by Roger Jaynes
Holmes reached out and placed a hand on the big fellow’s shoulder. ‘Then I suggest, Mr Thatcher, that you exchange your ticket for a fare to Durham at once,’ he told him, ‘so that you may accompany us to your fair city. I had planned to spend my afternoon viewing the relics of St Cuthbert. Instead, I shall investigate your case. Even more than the cathedral, it piques my curiosity.’
Thatcher leaped to his feet, grabbed my friend’s hand, and pumped it vigorously. ‘I have not the adequate words to thank you, Mr Holmes,’ he declared fervently. ‘Never fear, I shall defray any expense –’
Holmes silenced him with a raise of his hand. ‘We can speak of that later,’ he said. ‘If my watch is correct, you have not much time. You have luggage to transfer, surely.’
As Thatcher strode off, I felt compelled to offer a word of caution to my friend. His vacation from crime, I felt, had been far too brief. ‘Holmes, must you climb back into harness so soon?’ I asked. ‘The purpose of your accompanying me, after all, was to gain respite from such problems as these.’
‘tosh, Watson! I’m fit as a fiddle.’ Holmes brought out his pouch and proceeded to make a new pipe. ‘But, come now, what do you make of all this?’
‘After hearing the particulars, I am astonished you agreed to take the case,’ I declared.
‘Ah, you think his brother is guilty, then?’
‘I do. Holmes, it’s plain as day. Aubrey Thatcher was on the brink of ruin. His only solution was to kill Samuelson, disguise the crime, and flee with the Lowell woman to parts unknown. America would be my guess.’
‘Then answer me one question, Watson. If Thatcher planned to kill Samuelson and flee, why did he withdraw five thousand pounds from his account?’
‘My dear Holmes, it’s obvious. He needed the money to finance a new start, once he’d fled the country.’
‘In that case, why not withdraw it all? Would you flee with only a part of your savings and leave the rest behind? ’
‘Perhaps Thatcher didn’t intend to kill Samuelson,’ I countered, defensively. ‘Perhaps he asked for more money, they quarrelled, and Thatcher shot him in self-defence.’
‘A possibility. But if Thatcher intended to pay, it’s unlikely he would have brought along his own gun. And if the killing were accidental, he would hardly have had time to notify Miss Lowell, so she could be waiting obediently, luggage in hand, in the lobby of her hotel.’
Holmes struck a match and began to fill the air above us with clouds of blue smoke, as he silently considered the problem one more time. ‘It just won’t do, Watson! ’ he concluded. ‘My every instinct tells me this case is just too pat. Too many facts – which on the surface appear conclusive – simply do not ring true. Of one thing, however, I am certain: Professor Thatcher withdrew that five thousand pounds in an attempt to buy Arnold Samuelson’s silence.’
‘And how, pray, do you know that?’
‘Because of the note Thatcher received from Samuelson on Thursday afternoon. And, because of what he told Thomas Feeny on Friday night.’
‘I don’t follow you. The two seem to disagree.’
‘My point, exactly. When a man sends a blackmail note one day, and says his life has been threatened the next – what are we to believe?’
‘That which happened first, I’d say.’
‘Correct, Watson. Samuelson did not meet Thatcher that night to work out any sort of benevolent compromise. He was there for the money. Feeny’s testimony merely confirms him to be a liar. More importantly, it casts suspicion upon the so-called forged documents he possessed.’
‘But why did he confide in Feeny at all? Why not merely hide the documents instead?’
‘The answer, I think, is obvious. Samuelson was taking great pains to create some sort of alibi – but for what reason?’
‘To conceal the fact that he was blackmailing Thatcher? ’
‘If so, he failed miserably. The note, remember, was written in his own hand. On top of which, he went out of his way to reveal a motive, by taking Feeny into his confidence. It’s almost as if –’ Holmes frowned. ‘Something has been cleverly done here, Watson,’ he added. ‘Much, I suspect, has been revealed only to conceal.’
‘And what, do you think, happened to the five thousand pounds?’
‘I confess I have no idea. We know only that the money was not on Samuelson’s person when he met his gruesome end, else the police surely would have discovered it. – Ah, but our happenstance client returns! Accompanied, I see, by an able porter with his bags. You will excuse me, Watson? I think I shall just have time to purchase the latest dailies, before we get under way.’
‘And dispatch another telegram to Mrs Hudson,’ I reminded him, as visions of a pleasant and plentiful supper back at Baker Street faded from my brain.
Our half-hour train ride south across the sunny ridges of the Pennine Chain passed quickly, during which time I recounted to Jonathon Thatcher some of my own military experiences, first as a surgeon attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and later with the Berkshires at Maiwand. Holmes sat silently in his corner of the compartment the entire way, hidden behind sheets of newsprint, smoking his pipe contentedly. While Thatcher and I conversed, we also satisfied our hunger (Holmes naturally refused) with large sandwiches and tea, taken from luncheon baskets we had purchased at the station prior to boarding.
Upon arriving, Holmes dashed outside the terminal and strode briskly off down the Lydney Station tracks, leaving us to account for our luggage and hail a cab. By the time we emerged, he was already returning our way, a discouraged look upon his lean face.
‘Alas, it is as I feared,’ he commented. ‘Anything which might have been of use has been obliterated. More trains have passed through, and there are footprints everywhere – the police, no doubt.’
Holmes raised his hand before us. ‘I did, however, find this torn scrap of cloth, next to the rails. Samuelson’s suit, perhaps? Also the bushes next to that far turn in the road are broken down quite badly. I suspect it was where the body was dragged on to the tracks.’
After securing a conveyance, Holmes stood a moment at the kerb, directing his attention to the small park on the opposite side of the street. Then suddenly, we were off, following him across the sunlit green, dotted with the first brown leaves of autumn. Moments later, we found ourselves before a white roof-covered bandstand some hundred yards from the station.
‘I have no doubt they met here,’ Holmes said, gazing at it up and down.
‘And how do you know that?’ Thatcher demanded.
‘Where else would one man wait to meet another on such a stormy night?’ Holmes replied. ‘Look around. There is no other shelter. And from this distance, a shot would not likely be heard, given the wind and pouring rain.’
Quick as a cat, my companion sprang up the bandstand steps, then carefully stepped inside. ‘Aha! ’ he cried. ‘Look here! ’
The white board floor was covered with muddy footprints. Holmes motioned us to remain outside, upon the steps, then pulled out his glass and fell down to his knees.
‘There are two sets here in the middle,’ he said, as he carefully edged about. ‘One set with a square toe, one set round. Square-toe has a loose nail in his left heel. He was here the longest, pacing back and forth. Waited a considerable time, I’ll wager, given these cigarette stubs. Yes, they met about here, and their talk most certainly animated.’
‘How can you tell?’ I enquired.
‘Because, from there to there, the footprints go this way and that, constantly overlapping.’
‘And what of these?’ I asked, pointing with my stick to the muddy marks at the entrance. ‘And these, upon the steps?’
‘Some are theirs, surely,’ Holmes replied, almost without interest. ‘Some may be from the police, if they were sharp enough to enquire. At any rate, they are all too smeared to tell. But this –’
Holmes crawled to the far side of the bandstand floor, where he now lay almost prone, his magnifying glass less tha
n an inch above the floor.
‘Look at it, Watson! ’ he cried, as he edged his way back towards us. ‘The lines, Watson! The two black lines! ’
The early afternoon sunlight had started to make its way across the bandstand floor. Squinting hard, I could make out two long scrape marks, slightly faded now, which drew two thin muddy lines from where Holmes had lain right to my very feet.
‘The proof,’ Holmes said, ‘is conclusive. The shot was fired there. After which the body was dragged across the floor to this top step, where it was hefted and carried away.’
Glancing up, I could see our client had been much affected by my companion’s conclusions. Holmes, it seemed to me, might just as well have struck him across the face.
‘I take it then, sir, that you concur with the police,’ he said stiffly, his cheeks flushed.
Holmes seemed genuinely surprised at his remark. ‘Were that the case, Watson and I should bid you good day, and board the next train south to London,’ he replied. ‘Calm yourself, Mr Thatcher. It is always a capital mistake to act until you possess all the facts. These, I admit, are not in your brother’s favour. But until I have many more at my disposal, I am not prepared to render an opinion.’
‘My apologies, Mr Holmes,’ the big man rejoined. ‘You realise, I’m sure, that this is an emotional turmoil for me. You are here at my behest and upon my brother’s behalf. In the future, I shall do my best to restrain my personal feelings.’
‘Well, then, enough said. Do you know of a hotel where we might stay? Something close to the university grounds would probably suit us best.’
‘I do. The Rose and Crown, in Market Place, just north of the castle and Palace Green. An old-fashioned place, but comfortable enough, I assure you. I doubt securing a room will be a problem on a Monday.’
‘Then I suggest we go there at once and deposit our bags. Is your brother’s house far from there, Mr Thatcher? It would be, I feel, an excellent place to continue our investigation.’
‘Why, of course, Mr Holmes. It’s only a short ride from your hotel, just off Palace Green.’
A half-hour later, our four-wheeler was clattering across Durham’s historic Framwellgate Bridge, as we crossed the sparkling waters of the River Wear to reach the curled-finger peninsula of land that made up the heart of the city. Before us was spread a breathtaking panorama of ancient England – the majestic Durham Castle, beneath whose flags was housed much of University College, and off to the right, University Library and the huge cathedral itself, looming above the river, its western towers and the stone columns of the Lady Chapel below shining white in the bright, midday sun.
‘What an imposing sight, Holmes.’
‘Quite so, Watson. How can anyone not be impressed by such a regal structure? It is clearly one of the finest examples of early rib-vaulting to be found in Western Europe today.’
‘I see you are quite knowledgeable of your Norman history, Mr Holmes,’ Thatcher remarked. ‘You have visited Durham before, then, I take it?’
‘Unfortunately, my appreciation of the cathedral has, until this moment, come only from books,’ Holmes admitted. ‘This is, you must realise, a treat for me. I have always felt that no man can understand himself or his times, without sufficient knowledge of those which have proceeded him.’
My friend turned a penetrating gaze in Thatcher’s direction. ‘In that vein, there is an avenue I wish to pursue,’ he suggested.
‘But of course. Proceed.’
‘You mentioned earlier that your brother was naive in certain matters. I suspect your reservations concerned his relationship with Miss Lowell.’
‘Let us just say that I did not fully approve of my brother’s involvement with the woman,’ Thatcher answered. ‘She was, I felt, decidedly below his station.’
‘And why do you say that?’
‘Call it intuition, Mr Holmes. Call it anything you choose. The course of my life, I must admit, has allowed me some experience where the opposite sex is concerned. Far more, certainly, than that of a sheltered university master. Miss Lowell, quite frankly, struck me as more of a courtesan than a lady.’
‘Good gracious! ’ I exclaimed.
‘In my brother’s company, she was charming, polite, given at times to almost maudlin shows of affection. Yet, on more than one occasion, I noticed how carefully she observed his reactions, as well as those of his friends and associates. There was calculation in that look, Mr Holmes. The kind you might receive were you to stroll down Haymarket after dark. The woman, I felt, sought something more.’
‘Your brother’s money, perhaps?’ Holmes suggested.
Thatcher cleared his throat. ‘Yes.’
‘An understandable reaction, given the circumstances. Protective, of course. And you told your brother as much?’
‘I certainly did not. Since he seemed happier than I had ever seen him, I could not bring myself to interfere. Had I voiced my concerns, I have no doubt it would have caused a rift between us.’ Thatcher glanced away for an instant, squinting up at the bright midday sun. ‘It was my belief – and still is – that his infatuation with a woman twenty years his junior had, unfortunately, over-ruled his sense of judgement.’
‘I see. And can you describe her for me?’
‘Miss Lowell is an attractive woman. I can well understand why my brother – or any other man, for that matter – might be taken with her. She has fair skin, hair the colour of honey, and always is dressed stylishly. But the most striking thing about her is her eyes.’
‘And why is that?’ I asked.
‘Because they are the deepest, clearest blue I have ever seen. It is the reason, I imagine, why she invariably wears some shade of that particular colour.’
For an instant, a cloud seemed to cross my companion’s face. ‘Blue, you say?’ he asked. ‘Always?’
‘Quite so. She has a regular penchant for the colour. Electric, azure, Dresden, even navy. The shade may vary, but without exception her dress and hat – and oft-times her gloves, as well – are some tone of blue. But why do you ask, Mr Holmes? The point seems trivial to me.’
‘Perhaps,’ my friend concurred, ‘but I have found it a mistake to disregard anything when investigating a crime. The smallest point may often be the most essential.’
As we had conversed, I noted our cab was slowly making its way north along Silver Street, a busy venue which brought us presently to the entrance of Market Place. The large square immediately brought to mind London’s Covent Garden, since it contained row upon row of wagons and stalls, from which proprietors were hawking their wares. Turning left, we traversed the edge of the bustling, noisy place, past vendors whose shelves and counters offered poultry and pork, fresh vegetables and fruit, casks of wine, and even bright flowers arranged in pots and wicker baskets. Reaching the other side, our cab rolled to a halt before a brown limestone frontage, whose faded crimson-and-gold awning proclaimed it to be the Rose and Crown.
‘One final point, Mr Thatcher,’ Holmes enquired, as he stepped down to the kerb. ‘What do you know of Miss Lowell’s background? Has she an occupation?’
‘Not that I’m aware. As to family, she did once speak of a late brother in Surrey, who left her some investments.’
‘They must have been considerable,’ Holmes mused. ‘A woman with such a bent for wardrobe must, after all, have means.’
Aubrey Thatcher’s home was one of three handsome red-brick houses situated neatly in a picturesque close in the heart of the university grounds, just south of the castle and within easy walking distance of the giant University Library. Large oaks framed the house and shaded the small front lawn. Beneath the front windows, hedges grew, and dark green ivy had been allowed to creep its way to the window ledges of the second storey. Noisy thrushes greeted us as we started up the walk, splashing in the large, sculpted birdbath and then flitting quickly out of sight.
As we reached the front step, Holmes paused. ‘Has it rained since the night your brother disappeared?’ he asked.
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‘Why, no.’
Holmes knelt down, his glass in hand. Next to the side edge of the concrete step, the dried front half of a footprint was pressed into the clay. ‘Observe,’ he said, ‘the toe is square. Mrs Clarridge has swept since this was made, else the back half, too, would remain. A misstep surely –’
‘By someone in a hurry,’ I conjectured.
‘Or,’ Holmes said, ‘who did not know the way.’
Our ring was answered by a small, wiry woman I took to be the housekeeper, whose silver-grey hair was drawn severely back into a bun. At first, she eyed Holmes and me apprehensively, a large broom clutched in one hand. Upon seeing Thatcher, however, she heaved an audible sigh of relief and swung the front door open wide.
‘Thank goodness it’s you, sir! ’ she exclaimed, as we followed Thatcher into the hall. ‘I feared it might be the police again, or another of those awful men from the papers. I have sent two of them on their way, this very morning! ’
‘There, there, Mrs Clarridge,’ our client assured her. ‘You may put your broom away. These men are friends – Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. Mr Holmes is a detective, who I hope will find the truth of this terrible business.’
‘Amen to that,’ the woman concurred. ‘This affair has worn me down more than I’d care to admit.’
‘And what is your opinion of this matter, Mrs Clarridge?’ Sherlock Holmes enquired. ‘Do you believe your master has run off with Miss Lowell?’
‘I do not! ’ the housekeeper bristled. ‘Only –’
Distress showed plainly in her face. ‘I don’t know what to think,’ she continued, gathering her apron in her hands. ‘I know I saw him leave. And yet – well, sir, I know there must be some good reason for his actions. Professor Thatcher has always been a kind and decent man. I only hope that will be proved, when all comes to light.’
