‘A wretched woman!’ she responded after a moment. ‘Her son was the subject of odd delusions and was being treated by my brother – quite brilliantly, I might add – when he unfortunately took his own life. His mother instantly put it about that my brother was to blame, quite overlooking the fact that the treatment he had been giving the boy had been his only hope of leading a normal life. When that woman’s slanderous lies began to reach a wider audience, my brother was obliged to take legal action to restrain her. She was duly bound over to keep the peace and we heard no more of her lies.’
‘You followed your brother’s work very closely, I take it,’ remarked Holmes.
‘Indeed, and always admired it greatly. It was work of genius, from a man of genius. One day my brother’s name will be honoured as one of the greatest figures – perhaps the very greatest – in the history of this unappreciative country!’
‘And Dr Zyss? Is he also a man of genius?’
‘Certainly not! Ludwig Zyss was always a mere follower of the insights of others. He achieved a certain celebrity by his association with my brother; but since their partnership was dissolved he has quite faded into obscurity.’
‘Does he not practise in Vienna?’
‘I believe he does – in an obscure sort of way and with many wrong-headed ideas.’
‘His ideas were not quite the same as those of your brother, then? Did the breach in their partnership come about because of these differences of opinion?’
‘Partly, yes – and in every case Dr Zyss was wrong, and Humphrey was right.’
‘Did they disagree in the case of Nicholas Routledge?’
‘I cannot discuss individual cases with you. It would not be proper to do so.’
‘But you could perhaps tell us whether they disagreed on the matter.’
‘Very well. Yes, they did disagree on the matter, very strongly. It was this disagreement which precipitated the rift between them; but the rift would have occurred eventually in any case, as the disparity between their respective talents became more apparent.’
‘What will become of Professor Arbuthnot’s papers now?’
‘They will be collected and edited by his wife and myself, and published as soon as possible. The world must not be denied the opportunity to behold the fruits of my brother’s genius.’
‘Had your brother been working on anything in particular recently?’
‘Yes. He has never ceased to push back the boundaries of human knowledge. His most recent work had been on certain species of mental illness to which young men in particular are prone, and the best treatment thereof.’
Holmes asked Gregson for the little black owl, which he held out for Lady Boothby’s inspection. ‘Have you ever seen this before?’ he asked, at which she shook her head. ‘It did not belong to your brother, perhaps?’
‘Certainly not. Is it brass? It looks to me like a paper-weight. I seem to remember reading somewhere that Charles Dickens had something of the sort on his desk, whilst writing his novels.’
A few minutes later, our interview concluded, Holmes, Gregson and I stood by the cab at the pavement edge.
‘The old professor certainly seems to have inspired an uncommon degree of loyalty and admiration in his womenfolk,’ remarked Gregson in a low tone. ‘I would like to think that Mrs G would speak in similar tones of me, if I was no longer here, but somehow I doubt it. Still, that’s neither here nor there – which is pretty much where we are in this case, it seems to me: neither here nor there! Between us we’ve spent several days plodding round the place, but have blessed little to show for it!’
‘Come, come!’ said Holmes. ‘We have learnt a great deal!’
‘Have we?’ asked Gregson in a dubious tone. ‘I can’t say that I have, Mr Holmes. We have an elderly, retired professor murdered in his study; a wife and sister who both think he was wonderful; an old colleague of the professor’s who seems to have disappeared; a woman – the mother of a former patient of the professor’s – who probably holds a grudge against him; a nephew who is writing a play which may or may not be based on one of the professor’s cases. It doesn’t seem to amount to much to me! What do we actually know? The only thing I feel really confident about is that Mrs Routledge lied to me about that blessed owl – and what the devil that might mean, I have no idea!’
‘Being lied to is an inherent hazard of our profession,’ returned Holmes with a dry chuckle. ‘If it is any consolation to you, Gregson, I can tell you that every single person I have interviewed today has lied to me about something. Of that I am certain!’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Gregson, shaking his head, ‘but that doesn’t help me much. What can I put in my report, to show to my superiors? Who murdered Professor Arbuthnot and why? Where is Dr Zyss? And what the blazes is the significance of that brass owl?’
Holmes chuckled. ‘I think I can answer some of your questions,’ he said. ‘As for what you can tell your superiors,’ he continued; ‘would the address at which the murderer is to be found be of any use?’ He took out a little note-book from his pocket and scribbled a few words on a sheet, which he tore off and passed to the policeman. ‘In my opinion, that is where you will find the murderer,’ he remarked as he put the note-book back in his pocket.
‘What!’ cried the policeman, as he read the note. ‘Eight, Belsize Park Crescent! But that is Lady Boothby’s house, where we have just been! This is not the time for jokes, Mr Holmes!’
‘I quite agree, Gregson. Look,’ he added, as a uniformed policeman appeared round the corner from Haverstock Hill, ‘here is the local constable! I suggest you enlist his aid, re-enter Lady Boothby’s house and make your arrest!’
‘But this is madness!’ persisted Gregson. ‘I cannot possibly do as you say! I should make myself a figure of ridicule and lay myself open to legal action!’
‘Very well, then,’ said Holmes, in a measured tone. ‘I shall accompany you and take upon myself all responsibility for the business. If I do anything legally improper, you have my permission to arrest me instead!’
After a moment, Gregson agreed to this, but his features expressed the doubts he evidently still entertained about the proposal. He crossed the road and intercepted the constable, who was passing by on the other side.
‘You do not object to forming the audience for our expedition, Watson, do you?’ Holmes asked me, as I watched Inspector Gregson speaking to the constable.
‘Not at all,’ I returned. ‘I am curious to see what you have in mind. I confess I have no idea at the moment what it is.’
Gregson returned with the constable, introduced to us as PC Harper of the Hampstead Division, and a moment later we were ringing the bell once more at the front door of Lady Boothby’s house.
We were conducted by the elderly maidservant directly to the dining-room at the back of the house, where Lady Boothby still sat in the armchair by the fire.
‘Well?’ she asked, in a voice full of irritation. ‘What is it now?’
‘We should be obliged,’ said Holmes, ‘if you would ask him to come down.’
Lady Boothby’s mouth fell open in surprise. ‘Who?’ cried she. ‘Who should I ask to come down? What are you talking about?’
‘Your brother, Humphrey,’ said Holmes in a calm tone. ‘He has been staying here since Wednesday night, has he not?’
The lady’s cheeks burnt bright red. ‘How dare you!’ cried she. ‘How dare you speak in this way, when my brother has been struck down in his prime, less than three days ago, and his body is scarcely cold yet!’
‘The body which is scarcely cold is that of the unfortunate Dr Zyss,’ interjected Holmes in a firm voice, ‘who was killed by your brother in the course of a quarrel. The body was deliberately misidentified by your sister-in-law, Mrs Arbuthnot, so that her husband could complete his latest work, which is why he took the papers relating to it away with him.’
‘What nonsense!’
‘You had called at the house, to be present at the mee
ting which your brother had informed you was to take place between Dr Zyss and himself. But Dr Zyss had arrived before you, and the two men had already had a violent quarrel, which had ended with Professor Arbuthnot seizing the paper-knife from his desk, and plunging it into the breast of his opponent, killing him instantly. His wife heard the disturbance, entered the study and saw what had happened. Professor Arbuthnot and his wife thereupon concocted the idea of letting it be thought that it was the professor who had been struck down by an unknown assailant. No doubt they had been impressed by the great similarity in appearance of the two men, for if Dr Zyss’s spectacles were removed, only those who knew them well could have told them apart; and as your brother had scarcely left the house in ten years, and received no visitors save yourself, they must have been confident that this deception would not be uncovered. It remained only to prevent the domestic staff from learning the truth of what had occurred, and for the professor to make his escape from the house. To this end, having gathered up the papers he required, he left the study by the French windows, intending to meet you when you arrived and leave with you in your carriage. Unfortunately for his plan, he saw as he reached the corner of the house that you had already arrived, and had just rung the front-door bell. He signalled to you to go back down the path to the gate. Before you reached it, however, the maid opened the front door of the house and spoke to you. Unsure what to do, you hesitated for a moment, then turned away again and walked to the gate. A moment later, the maid had shut the door, whereupon your brother quickly joined you and left with you in your carriage. Is my description of the events correct, madam?’
Lady Boothby did not reply. All colour had drained from her face, and she sat rigid and unmoving.
‘Yesterday morning,’ Holmes continued, ‘your brother decided to take a walk up to Hampstead. No doubt he was confident that he would not be recognised, as he had seen no one he knew for the best part of ten years. Unfortunately for him, he was seen by a lady who had attended lectures he gave many years ago, who mistook him for Dr Zyss. He pretended he had not seen or heard her and walked quickly on, making for the church. She followed him there, however, and he was obliged to hide somewhere in the church until she left. She later reported this incident to the police, but they made nothing of it.’
Without speaking, Lady Boothby reached out her hand and gave the bell-rope a tug. A moment later, when the maid entered, Lady Boothby instructed her to ask Professor Arbuthnot to come to the dining-room.
For a minute we sat in silence, then the door opened again, and a thin, elderly man with a grizzled beard entered the room.
‘What is it?’ he began in an irritable tone, but stopped when he saw us. ‘Who are these men?’ he asked his sister.
‘It’s no good, Humphrey,’ she replied. ‘These men are from the police. They know the truth.’
With a cry of anger, he advanced upon her. ‘You have betrayed me!’ he cried. ‘Have you no thought for my work?’
‘Professor Arbuthnot,’ said Gregson, rising to his feet, and placing his hand on the other man’s shoulder, ‘I am arresting you for the murder of Dr Ludwig Zyss.’
‘No!’ cried Arbuthnot in a wild voice. ‘No, you are not!’ In one swift move, he had stooped and snatched up the poker from the hearth. ‘You will never take me!’ he cried, swinging it violently at the policeman’s head.
As one, Holmes and I sprang up and seized the professor’s arms, as Gregson ducked to avoid the blow. For several moments we struggled violently to hold him, for the old professor seemed possessed of amazing strength for such an elderly man. Eventually he was subdued, the poker was wrenched from his grasp, and Inspector Gregson clapped a pair of handcuffs on him. Lady Boothby had shrunk into her chair while this violent conflict had been in progress. Now, she turned away, and made only a silent, dismissive gesture as we led her brother from the room.
We accompanied Gregson and his prisoner to the Hampstead Police Station, where he was formally charged with his crime and taken to the cells. A few minutes later, Gregson rejoined us in the front office.
‘Well, that’s that!’ he declared, rubbing his hands together. ‘Mad as a hatter! What do you think, Dr Watson?’
‘I’m inclined to agree,’ I replied. ‘I shouldn’t think he will be judged fit to stand trial.’
Gregson nodded. ‘Still, we’ve caught him! That’s the main thing! Now, Mr Holmes,’ he continued, turning to my friend, who was sitting on a bench, smoking his pipe in a contemplative fashion, ‘you must tell me how you worked it all out. How did you guess that it wasn’t the professor but Dr Zyss who had been done to death, what made you think he was at his sister’s house and where, precisely, does that blessed black owl fit into the matter?’
‘Guessing doesn’t come into it,’ rejoined Holmes sharply. ‘I never guess: there is no surer way of destroying the logical faculty. As to the little owl, it appeared earlier that Mrs Routledge knew more about it than she was prepared to admit, so what I propose is that we call on her again now and repeat our questions. I rather suspect that the news of Professor Arbuthnot’s arrest will free her tongue. As to the other points of interest in the case, I will gladly enlighten you on those, such as they are, on our way there.’
Thus it was that, five minutes later, we were once more in a cab, bound for Gospel Oak.
‘One of the first things that caught my attention,’ said Holmes, as we rattled along in the fading daylight, ‘was a curious little cut in the lining of the dead man’s jacket, which I examined at the police station. It was not caused by the knife that struck its wearer down, for although the knife blade had passed through the waistcoat, there was no corresponding cut in the fabric of the jacket, which must therefore have been unfastened and open at the time of the assault. Yet it was evident that the cut in the lining had been made very recently, for the fabric, a shiny, satin-like material, had scarcely frayed at all along the edge of the slit. I examined the lining more closely with the aid of a lens, and two things at once became clear. The cut had been made with a small pair of nail-scissors – the irregular line of the slit made that apparent – and a series of small holes, in line with the direction of the cut, indicated that something had previously been sewn to the lining of the jacket. I followed this line of thread-holes, and found that they enclosed an area two inches by three. The solution of this little mystery then seemed obvious: a label of some kind – probably the tailor’s own label – had been sewn inside the jacket, but had been recently removed, in the course of which the scissors had accidentally pierced the lining and cut a small section of it.
‘Of course, I realised that this trivial matter might be of no relevance to the case, but it was at least possible that there was a relevance there, if I could see it. Why should anyone wish to remove the label? Presuming that the jacket belonged to Professor Arbuthnot, I could see no point to it. What would it matter to anyone where the professor had had his suit made? But, applying the law of contraries, it followed that if there were some significance to the act of removing the label, then the jacket did not belong to the professor at all. This made great sense; for the obvious hypothesis was that the label had been removed to prevent the discovery of this fact. The label might, for instance, be that of a tailor working far away from London, whom the professor could not have visited. But the dead man had certainly been wearing that tweed suit when stabbed, for the fatal blow of the knife had, as I mentioned, passed straight through the waistcoat, which was of the same material as the jacket, and therefore part of the suit. Why, then, should Professor Arbuthnot have been wearing someone else’s suit when he was murdered and why was someone else concerned to conceal this fact? Of course, this is an absurd question, and the absurdity of it at once suggested the correct solution: the murdered man was not in fact Professor Arbuthnot at all, but someone else.
‘I reconsidered then what you had told me of the case, Gregson. As far as I could recall from your account, after Mrs Arbuthnot had discovered the body and had sent the mai
d to find a policeman, no other family member had seen the body, nor any of the domestic staff. The identification of the body had therefore been made by Mrs Arbuthnot alone and it was possible that she had lied. The obvious explanation for this course of action was that it was Professor Arbuthnot himself who had committed the murder and his wife was seeking to protect him.
‘You see, then, that even before we reached the scene of the crime at Highgate, I had formed a preliminary hypothesis which explained the matter satisfactorily and was completely at variance with the officially accepted course of events.’
‘You say your hypothesis explained the matter,’ I interrupted, ‘but it left unanswered the identity of the victim.’
‘That is true, Watson, but there was of course one outstanding candidate for that unfortunate role, namely Professor Arbuthnot’s old colleague, Dr Zyss. Except for the spectacles he wore all the time, his description was not so different from that of Professor Arbuthnot himself – medium height, spare build, grey hair and beard. I could not really doubt, then, that the dead man was Dr Zyss. Of course, Mrs Arbuthnot stated that Dr Zyss had sent a note to say that he could not keep his appointment that evening; but if she had lied in her identification of the dead man, how much more easily might she have lied about the note.
‘I had taken the dead man’s shoes with me to Holly Grove and, with the aid of these, I examined the footprints in the garden. I very quickly found that there were just two significant sets of footprints upon the lawn. The first, which exactly matched the shoes I had brought with me, passed in a regular and even manner from the garden gate towards the corner of the house, and on towards the French windows. I examined the whole of the garden very closely, but could find no further traces of these prints. Had the shoes from the police station really been those of Professor Arbuthnot, as was supposed, this discovery would have been most mysterious. The only rational explanation would have been that the professor had left the house by the front door, walked down the path to the gate, and then returned to the house by way of the lawn and the French windows to the study. This would have been possible but unlikely, especially as the other evidence – the testimony of the servants and so on – was that he had not left the house all day. However, as I believed the shoes to be those of Dr Zyss, the track across the lawn made perfect sense. Clearly, when Dr Zyss had arrived – being no doubt familiar with his old colleague’s habits – he had decided not to bother ringing the front-door bell, but to walk round to the study window, where he would have been confident of finding the professor at work.
The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes Page 5