The Casebook of Augustus Maltravers

by Robert Richardson

  ‘And what have you discovered about him subsequently?’ Holmes asked. ‘You would obviously have enquired.’

  ‘He sailed from Liverpool for America a month after he left here,’ Braithwaite replied. ‘He had secured a position as ship’s steward.’

  ‘Then we must look elsewhere,’ Holmes said. ‘Can you accommodate Watson and myself at Meldred Hall?’

  ‘Gladly,’ Braithwaite said feelingly. ‘I shall feel greatly comforted by your presence.’

  Holmes turned to me. ‘Return to Kendal and arrange for our things to be brought here, Watson. Now, Braithwaite, with your assistance I will commence my investigation into this curious and malevolent bird.’

  ELEANOR BRAITHWAITE’S NARRATIVE

  I am obliged at this point to relate certain matters which took place during my absence. As I departed for Kendal, Holmes asked Braithwaite if his sister was sufficiently recovered that he might talk to her. Enquiries revealed that she had awoken and he was taken to her room.

  Eleanor Braithwaite was twenty-three, dark haired and athletic with strong and beautiful features highlighted by deep brown eyes. However, when Holmes first saw her, there were several savage gashes upon her face, one of which had only just missed her right eye. He solicitously asked after her health and if she felt able to answer his questions.

  ‘If they will help to solve this hideous business, I will make every effort, Mr Holmes,’ she replied weakly. ‘Although I do not know what I may be able to add to what my brother will already have told you.’

  ‘We shall see,’ Holmes told her gently. ‘Let us begin with the woman who pulled you from your horse. Did you see her face?’

  ‘Only the merest glimpse just before she struck me,’ she replied. ‘It was filthy and of someone of about sixty years of age I should think. I did not recognise her.’

  ‘And with what did she strike you?’

  ‘I’m not certain. A stick I fancy, but it felt sharp.’

  Holmes tenderly moved her head to one side. The principal wounds on her face ran downwards, but there were several other deep scratches running from her left ear towards the mouth.

  ‘A bramble perhaps,’ he observed. ‘Very well. After the bird flew away, can you remember anything before you fainted?’

  She shook her head. ‘I remember hearing my horse running and the hoot of an owl, but thereafter knew nothing until I woke up in this bed.’ She paused. ‘Oh, yes, of course! I heard the sound of laughter.’

  Holmes looked at her sharply. ‘Laughter has many voices. Can you be more specific?’

  ‘Cruel laughter,’ she replied. ‘High pitched and vindictive.’

  ‘Like that of an old woman?’ he asked.

  ‘Exactly like an old woman.’

  Holmes rose and took her hand comfortingly. ‘Rest now. You are safe here and your brother will have all the protection I can give him.’

  He left the young woman with her maid and asked Braithwaite if he could interview the man who had led the search for her. This was the butler Painter, who had also dispatched the telegram. He was a grizzled man well struck in years, having been in the service of the family since before Braithwaite’s childhood, but remained vigorous and alert.

  ‘Henry the stable boy raised the alarm, sir, and we knew which route Miss Eleanor would have taken back from Lowman’s Farm,’ he explained. ‘Past the mere, through Witch’s Wood then across the meadows.’

  Holmes shot him a glance. ‘Witch’s Wood?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It is so named because Margaret Seymour the Firewitch, lived in a hovel there. It was she who…’

  ‘I am familiar with the legend,’ Holmes interrupted. ‘I was not aware the woods had a connection with her. Complete the story of your search.’

  ‘We were approaching the wood when I heard Henry, who was some distance ahead, call my name,’ Painter continued. ‘He was kneeling over Miss Eleanor lying by the bridle-path. We carried her back and summoned the doctor. It was too late to send a telegram to Mr Braithwaite that night, but that was done first thing the following morning.’

  ‘You have mentioned the stable boy joining in the search,’ Holmes added. ‘Who else accompanied you?’

  ‘Bates the gamekeeper, who was at the Hall that evening,’ the butler explained. ‘There were no other men available.’

  As the butler left, Holmes made several notes in his pocketbook, then turned to Braithwaite who had been present during the interview. ‘Your groom joined you comparatively recently. What do you know of him?’

  ‘He was trained in the stables of Sir Henry Goodman near Coniston,’ Braithwaite replied. ‘Sir Henry recommended him after my previous groom died. He’s a married man with a cottage on the estate and his work here has been of the highest order. Do you imagine…?’

  ‘My unalterable habit is deduction, not imagination,’ Holmes corrected somewhat tersely. ‘I would like to speak to him next.’

  They found the groom saddling the horse Braithwaite had hired at Lancaster on his journey from Manchester, in order to return it. He was a sallow faced, wiry individual, his spine bent like a shallow bow. Holmes asked why he had not been present to assist in the search for Eleanor Braithwaite.

  ‘I was on my way home to my cottage,’ the man replied. ‘I knew nothing about it until I came back this morning.’

  ‘And who would have attended Miss Braithwaite’s horse had she returned without mishap?’ Holmes enquired.

  ‘Henry, the stable lad. It would only have needed unsaddling and putting back in its stall after so short a ride.’

  ‘And where is your cottage on the estate?’ Holmes added.

  ‘About half a mile in that direction.’

  ‘Towards Witch’s Wood?’ Holmes remarked. ‘I see. Did you observe anything suspicious in that vicinity during your journey home?’

  The groom shook his head. ‘It was dark, but I saw nobody about.’

  Holmes nodded and appeared satisfied, but as he and Braithwaite were leaving the stable yard, he turned back to Johnson.

  ‘Upon which merchant vessel did you sustain the injury to your back?’

  ‘The SS Leonora, sailing out of Whitehaven,’ Johnson was clearly surprised, but Holmes strode away before the groom could demand how he could have known the fact.

  ‘I was unaware Johnson had been a seaman,’ Braithwaite remarked as they walked back towards the Hall.

  ‘There was a nautical skill about the knots in that rope by the stable door,’ Holmes replied. ‘His short stature would have precluded enlistment in the Royal Navy, therefore his experience must have been as a merchantman. His present condition would have rendered him unsuitable for enrolment, so he was fully fit when he joined and suffered some mishap during his service.

  ‘His maritime background may possibly be of relevance, but I was more interested in acquainting at least one member of your household with my methods. Johnson will tell the others, and if this mischief lies on your own doorstep, the culprit may make a false move out of apprehension. Now I wish to see the locations of these recent incidents.’

  Braithwaite took him first to the spot where his sister had been found. Holmes examined the ground, but the rescue party had obliterated anything that might have been of value. Straightening up, he looked towards a low belt of trees some distance away.

  ‘Witch’s Wood I presume,’ he commented.

  ‘Yes. Beyond it is the mere on the shore of which is Lowman’s Farm.’

  They went next to where Braithwaite had first seen the old woman in the woods. The area was overgrown with high dead bracken and bramble bushes. Working from the place at which Braithwaite said the woman had vanished, Holmes discovered a piece of cloth caught on a twig.

  ‘Cheap cotton material woven on a mechanical loom, almost certainly in one of the Lancashire mills,’ he remarked. ‘Of possible consequence.’

  A search of half an hour yielded nothing more, then they emerged out of the trees and the mere spread before them. It was a shallow oval, fou
r hundred yards at its widest point and rather more than half that in breadth. Gorse and heather grew round its circumference. Holmes followed its edge for some distance then produced his glass to examine several shoeprints in the soft ground.

  ‘Dunlop soles, size seven,’ he murmured. ‘Made by a woman or a small man, possibly even a child, certainly running. They disappear as the ground becomes more firm and could have continued round the lake or gone off towards the hills.’ He made a sketch of the pattern. ‘A commonplace design, but it may be of value if we can locate the shoe that made it. I have limited experience of ghosts, but am not aware that they favour footwear manufactured in Northampton more than three centuries after their death. We are dealing with the living here, Braithwaite, although it may be as deadly as malignant spirits. Our last port of call will be Lowman’s Farm.’

  Farmer Lowman himself was out completing the spring sowing, but his wife answered Holmes’s questions. She had no recollection of any strangers in the area and was sure her menfolk would have commented if they had. After giving her attention to their sick daughter, Eleanor Braithwaite had left about seven o’clock and the time it would have taken her to reach the point of her attack tallied with the period it would have taken the horse to gallop back to Meldred Hall. Holmes finally asked Mrs Lowman if she had heard any reports of an unusually large bird seen flying in the locality.

  ‘No, sir,’ the woman replied shaking her head. ‘We see occasional buzzards in the hills, but they rarely come down here into the valley.’

  They thanked her and returned to Meldred Hall, which is where I found them on my return and am able to continue my account as a first hand observer and participant.

  5

  Frantic knocking erupted through Brook Cottage, hammering blows mixing with ceaseless electric chimes as somebody held down the front doorbell at the same time. Seconds earlier, absorbed in reading, Maltravers had not registered the screech of tyres scattering stones on the path outside and the slamming of a car door. Irritated by the interruption, he put down The Attwater Firewitch and went to answer it. Face distorted with horror, Charlotte Quinn stood in the porch.

  ‘Thank God you’re in!’ she gasped. ‘I must use the phone!’

  Before he could speak she pushed past him and ran into the cottage. When he followed her, she was in the centre of the living-room, looking around in agitation.

  ‘Where is it?’ she shouted. ‘The telephone!’

  ‘On the piano…what the hell’s the matter? What’s happened?’

  She leapt at the phone without replying, then stood with her hand on it, gulping with exertion and emotion.

  ‘Who are you calling?’

  ‘The police.’ She suddenly sobbed, the sound half caught in her throat. ‘They must get into Carwelton Hall!’

  ‘Police?’ Maltravers put his own hand on top of hers to prevent her lifting the receiver. ‘Hold it right there! Tell me first.’

  Charlotte Quinn’s hand strained beneath his for a moment, then he felt it slacken. Her face was haggard as she turned to him.

  ‘I rang Charles at his office this afternoon and told him about Jennifer and Duggie Lydden.’ Her voice shook again. ‘He said he wanted me to meet him at Carwelton Hall as soon as he got home. His car was in the drive, but there was no reply. Then I looked through the letterbox and saw him on the floor near the library door.’ She shuddered and began to weep. ‘Gus, I think he’s dead!’

  Maltravers stared at her. ‘Dead? How could you tell?’

  ‘He was just lying there! I shouted but he didn’t move. There was blood…’ her voice croaked as she sobbed violently.

  ‘Did you try to get in?’

  ‘Of course I did!’ Anger flared out of her frenzy. ‘I wouldn’t be here otherwise would I? Stop asking stupid questions.’

  She thrust his hand aside and snatched up the phone, continuing as she began to punch the 9 button. ‘He must have killed himself because of what’s been happening. He suspected it before I told him and…police! Quickly!’

  She waited a few seconds then repeated part of what she had just told Maltravers. She hung up and stood very still with her shoulders bowed, then suddenly threw back her head and screamed. Maltravers put his arms round her and she trembled against him like a child in the arms of its mother woken from a nightmare.

  ‘What did the police say?’ he asked as she grew calmer.

  ‘They want me to go back and meet them there.’ There were tears of desperation in her eyes as she looked at him pleadingly. ‘Come with me, Gus! I can’t go…I can’t…Oh, God!’

  ‘Of course I’ll come,’ he assured her. ‘We’ll use my car, you’re in no condition to drive.’

  Moments after Maltravers turned on to the main road at the bottom of the lane, they heard the hysterical soprano whoop of a siren before a police car appeared behind them over the rise from the direction of Kendal, headlights blazing and blue alarm light flashing on the roof. It swept past and Maltravers accelerated after it. As he skidded to a halt on the gravel drive of Carwelton Hall, two policemen were at the top of the front steps, one crouched at the letterbox. He straightened as Maltravers and Charlotte Quinn dashed up to them. Balloon fat and pencil thin, the policemen had an irresistible resemblance to Laurel and Hardy, an insane touch of comic farce.

  ‘Mrs Quinn?’ the fat one asked. Charlotte nodded. ‘I can see him. We’ll never force this door though. Is there any other way in?’

  ‘No. I tried the back but it’s locked.’

  ‘It’s a window then.’

  He ran down the steps and took a hand axe from the car boot. The front windows were set several feet off the ground and Laurel had to climb on Hardy’s shoulders to smash the pane and reach for the catch before scrambling inside. Seconds later the front door opened. Maltravers held Charlotte Quinn’s arm as they followed the second policeman into the house. She waited with him just inside the front door as the officers knelt by Charles Carrington on the far side of the hall. He was lying face upwards in the doorway of the library, head and shoulders on the floor.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s dead.’ The fat one laid down Carrington’s wrist. ‘An ambulance is on its way. Can you come with me please?’

  Still supporting Charlotte Quinn, rigid with shock, Maltravers followed him into the lounge. The other policeman had returned to the car.

  ‘Is it all right if I give this lady a drink?’ Maltravers asked. ‘I know where it’s kept.’

  The officer nodded and Maltravers went to the cabinet. ‘Here you are,’ he said gently and she sipped obediently, then sat with the glass clenched between white-knuckled hands on the tweed skirt of her suit.

  ‘Mrs Quinn’s in no state to talk at the moment,’ Maltravers said. ‘I’ll tell what little I can though.’

  ‘First of all, I’d like to know who you are, sir.’

  ‘My name’s Augustus Maltravers and Mrs Quinn called you from the cottage of friends of mine where I’m staying. She said Mr Carrington had arranged to meet her here this afternoon but when she arrived she saw him through the letterbox. I came back with her.’

  ‘Does Mr Carrington have any family?’

  ‘Only his wife as far as I know,’ Maltravers replied. ‘However, I saw him first thing this morning and he mentioned that she was spending the day shopping in Manchester. He didn’t say when he expected her back.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. My colleague is calling the duty inspector who will inform the CID. They will want statements from you both. For the time being, I must ask you to remain in this room and one of us must stay with you.’

  ‘Of course.’ Maltravers sat next to Charlotte Quinn. She squeezed his hand absently as he took hold of hers, but did not look at him or speak. Maltravers saw an ambulance arrive outside and then two more cars pulled into the drive. There were voices in the hall before another man entered the lounge, tall and broad with a tough, penetrating face beneath a helmet of dove grey, almost white, hair.

  ‘Good-afternoon,’ he said. �
��Detective Sergeant Donald Moore, Cumbria CID. I’ve been told what’s happened and I’d like to speak to you first, madam. Will you please go with this officer, sir?’

  Maltravers smiled encouragingly at Charlotte, then was taken to the dining-room across the hall. Instinctively he looked at the body again, blood hideously splashed across the chest. Carrington’s arms were raised above his head and the two ambulance men were like silent witnesses at a crucifixion. After about fifteen minutes Moore joined him and he repeated his brief story.

  ‘We’ll need full statements at the station, sir,’ the sergeant said when he had finished. ‘But there’s one point you may be able to help us with now. Do you know what Mr Carrington kept in the library safe?’

  ‘The safe?’ Maltravers frowned. ‘He…just a minute! Are you saying that…?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything, sir,’ Moore interrupted. ‘Can you tell me anything about the safe and its contents?’

  Maltravers paused, analysing the question. ‘You’ve just told me an awful lot. That safe contained some books, but not any old books. In fact I doubt if there’s anything in this entire house more valuable.’ He looked at Moore enquiringly. ‘But they’re not there now are they? And that means Charles Carrington was murdered.’

  ‘I can’t comment on that, sir. Tell me about these books.’

  *

  As Maltravers and Charlotte Quinn were taken to Kendal police station, Carwelton Hall was filling with urgent activity, the blinding glare of a photographer’s flashlight, increasing numbers of police swarming through the house, methodically beginning their search, combing the floor of the library, dusting for fingerprints. A man with an open black bag beside him was kneeling by Carrington’s body, holding dead lips around a clinical thermometer.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Maltravers asked quietly as the police car pulled away. Charlotte nodded.