I found that in my absence Holmes had changed. It took a while to see that perhaps he was a bit taken aback by this young woman who had suddenly emerged from gangly, precocious, adolescent Mary Russell. Not that I was outwardly very different—I had filled out, but mostly in bone and muscle, not curves, and I still wore the same clothes and braided my hair in two long plaits. It was in my attitude and how I moved, and how I met him eye to eye (in conversation, but nearly so in stature). I was beginning to feel my strength and explore it, and I think it made him feel old. I know that I first noticed caution in him that summer, when he went around a cliff rather than launch himself down it. That is not to say that he became a doddery old man—far from it. He was just a bit thoughtful at times, and I would catch him looking at me pensively after I had done some exuberant thing or other.
We went to London a number of times that summer to see her limited wartime offerings, and I saw him move differently there, as if the very air changed him, making his muscles go taut and his joints loosen. London was his home as the downs never would be, and he returned relaxed and renewed to his experiments and his writing. If the summer before I went up to Oxford was one of sun and chess games under the open sky, my first summer home had a tinge of bitter in the sweet, as I realised for the first time that even Holmes was limited by mortality.
That awareness was at the time peripheral, however. Bitterness is an aftertaste that comes when the sweetness has had time to fade, and there was much that was sweet about that summer. Sweetest of all were the two cases that came our way.
I say two, although the first was hardly a case, more of a lark. It began one morning in July when I walked down to Patrick’s house with an article I had read concerning a new mulching technique developed in America, and found him slamming furiously about in his kitchen. Taking the hot kettle from his hand before he injured himself, I poured it over the leaves and asked him what was the matter.
“Oh, Miss Mary, it’s nothing really. Just that Tillie Whiteneck, down the inn? She was robbed last night.” The Monk’s Tun, on the road between Eastbourne and Lewes, was popular with locals and holiday trippers. And with Patrick.
“Robbed? Was she hurt?”
“No, everyone was asleep.” Burglary, then. “They forced the back door and took her cash box and some of the food. Real quiet about it—nobody knew until Tillie came down to start the stove in the morning and found the back door open. She had a lot in the box, too, more than usual. There were a couple big parties, and she was too busy to take the money down to the bank.”
I commiserated, gave him the article, and walked back to the main house, thinking. I put a telephone call through to Holmes, and while Mrs. Hudson went to fetch him I sat at the desk and watched Patrick move across the yard between the barns, his shoulders set in anger and depression. When Holmes came on the line I came to the point.
“Holmes, didn’t you tell me a few weeks ago that there has been a series of burglaries from inns and public houses in Eastbourne?”
“I hardly think two qualifies as a series, Russell. You are interrupting a delicate haemoglobin experiment, you know.”
“Now it’s three,” I said, ignoring his protest. “Patrick’s lady-friend at the Tun had her cash box taken last night.”
“My dear Russell, I am retired. I am no longer required to retrieve missing pencil boxes or track down errant husbands.”
“Whoever took it just happened to choose a time when the box was much fuller than it normally is,” I persisted. “It is not a comfortable feeling, knowing that the thief may be in the area. Besides,” I added, sensing a faint waver down the telephone line, “Patrick’s a friend.” It was the wrong card to play.
“I am so pleased for you that you can count your farm manager as a friend, Russell, but that does not justify dragging me into this little affaire. I believe I heard a rumour that Sussex now has a constabulary force. Perhaps you would be so good as to let them be about their work and let me be about mine.”
“You don’t mind if I look into it, do you?”
“Good heavens, Russell, if time hangs so heavy on your hands and you’ve run out of bandages to wrap, by all means thrust your nose into this momentous crime, this upsurge of depravity on our very doorsteps. I only suggest that you not annoy the constabulary more than you have to.”
The line went dead. In irritation I hung up my earpiece and went to get out my bicycle.
I was hot and dusty when I reached the inn, not a very prepossessing figure, and I had practically to tug the sleeve of the village constable before I was allowed a glimpse of the scene of the crime. I positively itched to look more closely, but the good PC Rogers, proud of his outré little crime, had the better part of the downstairs roped off awaiting his inspector, and he would not hear of trespass. Even the owner and her workers and guests were forced to edge through the room behind a wall of potted palms, which were already suffering from the attentions of steamer trunks and Gladstone bags.
“I promise you,” I begged, “I won’t disturb anything. I just want to look at the carpet.”
“Can’t do it, Miss Russell. Orders were to let no one through.”
“Which means, of course,” snapped a voice from the violently waving palms, “that I cannot have any food from my kitchen, so I lose not only my cash box, but today’s income as well. Oh, hello, you’re Patrick’s Miss Russell, aren’t you? Here to look at our crime?”
“Trying to,” I admitted.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jammy, let her—Oh all right, all right: ‘Constable Rogers,’ let her have a peep. She’s a bright girl, and she’s here, which is more than I can say for this inspector of yours.”
“Yes, Rogers, do let her have a peep,” drawled a voice from the door. “I’ll stand bail that she won’t disturb anything.”
“Mr. Holmes!” said the startled police constable, reaching for his helmet and then, changing his mind, straightening his shoulders instead.
“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “I thought you were busy.”
“By the time you let me go the blood had clotted beyond all recognition,” he said dismissively. He ignored the expressions on the faces around us that his statement had brought, and waved a hand at the young constable.
“Let her in, Rogers.” Meekly, the uniformed man went to drop the rope for me.
Torn between fury and mortification I stalked forward to the beginning of the runner carpet and, wrapping myself in every shred of dignity I could muster, bent to examine it. The carpet was new this season, had been brushed the night before, and did not take long to reveal its secrets. With my cheek nearly touching the fibers to take advantage of the angle of the light, I spoke to Holmes.
“This is from a medium-sized man’s boot with a pointed toe and a worn heel on the left foot. The pile of the carpet has lifted off more of an impression than the bare floor. There are also tiny bits of gravel, dark grey and black, or—?”
Holmes materialised at my knee and held out the glass I had neglected to bring. Through its lens the three bits of stone came into focus.
“Dark gravel with tar on it, and an overall haze of oil. And down here—is that a bit of reddish soil, rubbed off on the edge of the carpet?”
Holmes took the heavy glass from my hand and retraced my steps on his hands and knees. He made no comment, just handed the glass back to me and gestured that I should continue. He was turning this into an all-too-public viva voce exam.
“Where does red soil come up?” I asked. “There’s a patch where the road dips, south of the village, I remember, and two or three along the river. And wasn’t there some near the Barkers’ house?”
“Not so red, I think,” said Holmes. “And I believe a strong lens might reveal that this has a more claylike texture.” He volunteered nothing more. Fine, I thought, be that way. I turned to Constable Rogers, who was looking uncomfortable.
“The council has been surfacing a number of the roads recently, hasn’t it? Would you happen to know where the cr
ews have been working in the last week or so?”
He shifted, looked to Holmes for advice, and apparently received it, because he looked back at me and answered. “There’s a patch about six miles north, and the mill road they did last week. And a section just east of Warner’s place. Nothing closer since last month.”
“Thank you, that narrows it down a bit. Now, Mrs. Whiteneck, if I might have a word?” I took Patrick’s friend to one side and asked her for a list of the names and addresses of her employees, and told her that as soon as the police inspector had been, he would allow her to use her kitchen. She looked much relieved.
“Did Patrick say the thief took food, too?” I asked her.
“That he did: four beautiful hams I had just taken from the smokehouse; lovely, fat things they were. And three bottles of the best whisky. Set me back a bit, they did, and heaven knows how I’ll replace them, what with the shortages and the rationing. Here, you’re sure he’ll let me use the kitchen?”
“I’m sure he will. Even if he’s struck by a fit of mad efficiency he’ll only want to leave that part of the carpet and the doors for a fingerprint expert, but that may be hoping for too much. I will let you know what I’ve found.”
Outside the Monk’s Tun the sun was fully up and the narrow village lane was hot and bright. I spared a moment’s thought for the work crew I was supposed to be in and pushed it away. I felt Holmes at my elbow.
“I’d like to take a look at your topographical maps, if I may,” I said. This in itself was an admission of failure, that I did not hold the details of the Ordnance Survey for my own district firmly to mind, but he did not comment.
“All the resources of the firm are yours to command,” he said. This proved to include one of the automobiles his neighbour ran as the rural taxi service, which was standing next to the inn. We got in and returned to Holmes’ cottage.
I greeted Mrs. Hudson and went through the sitting room to the cabinet where Holmes kept his vast collection of maps. I found the ones I needed and spread them out on the worktable and made notes of the five places that I knew had red clay surfacing from the chalky soil of the downs. Holmes had busied himself with some other project, but when he walked past the table to fetch a book he casually laid a fingertip first at one place on the map, then another, reminding me of two more occurrences.
“Thank you,” I said to his back. “In all but one of the places where the red soil is found, the map shows an outcropping of rock. Two of those correspond both with—Are you at all interested in this, Holmes?” He did not look up from his book but waved his hand in a gesture I took to mean “continue,” so I did. “There are only two places where we find a combination of red soil, recent road work, and employees of the Tun. One is north two miles on the Heathfield road, and the other is west, down near the river.” I waited for a response, received none, and went to the telephone. Apparently I was to be in charge of this investigation, although, I suspected, with a hawk-eyed critic at my shoulder. As I waited to be connected it occurred to me that I had not heard the taxi leave and indeed, when I glanced out the window, there it was in the drive, the man behind the wheel settled back with a book. I was briefly annoyed at Holmes, not so much because of his easy anticipation of our needs as because I had not thought to have the automobile wait.
The exchange connected me with the Monk’s Tun.
“Mrs. Whiteneck? Mary Russell here. Has the inspector arrived yet? He did? Oh, did he? PC Rogers must have been disappointed. Yes. Still, you have your kitchen back. Look, Mrs. Whiteneck, could you tell me which of your employees are at the inn today, and the hours they’ll be working? Yes. Yes. Fine, thanks, then. Yes, I’ll be in touch.” I rang off.
“Inspector Mitchell came, took a look, gave PC Rogers a dressing-down for wasting his time, and left,” I said to the room at large, received back the response I expected, which was none, and sat looking at the list of names. They included Jenny Wharton, a maid at the inn who lived on the north road and worked today until eight o’clock, and Tony Sylvester, a new barkeep, who would be away from his home near the river until well after seven.
Now what?
I could not very well arrive at their respective houses and search them in their absence. Were I to stumble innocently across the cache of stolen goods, though, that might be a different matter. However, I could scarcely claim that I just happened to see the box under a bed up in the first-storey bedroom or smell the ham in—Wait now, smelling four hams, that might be…What if…?
“Holmes, do you suppose—Oh, never mind.” I took down the telephone again and asked for another number. Holmes turned a page in his book.
“Mrs. Barker, good morning. This is Mary Russell. How are you? And your husband? Good, I’m glad. Yes, we were quite fortunate, weren’t we? I say, Mrs. Barker, of your dogs, do you have one that’s good at tracking? Yes, you know, following a scent. You do? Would you mind lending him to me for a little while? No, no, I’ll come up and get him. He’ll ride in an automobile, won’t he? Good, I’ll be there in a bit, then. Thank you.”
I put up the receiver. “Holmes, do you mind if I use the car that is waiting so obviously in the drive?”
“But of course,” he said, and put his book back on the shelf.
We rode to the inn, where I borrowed a clean tea towel and rubbed it into one of the remaining hams, then went back up the road to the Barkers’ house. The ravening hordes descended on the car, causing the driver to swerve and curse under his breath as the dogs leapt and bit at the wheels and carried on as if they were about to eat us alive, tyres and all. I opened the door into their midst, and when I stepped out the entire pack went instantly silent and began to study the sky and sniff at the tussocks of grass growing along the drive, and to drift away unobtrusively. Mrs. Barker came out with a collar and lead in her hand, looked surprised at the tame mob, and went over to a bush to retrieve a very sorry-looking specimen with long ears, patchy fur, and an undercarriage that brushed the ground. She led him back to us and handed me the lead.
“This is Justinian,” she said, and added, “They’re all named after emperors.”
“I see. Well, we shall have the emperor in before nightfall, I expect. Come, Justinian.” He ambled along at the end of the lead, climbed laboriously into the car, and proceeded to give Holmes’ boots a thorough bath with his tongue.
I directed the driver first to the road that led north and had him let us out to wander the roads. Justinian sniffed industriously but gave no response to the hammy tea towel. After a while we got back into the car and drove on to the mill road, beyond which lived Tony Sylvester. Again Holmes and I walked the verge while Justinian snuffled in the weeds and anointed them. We walked on, and on, a parade of dog, humans, and automobile, and I had quite enough time to regret bitterly that I had ever involved myself in this farce. Holmes said nothing. He did not have to.
“Another half mile,” I said between clenched teeth, “and we assume either that the man was not on foot, or that the imperial nose is not what it was. Come on, Justinian.” I took the cloth and waved it under his nose. “Find! Find!”
He paused in his delicate examination of a flattened toad at the side of the road to savour the hammy cloth, his eyes lowered pensively. He stood for a moment, thinking deep thoughts inside his unkempt head, sat down to scratch a flea in his left ear, stood up, sneezed vigorously, and set off firmly down the road. We followed, more quickly now, and in a few minutes he dove off onto a thin track, under a fence, and into a field. Holmes signaled the car to wait where it was, and we clambered over in Justinian’s wake.
“I hope this is not the field with the bull in it,” I muttered.
“There is a path, so it is doubtful. Hello, what is this?”
It was a ten-shilling note, crushed into a patch of soft soil by a bovine hoof. Holmes carefully extricated it and placed it in my hand.
“Not the most professional job in the world, would you say, Russell? He couldn’t even wait to get home to gloat over hi
s booty.”
“I did not take up this investigation for its intense mental stimulation,” I snapped. “I only wished to help out a friend.”
“One cannot be too demanding, I suppose. Still, I may be home in time to resume the haemoglobin experiment. Ah yes, I believe we—I believe you have found Mr. Sylvester’s house.”
The faint path went through another fence and dwindled away at a small stone farmhouse that had a faintly desolate air. There was no sign of life, no answers to our calls. Justinian tugged us along to a little smokehouse that stood apart, gently emitting curls of fragrant smoke. He went up to it and stood, nose to the crack, whining irritably. I opened the door, and in the dark, smoke-filled interior saw three whole hams and part of a fourth. I took my knife from my pocket and cut off a large piece, tossing it to the ground in front of Justinian.
“Clever dog.” I patted him and snatched my hand back when he snarled at me. “Stupid dog, I’m not about to give it to you and then take it away.”
“Where will you look for the cash box, Russell?”
“It’s bound to be someplace inconvenient, such as in the rafters of this smokehouse or down the pit in the privy. Nothing that requires a great deal of imagination or intellect: I admit it was a nice touch to hide the hams in an active smokehouse, but I’d have thought that an indication of sound criminal instinct rather than brains; even an urban investigator might think it odd to find the remains of a pig blessed with two pairs of hams but neither trotters nor bacon.”
“Yes,” he sighed. “My life has been plagued by criminals with instinct and no sense; I shall leave this one to you. You search, while I walk back and bring the driver. Shall I open the house for you before I go?” he asked politely, holding out his ring of picklocks.
“Yes, please.”
The inn’s box was not in the smokehouse rafters, nor down the odoriferous pit. Nor did I find it dangling in the well or, moving inside, under the man’s bed or on the attic rafters or even under a loose floor-board. The driver outside was deeply entrenched in a cheap novel, happy enough to wait, but it was getting late. Holmes and I met in the tiny kitchen over the dirty dishes. Sylvester had eaten beans for supper the night before, and the pan stood on the sideboard, well crusted over. The remainder of the fourth ham was on a plate in the cupboard. The flies were enjoying it.
The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4 Page 9