by Roger Jaynes
A moment later, the burly fellow stood before us, hat in hand, a look of apprehension upon his broad, open face. Deep brown eyes punctuated his ruddy countenance, which was framed by bushy brows, a full head of chestnut hair, and thick Dundreary sidewhiskers. While his broad shoulders and muscled arms spoke of great strength, he did not appear threatening; hence, I loosened my grip upon my revolver.
‘You are Mr Sherlock Holmes?’ he asked, with some hesitation.
‘That is correct,’ Holmes answered him, ‘and this is my friend and associate, Dr Watson.’
Relief flooded the man’s heavy features, as he reached out and nervously shook both our hands. ‘What a remarkable turn of good fortune! ’ he cried, drawing a train ticket from the pocket of his waistcoat. ‘As you can see by this, I have saved myself a considerable journey. My plan, sir, was to catch the London express, in order to seek your advice. And now, instead, I find you here in Central Station! ’
‘How interesting that you should recognise me,’ Holmes remarked, ‘since I am certain we have never been introduced.’
‘Quite so. You were pointed out to me by a friend, at the Café Royal, when I travelled down on business almost a year ago. Dr Watson was with you at the time. It was not until I was able to glimpse his face as well that I felt confident enough to enquire.’
‘So we observed. Now, if you would be so kind – why do you wish to consult me?’
The man appeared taken aback. ‘Why, because I am Jonathon Thatcher of Durham, sir! Younger brother of the ill-fated and unfortunate Professor Aubrey Thatcher, of that same city.’
It was obvious the man felt that the mere mention of those two names would explain his presence before us. Yet I could tell by Holmes’s impassive stare that they meant no more to him than me.
‘But you mean that you’ve not heard?’ the big man asked. ‘Why, man, it’s the talk of Palace Green! A scandal at the university, they say! Lord knows, there’s been little else in the papers these last two days! ’
‘We have been in Scotland, upon another matter, for a time,’ Holmes rejoined. ‘I know nothing of your brother, Mr Thatcher, and very little of you – save that you are bachelor, a cobbler by trade, and only this morning sat in the barber’s chair before you began your journey. I do feel, however, that this must be a serious matter, to so greatly disturb a former trooper of the 10th Hussars, who has given a leg in service to the Crown.’
Thatcher’s jaw dropped. For an instant, I thought his paper and hat might do the same. ‘Lord help me, if you aren’t a magician! ’ he declared, shaking his head in wonder. ‘Why, I’ve only just met you, Mr Holmes. How come you know so much of me?’
‘It is no trick, I assure you,’ Holmes explained. ‘Most people see, Mr Thatcher, but do not observe. I do both, and draw my conclusions directly.
‘For example, the third finger of your left hand is bare, yet there is no lightening of the skin to suggest it has ever worn a ring. Your trade is also clearly indicated by the condition of your hands – the bruised thumb and forefinger of the left, and the dark stains upon the fingertips of the right? The first, most likely, were caused by errant swings of the hammer; the second from years of applying boot polish to leather that no soap or scrubbing could erase. What else, save a cobbler, could such a combination suggest?’
‘And the barber?’ the other asked.
‘That is the easiest of all, told by the small, clipped hairs so evident upon your shirt collar – and, I might add, a rather excessive application of Rosewater.’
‘I see,’ the fellow concurred, ‘but here! How then did you fathom my military history?’
Holmes pointed his smouldering pipe in the direction of Thatcher’s right hand. ‘Only a 10th Hussars’ man would sport such a tattoo,’ he answered, referring to the dark blue words ‘Don’t Dance Tenth’ which peeked from beneath Thatcher’s shirtcuff. ‘Were you Watson’s age, I should suspect you saw service in Afghanistan. The recent campaign in the Sudan seems more likely. How you incurred your wound, I’ve no idea, but your stiff walk and smooth left shoe immediately suggested an artificial limb, as you paced back and forth among the crowd. The faint creak of metal as you bent forward to shake my hand confirmed it.’
‘You are correct again, sir,’ the stocky man admitted. ‘It happened at El Teb, with Graham in ’84, of which I’m sure you’ve read. We had been ordered to relieve Tokar, when quick as a cloud passes over the sun, six thousand of the wuzzies descended on us. The rifles of the British square were too much for them, of course. It was only when we pursued them through the brush that heavy casualties were incurred.
‘Three of the black devils came at me, as I rode slowly past a thicket; I shot them all, but my frightened horse reared up and took a spear. As I clung onto the reins, a Dervish woman rushed forward, brandishing one of those hatchets they used to finish off our wounded. As she lunged, I did for her as well, but her axe caught me full across the thigh. Both horse and I went down – the next I knew, I was writhing upon a stretcher, being attended by a doctor.’
‘How awful! ’ I interjected. ‘Mr Thatcher, you have my utmost sympathies, indeed.’
‘No need,’ he insisted. ‘I was one of the lucky ones that day. Two thousand wuzzies died in the dust and heat – as well as a hundred of our men. You have been in the field, Dr Watson. To do your duty and get through, as you well know, is what matters in the end – else we would not be conversing now. Besides, Lord knows, I’d give up my other leg, would it ensure the return of my dear brother.’
Holmes perked to attention. ‘Ah, he’s missing then?’
‘Three days. Since Friday night, to be exact.’
‘And you have heard nothing from him?’
‘Not a word.’
‘But has there been no sort of communication? No note, for example, to confirm an abduction?’
‘None.’
‘H’mm. Then I think we can discount a kidnapping. Most certainly, you would have received demands by now. Very well, Mr Thatcher. Since we obviously have some time, please do lay the facts before me. But pray, be precise! Like a doctor, I must know every symptom, before a diagnosis can be made.’
‘The facts are these, Mr Holmes. My brother, Aubrey Thatcher, has been a professor of mathematics at the University of Durham for some years. His career, I might add, has been a quite distinguished one. Last spring, in June, his exemplary service was duly rewarded, when he was appointed to fill a seat on the Senate – an honour which, he admitted to me, was one he had long desired but felt, for whatever reasons, was beyond his reach. He was to have been confirmed this very week, as is the custom, with the opening of autumn classes – ’
‘A joyous occasion, I am sure,’ Holmes commented.
‘There’s far more to it than that,’ the big man persisted. ‘You see, my brother had also confided to me that on the day of his confirmation he planned to publicly announce his betrothal to one Miss Ann Lowell, a young lady with whom he had struck up an acquaintance in the spring. Like myself, my brother has been a lifelong bachelor; so, in spite of some modest reservations, I could not but feel overjoyed when he told me such news. This week, I felt, should have been the happiest of his life, Mr Holmes. I only tell you this, because it makes – to me, at least – what occurred on the night of Friday last seem all that much more puzzling and bizarre.’
Holmes frowned deeply. It was a look I had seen before, when things were not progressing quite as rapidly as he would have liked. ‘And just what did happen, Mr Thatcher?’ he asked.
‘A few minutes after seven on that night, my brother left his house on Ashgate Road, after informing his housekeeper, Mrs Clarridge, that he had an important appointment to keep, but that he probably would not be late. As she later told the police, she was quite surprised by his sudden announcement, since a wicked storm was brewing, and because my brother – who is normally very conscientious – had mentioned nothing of it earlier in the day.
‘Friday being her night off, Mrs Clarridge
had planned to attend the theatre as was her habit. Instead, because of the foul weather, she decided to stay in, and retired to her room to read. As you might well imagine, she was even more surprised when my brother returned at approximately nine-fifteen, went immediately to his room, and minutes later reappeared with a suitcase in hand and walked out the door, into the night.’
‘He gave no explanation?’ I asked.
Thatcher shook his head.
‘And what of Miss Lowell?’ Sherlock Holmes enquired. ‘Was she able to shed any light upon the matter?’
‘Yes, but hardly in the manner which I had hoped,’ the other replied. ‘You see, she disappeared that night as well.’
Holmes uttered a low whistle of surprise. ‘I see,’ he murmured, placing a finger to his lips. ‘And did they – ?’
The muscles of Thatcher’s adurate jaw stiffened. ‘Apparently, yes.’
For a long moment, we all said nothing.
‘The following morning,’ Thatcher continued, ‘I called at the Albert House, just off Crossgate Avenue, where I knew Miss Lowell was staying. Like you, I had hoped she might provide some clue as to my brother’s strange departure. When I enquired of the landlady, Mrs Purcell, I was told that Miss Lowell had checked out the previous evening at around eight o’clock, and that she had left no forwarding address. Naturally, I was amazed.
‘ “That cannot be,” I told her, identifying myself. “Her engagement to my brother, Professor Aubrey Thatcher, was to have been announced within the week.”
‘ “Then it’s hardly as strange as you might think,” she shot back, with more sarcasm than I cared for. “For it was with him she left last night. Rolled off in a fancy four-wheeler, they did – after he’d been sure to settle her bill! ” As I’m sure you can understand, Mr Holmes, I was deeply shocked.’
‘Then it does appear they left together,’ Holmes stated, thoughtfully. ‘And you have no idea why?’
An anguished look appeared upon the face of our unusual client; his broad shoulders rose and fell, as he put forth a heavy sigh. ‘You must excuse me, Mr Holmes,’ he said, finally. ‘I am not a faint-hearted man, but this is the most damning explanation I have ever been forced to give. I would only ask, as I tell you the rest, that you do not judge my poor brother prematurely.’
Holmes gave the man a look of exasperation. ‘At this moment, Mr Thatcher, I am neither judge nor jury,’ he declared. ‘I am merely a consulting detective – who wishes to hear the facts! Pray, proceed.’
‘Very well. On the morning after my brother’s disappearance, the body of Arnold Samuelson, a clerk at the Mathematics Library in Blakeney Hall, was found lying across the tracks at Lydney Station. As you might expect, the body was horribly disfigured, as a number of trains had passed through during the night. What remained of it had been carried quite some distance; an arm and a leg were discovered at separate locations, each having been severed completely.’
‘How awful! ’ I interjected. ‘But how then was the body identified?’
‘According to the newspaper accounts, it was simple enough. The police retrieved a wallet belonging to Samuelson from between the tracks, and were also able to match the colour of the victim’s hair and his approximate height and weight. In addition, the article stated, a Mr Thomas Feeny, who had spoken with Samuelson earlier the previous evening, recognised the suit of clothes he had been wearing and a large signet ring, taken from the right hand of the body.’
‘And who is Thomas Feeny?’ Holmes asked.
‘The chief clerk at Blakeney Hall. Samuelson’s super-visor.’
‘A terrible accident, admittedly,’ I observed. ‘But what has it to do with your brother, and his disappearance?’
‘Elementary, Watson,’ Sherlock Holmes explained. ‘Samuelson had spoken to Feeny just hours before his death. And, unless I’m greatly mistaken, that conversation concerned Professor Aubrey Thatcher – and, most likely, that important meeting he was determined to attend, despite the inclement weather.’
‘You are quite right,’ Jonathon Thatcher confirmed. ‘At the time Feeny identified Samuelson’s body, he also turned over to the police certain documents Samuelson had left with him for safekeeping on that very night, when he stopped by Feeny’s rooms shortly before seven o’clock.’
‘Documents?’
‘Yes. Papers which proved – although I still cannot believe it – that my brother was guilty of a grave indiscretion, at the time he received his doctorate, more than a decade ago. According to Feeny, Samuelson had discovered that my brother had – for lack of a better word – plagiarised much of his doctoral thesis from one written by another student some years before. And that, upon confronting my brother upon the matter, he had been threatened with his life, unless he remained silent. That, he told Feeny, he had done, although reluctantly, for almost two months’ time.’
‘Go on,’ Holmes said.
‘Samuelson, Feeny told the police, had decided he could keep quiet no longer. His conscience, he said, simply would not permit it. How, after all, could a man with such false credentials be allowed to sit upon the Senate? He was, he said, on his way to speak with my brother a final time that very night, to offer him what he felt was the only compromise possible, given the circumstances. In light of my brother’s threat, he felt the documents in question should remain with someone he trusted, just in case.’
‘A compromise, you say?’ Holmes questioned. ‘And what were its conditions?’
‘That my brother decline the honour of the Senate, giving whatever excuse he deemed necessary. In return, Samuelson promised to say nothing of his past wrong-doing, thus allowing him to retain his chair at the university.’
‘And if your brother refused?’
‘Then, according to Feeny, Samuelson was prepared to lay the facts before Professor Cromwell, Dean of the Mathematics College, and the local newspapers as well. You can well imagine, Mr Holmes, what the result would have been.’
‘Your brother’s disgrace would certainly have been considerable,’ Sherlock Holmes agreed. ‘He would have forfeited not only his seat upon the Senate, but his professorship as well. Then, too, there would have been Miss Lowell’s reaction to consider.’
‘Exactly. Little wonder then, after hearing Feeny’s story, that the police began to look at things quite differently. Originally, they had assumed Samuelson’s death to be accidental, though there was some question as to why he had been walking so near the tracks. A second examination of his body, however, revealed a bullet wound just beneath the heart, and a .32 calibre bullet lodged next to the spine. Their subsequent visit to my brother’s home found him to be mysteriously absent, and a search was immediately conducted –’
‘At which time, the gun was found.
‘Yes. In the corner of his bedroom closet. The calibre matched and one cartridge was spent. The police say it had been fired recently.’
‘The weapon is your brother’s?’ I enquired.
‘Without a doubt, Doctor. I have another which matches it exactly. They were gifts from our late father, at the time we each came of age.’
Thatcher dug again into the pocket of his waistcoat, this time extracting a small, folded scrap of paper. ‘It is a copy,’ he said, as he handed it to Holmes. ‘The original was discovered inside the pocket of Aubrey’s smoking jacket, when the police searched his home. Naturally, they were not about to allow me to carry it down to London.’
Holmes unfolded the note and read:
Professor Thatcher,
I can remain silent no longer. Meet me in the park near Lydney Station at seven-thirty Friday with the money.
Samuelson
Holmes whistled again. ‘This does appear to explain it all,’ he said. ‘Were I the police, I should suspect that Samuelson was blackmailing your brother, and your brother shot him, and then dumped his body upon the tracks in hope of concealing the murder. After which, he fled with Miss Lowell.’
‘That is the belief of Montgomery Doyle, the chief of t
he Durham police,’ Thatcher replied. ‘It is also, I regret to say, a theory which the newspapers have given considerable credence.’
‘Your brother’s accounts – they have been checked?’
The other’s gaze fell. For a long moment, he refused to speak. ‘They have,’ he admitted, finally. ‘And it was discovered that on the morning prior to his disappearance my brother withdrew a considerable sum of money. Five thousand pounds, to be exact – all but a modicum of his savings. As yet, it has not been accounted for.’
‘I see.’
After uttering those two words, my companion lapsed into silence, staring intently down at the scrap of paper he had only moments before just read. He was, I knew, oblivious not only to Thatcher and myself, but to the noise of the busy terminal which surrounded us. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his long face, as he contemplated the matter at hand.
‘This note, and the pistol, would seem to incriminate your brother greatly,’ he mused, at length. ‘The handwriting on the original, I take it –’
‘Was positively identified as Samuelson’s,’ Thatcher said.
‘Have you any idea when he received this note?’
‘I know exactly. Mrs Clarridge told me it was delivered by messenger at three o’clock on Thursday afternoon. She left it, as well as the day’s post, in the study upon his desk.’
‘And did your brother leave the house on Thursday night?’
‘According to Mrs Clarridge, he had a dinner engagement with Miss Lowell.’
‘At which time,’ Holmes suggested, ‘he might conceivably have pleaded his case – and convinced her to leave with him the following night.’
‘That, too, is the opinion of the police.’
‘And what do you think, Mr Thatcher?’ Sherlock Holmes asked. ‘Is your brother capable of such acts? Is there such a dark side to his nature?’
The big man thought a moment before answering. ‘Some would say Aubrey and I were as different as two brothers could be,’ he replied, matching Holmes’s direct gaze. ‘From childhood, our interests differed. I was good with my hands; he worked with his mind. I became a cobbler, he a professor. Given that, our social circles could hardly be expected to cross. Still we’ve always remained close, and I do know my brother well. He is a kind and intelligent man, if a bit naive in some ways. In my heart, I do not believe he could bring himself to steal from, much less kill, a fellow man.’
