let me go later?”
“I don’t think so.” Fisher’s reply was curt. He flipped through his notebook, seeking fresh inspiration.
“Why do you think that Mr Salah’s wallet was discarded in the cellar, Captain?” he said finally, tapping a line on the page in front of him. “Why not throw it in the lake, or dump it in one of the many ridiculous buildings which litter the grounds?”
Hopkirk was unperturbed by the question. “A need for haste, I presume, Inspector. The killer had no time to hide it anywhere better, and feared discovery with it in his possession.”
“If I might interrupt, Inspector Fisher,” Holmes said, doing so. “Surely the important question is not why Salah’s wallet was found where it was, but why his clothes have disappeared?”
When Fisher turned and glared at Holmes, I was sure he would remind him of his observational role, but instead he rounded on Hopkirk and muttered “Well?” as though he had posed the question himself. As I had observed before, for all his faults, he was no fool.
Hopkirk, looking between the two men, feigned confusion as he replied. “Is that question aimed at me, Mr Holmes? Inspector Fisher? Because I have to admit to a lack of training in police work…”
“It was largely rhetorical, Captain Hopkirk,” Holmes assured him with a thin smile. “I would say that the reason is obvious. Whoever hid Mr Salah’s clothing and suitcase wished everyone to believe he had left in the night.”
“But that lie would hold only for as long as it took us to get back to London!” protested Fisher. “Even the most basic of enquiries would immediately highlight the fact that he had not returned from the manor house.”
“Exactly,” Holmes asserted with some force. “The deception only needed to remain in place long enough for this weekend’s guests to disperse.”
“Meaning the killer is definitely one of those guests!” Fisher concluded.
Holmes was typically cautious. “As I have had cause lamentably often to remind your colleagues in Scotland Yard, Inspector, it is foolhardy to jump to definite conclusions without all the evidence, but certainly that is one reasonable inference to draw.”
“Reasonable inference?” Fisher scowled. “Pah. You seem determined to complicate everything, Mr Holmes. Of course, that’s how you make your living, isn’t it? Muddying the waters so that only you can make sense of the tangle that’s left.”
I was indignant on Holmes’s behalf. The suspicion Inspector Fisher harboured of my friend had been plain from the beginning, but this attack on him overstepped the bounds of reasonable behaviour. I would have sa
id something, but Holmes laid a hand on my arm to silence me.
“Mixed metaphor aside, your description of my methods is almost accurate, Inspector,” he said. “The only mistake you make is in supposing that it is I who muddied the waters. Rather, my interest is piqued only by those cases where the waters are already muddied, often to such a degree that it seems there is nothing but wet mud left – if that is not stretching the analogy to breaking point.”
As he spoke, Holmes stood up and opened the room door. “I imagine you have finished with Captain Hopkirk,” he said. “But even if you have not, you will excuse me, I hope? I have one or two things to attend to and while the captain’s reluctance to reveal his whereabouts was foolish, it was understandable – and certainly not criminal.”
I knew that Holmes would want me to stay – it is surprising how many people relax their guard once Holmes has left a room – but it seemed that Fisher realised he was wasting his time, for he waved an irritable hand towards Hopkirk.
“Yes, you can go, Captain. I may need to speak to you later, but for the moment, I’ve no more questions.”
Holmes paused in the open doorway. “Presumably the captain is no longer confined to his room?” he enquired.
“No,” Fisher conceded. “Halliday,” he went on, making a show of dismissing both Holmes and Hopkirk from his mind, “we’ve got work to do. First thing in the morning, tell Mrs Schell that I want to speak to her. I want to hear what she has to say for myself. Then you and Constable Cairns go over that back area inch by inch. Anything out of the ordinary, mark it off and come and get me. That is, if that’s all right with you, Mr. Holmes?” he concluded, turning to the door.
But Holmes had already gone and he was speaking to thin air. Suppressing a smirk, I walked out into the hallway. As I caught up with Holmes, I heard Hopkirk wish Fisher a very good night, then a door closing with a thump, and the sound of Fisher’s muffled, angry voice.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--Sherlock Holmes and the Crusader's Curse Page 16
