‘Was there any connection between the Routledge case and Dr Zyss’s decision to leave?’
‘No. He had been considering for some time returning to Vienna, to set up his own practice there. He and my husband had had various professional disagreements – I will not bore you with the details – and for that reason, also, decided to go their separate ways.’
Holmes nodded. ‘I see,’ said he. ‘I understand that although retired from active practice, your husband continued to write and publish in the professional journals.’
‘That is correct. My husband’s work was his life’s passion and nothing could have kept him from it.’
‘What was the subject of his latest work?’
‘I cannot see the relevance of the question, but, as you ask, it concerned the treatment of those suffering from a depressive illness, young people especially.’
We returned to the study then and, after hanging the photograph back up, Holmes continued his general examination of the room. After a while he looked up from where he was examining something by the fireplace, a thoughtful expression on his face.
‘I don’t think there is much more we can learn from this room,’ said he, ‘but while I finish off here, Watson, perhaps you could ask Mrs Arbuthnot about Terence Chalfont’s visit on Wednesday, if you wouldn’t mind?’
‘Not at all.’
Mrs Arbuthnot was still seated in the same position as I had last seen her, staring into the hearth. I put the questions to her that Holmes had suggested and she shook her head with a sigh.
‘As I have already told Inspector Gregson,’ she replied, ‘Mr Chalfont called at about half past two in the afternoon, stayed about half an hour and then left. His reason for calling was purely social, a family matter, and can have nothing to do with what has occurred.’
‘Was he a frequent visitor to your house?’
‘No, he was not. My husband did not encourage visitors.’
‘When was the last time he called?
‘I’m not sure. About three weeks ago. What does it matter?’
I could not think what else to ask, but at that moment, Holmes put his head in at the door and announced that he had finished in the study. ‘Do not trouble to ring for the servant, madam,’ said he. ‘We shall let ourselves out and bother you no longer. Good day!’
‘She did not really add anything to what we had already heard about Chalfont’s visit,’ I remarked, as our cab set off in the direction of Hampstead.
‘That is no more than I had expected,’ returned my companion, then fell into a profound silence. ‘No doubt you observed, Watson,’ he said at last, breaking his silence as we rattled along the road across the north side of the heath, ‘that some of Professor Arbuthnot’s papers are missing. Most of the sheets are dated, but there are none dated more recently than about three weeks ago, and none which appear to relate to his most recent work, as his wife described it to us. It is evident, however, that some sheets have been burnt in the fire, for there are several charred corners of paper lying in the hearth.’
I shook my head. ‘What does it mean?’ I asked.
‘It means, Watson, that what has not been burnt has been taken.’
‘But why? Could that be the motive for the crime?’
‘Ah! That is what we must discover!’
We alighted from the cab in the centre of Hampstead and soon found the front door to Chalfont’s apartment, at the side of a bakery in Heath Street. Our knock at the door was answered by Chalfont himself, a thin, pale, clean-shaven young man. He appeared none too pleased to see us, but agreed, in a reluctant fashion, to answer our questions.
‘I have already told the policeman everything I know about my uncle’s death,’ he said, as he led the way up a steep flight of stairs to his apartment. ‘As I said to him, it amounts to precisely nothing.’
As he was showing us into a small sitting-room at the top of the stairs, there came some slight noise from beyond a closed door at the side of the room.
‘That will just be my lodger leaving,’ he remarked in an off-hand tone, as we looked in that direction.
‘I was not aware there was another way out,’ said Holmes.
‘Only by the window,’ replied Chalfont in a matter of fact voice. ‘Martin often leaves in that way. He owes a little money to various people, which is why I’m putting him up here at the moment. He probably heard you coming and thought you were debt collectors. Now, please ask your questions and let’s get it over with.’
‘You called upon the Arbuthnots on Wednesday afternoon, at about half past two, but did not stay long and did not see the professor,’ said Holmes.
‘That is correct. If you know all this, why are you asking me?’
‘You didn’t call again later, for any reason?’
‘No.’
‘Mrs Arbuthnot says that you are not a very frequent visitor these days.’
‘That is true. What of it?’
‘I understand that you were hoping that they would make a financial contribution to the production costs of your latest play. Was that your main reason for calling?’
‘That came into it,’ Chalfont responded after a moment. ‘After all, people do sometimes contribute to worthy things that are of interest to them. At least, they used to. It’s become harder lately to raise the money you need. People are getting meaner. As for the Arbuthnots: trying to get money out of them was like trying to get blood out of a stone. I’d thought that the new play might be of interest to them, considering that it’s all about the professor’s line of business. You would have thought they’d have welcomed a little free advertising for his racket. But they weren’t interested.’
‘You had spoken to them before about it?’
‘Yes, two or three weeks ago.’
‘Forgive me for pursuing the point, Mr Chalfont,’ said Holmes after a moment, ‘but I am interested in this play of yours. I have the impression that you intend it to be somewhat critical of what you describe as “the professor’s line of business”. If that is so, why would you expect Professor Arbuthnot or his wife to contribute to its production?’
Chalfont did not reply at once. He sat down heavily in an armchair and, by a wave of his arm, indicated that we should do the same. ‘Because,’ he replied at length, ‘I was being dishonest. I make a big show of detesting dishonesty in others, but there was I, being just as dishonest as anyone else. When I first told them of the play, I tried to make out that it would simply be about the difficulties involved in that line of work, but as we discussed it, my own opinions inevitably came out, even though I tried to keep them to myself, and the professor and I ended up having a blazing row. That was three weeks ago. My visit on Wednesday was to try and smooth things over a bit, and tell them that they might have gained a misleading impression of the play. But that, too, was dishonest.’
‘In reality, then, you had always intended it to be critical of the professor’s work?’
‘Yes,’ he replied after a long moment of reflection.
‘You have studied your uncle’s work closely?’
‘Closely enough. Listen, Mr Holmes, when I was a boy, old Arbuthnot often used to call at our house and make personal remarks about me to my mother, sometimes when he thought I couldn’t hear what he was saying, and sometimes even in my presence, as if I was of no account compared to his almighty opinions. Grossly offensive, I call that, and damned impertinent!’
‘I see,’ said Holmes after a moment. ‘Is your new play based on your own experiences, then, or on a specific case?’
‘Neither precisely,’ replied Chalfont in a cautious tone. ‘I didn’t want to embarrass anybody or get into trouble by following a real case too closely. So it’s a blend of incidents and themes from several different cases I’ve read about, with some of my own experiences thrown in for good measure.’
‘And how, if I may ask, does it end up? Which character in your play comes out better?’
‘I really don’t see what your interest is, bu
t as it happens, the issue is not so simple as that. The patient deteriorates, but I leave it ambiguous as to whether this is the psychologist’s fault, or whether the young man would have got worse anyway. At least, I think I leave it ambiguous; I am at present rewriting the final scenes. I am conscious that I lack some telling incident, some crucial detail which will make the point I wish to make in an unequivocal way.’
‘Are you acquainted with Mrs Routledge?’
‘No I am not. I’ve never heard of her. Who is she, anyway?’
‘No matter. Do you know anything of a black owl?’
Chalfont’s features expressed puzzlement and he shook his head. ‘I thought most owls were brown,’ he said.
Holmes glanced at his watch as we boarded our cab once more. ‘We are running a little late now,’ said he. ‘I think we should postpone our visit to Professor Arbuthnot’s sister and get along to our meeting with Inspector Gregson at Gospel Oak.’
My companion fell silent then, as our cab rattled down Rosslyn Hill and along the south side of the heath towards Gospel Oak. As our cab turned into Trenchard Villas, however, he turned to me with an odd smile on his face.
‘That last interview took somewhat longer than I had expected,’ said he, ‘but I think it was worthwhile. Chalfont was lying, of course. It is inconceivable that he has researched the subject of psychic illness for his proposed new play, a subject upon which his own uncle has been one of the leading writers for many years, and has not encountered the Routledge case, a case which, from what we have heard, caused quite a disturbance in that field ten years ago.’
‘The same thought had struck me,’ I returned. ‘It certainly sounds as if there are similarities between Chalfont’s play and the Routledge case. But if he does know Mrs Routledge, why should he deny it?’
Holmes shook his head. ‘It is proving a more interesting case than at first seemed likely,’ he remarked. ‘I hope that Gregson has—ah, yes! There he is!’
A four-wheeler was standing at the side of the road and, as we approached, a man in a bowler hat clambered out.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen!’ said Gregson as we alighted on the pavement. ‘This is the place,’ he continued, indicating a neat gabled villa, set back behind a small front garden. ‘I thought I would wait for you, Mr Holmes, so that we could conduct the interview together.’
We were shown by a maid into a tastefully decorated parlour and a moment later Mrs Routledge entered. She was a neatly dressed woman of medium height, with faded sandy hair tied back in a bun. Gregson introduced us and explained the nature of his investigation, at which Mrs Routledge shook her head.
‘Of course I have heard what has happened,’ said she. ‘It is a shocking business that Professor Arbuthnot should be murdered, but I don’t see how I can help you in the matter.’
‘You called upon Dr Zyss at the Belvedere Hotel on Wednesday morning?’
‘I did, but I fail to see what that has to do with anything.’
‘Dr Zyss and Professor Arbuthnot were old colleagues.’
‘Yes, of course I am aware of that.’
‘Dr Zyss has disappeared. He is nowhere to be found.’
I observed her face closely, but she remained composed and it was difficult to tell whether this information was news to her or not.
‘How very strange,’ she remarked after a moment in a quiet voice.
‘You will appreciate, then, madam,’ said Gregson, ‘that your visit to Dr Zyss is not quite so unimportant as you suggest.’
‘I don’t see how my visit has any bearing on the matter,’ Mrs Routledge responded in a dismissive tone. ‘I can understand that you would wish to interview everyone who has seen Dr Zyss recently, if he has, as you say, disappeared. But I only saw him for an hour or so, quite early in the day, and he seemed perfectly normal then, I can assure you.’
‘You have not seen him since that meeting – on Wednesday evening, for instance?’
‘No.’
‘Did you also see Professor Arbuthnot on Wednesday?’
‘No.’
‘You did not go up to his house?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘But you know where it is?’
‘Yes, it is in Highgate. I have been there once or twice, but not for many years.’
‘What did you do when you left the Belvedere Hotel?’
‘I took lunch at a restaurant in Holborn, did a little shopping there, then walked over to the British Museum where I spent a pleasant couple of hours in the company of the Egyptian antiquities. I then took a cab to St Pancras station, from where I caught a train to St Albans, to visit my friend, as I had previously arranged.’
‘What time did you arrive at St Albans?’
‘Just before six o’clock, which was the time my friend was expecting me. She lives only a short walk from the railway station.’
‘What was your purpose in visiting Dr Zyss?’ interjected Holmes.
‘A purely private matter.’
‘Concerned with your son?’
For a moment, Mrs Routledge appeared surprised and discomfited, but in a moment she had recovered her composure. ‘I repeat,’ she said, ‘that my conversation with Dr Zyss was private. I am not prepared to discuss it further.’
‘Come, come, Mrs Routledge,’ said Holmes in a voice that was quiet but firm. ‘Your refusal to speak serves no purpose. We are aware of the tragic history of your son, and aware that you blamed Dr Zyss and Professor Arbuthnot for what happened.’
‘If you know so much, then why ask me about it?’ responded Mrs Routledge sharply.
‘We simply wish to confirm the details of your visit to Dr Zyss on Wednesday.’
‘Very well. Yes, I discussed the case of Nicholas with him.’
‘Could anything in the conversation have caused Dr Zyss to alter or cancel his own arrangements for later in the day?’
‘I should not have thought so. We were largely discussing the past.’
It was evident that we should get little further information from Mrs Routledge and a few moments later we rose to take our leave. At the doorway, however, Holmes spoke a few words to Gregson, who turned once more to Mrs Routledge, taking from his pocket as he did so the little black owl.
‘Have you seen this object before?’ the policeman asked her.
For a moment she hesitated and a variety of emotions passed in rapid succession across her face. ‘No,’ said she at last. ‘I have never seen it before.’
Outside, on the pavement, Inspector Gregson shook his head, as he pushed the little brass owl back in his pocket.
‘She’s lying,’ he said. ‘Your guess was right, Mr Holmes. She certainly has seen this owl before, or my name is not Tobias Gregson! What it means, I don’t know, but she is definitely implicated in the murder!’
‘Not necessarily,’ returned Holmes, as the three of us climbed into our cab. ‘The fact that she has seen the owl before scarcely proves she is a party to murder.’
‘But why, then, does she lie about it? You could see the guilt written all over her face. And I’ll tell you another thing: her account of her afternoon is not satisfactory. Two hours at the British Museum! I don’t believe it!’
‘Such recreation is not unknown,’ remarked Holmes with a chuckle.
‘Perhaps not,’ Gregson conceded, although he still sounded unconvinced; ‘but that’s not all that is suspicious about her afternoon. The railway line from St Pancras to St Albans passes right through this part of north London, not far from Gospel Oak, and, more significantly, not far from Highgate. She could easily have left the train at an intermediate station and walked up to the Arbuthnots’ house at Highgate, afterwards returning the same way and continuing her journey to St Albans.’
Holmes nodded his head. ‘Yes,’ said he; ‘the geographical possibilities were not lost upon me, Gregson. What you suggest would certainly have been possible.’
‘Aha!’ cried the policeman. ‘So you, too, suspect Mrs Routledge of having a hand in th
is affair?’
Holmes shook his head. ‘I did not say that,’ he returned, and would not be drawn further on the matter.
‘It’s a rum business, all right!’ said Gregson to me as our cab rattled its way westwards, towards Belsize Park. ‘I’ve seen plenty of men knifed – more than I’d care to count – but, between you and me, Dr Watson, the victims were very often no better than the villains that did for them. This, though, is the sort of case that just makes you scratch your head,’ he continued, taking off his hat and suiting the action to the word. ‘Why would anyone want to murder a harmless old retired professor? Have you formed any opinion?’
I shook my head. ‘I feel as much in the dark as you,’ I said. ‘It seems like nothing more than insane brutality.’
Our cab set us down before a large stucco-fronted house, in a side-road off Haverstock Hill. Our ring at the bell produced no immediate response and Gregson turned to us as he gave it a second sharp tug.
‘Lady Boothby’s servants are a little hard of hearing,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Between you and me, they are somewhat on the aged side. Most of them have been with her for around thirty years.’
The front door was eventually opened by an elderly maidservant, who showed us into a drawing-room on the left of the hall. There came the sound of footsteps overhead, then, after a few moments, the maid returned and conducted us to a room at the rear of the house. There, in a high-backed armchair drawn close to the fire, Lady Boothby was seated. She apologised for receiving us in the dining-room.
‘The fire is better in here,’ she explained, ‘and at my age I feel the cold rather badly. Do take a seat,’ she continued, indicating the chairs at the table. ‘Now, Inspector, what can I do for you? I was under the impression that I had answered all possible questions on your previous visit.’
‘There are one or two points we wished to clear up,’ Holmes interjected. ‘In the first place,’ he continued, as she turned to him with a look of curiosity on her face, ‘I should be obliged if you could tell us what you know of Mrs Routledge, the mother of a former patient of your brother’s.’
Lady Boothby’s features assumed an expression of distaste.
The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes Page 4