by Chris Dolley
~
We stopped by the mire gate to check for signs that the cloven-footed Lottie had exited the mire there, but found nothing. She’d either doubled back or was still out there, hiding in the mist. We stood on the mire’s edge for a short while, peering into the gloom, but even Reeves couldn’t see any movement. The mist may not have been as thick as before, but it still obscured much of the mire and the moor to the east.
So we turned and set off along the Yew Walk. And stopped dead the moment the Hall came into view.
Lupin was climbing a drainpipe on the back wall of the Hall. He was halfway to the roof and making short work of it. But that wasn’t the half of it. He was wearing what looked like a policeman’s helmet.
“Is that...?” I said.
“I believe so, sir,” said Reeves. “Most disturbing.”
As Lupin neared the roof, he swung effortless from the drainpipe, hooked one hand onto the castellated parapet and pulled himself up and over. He then ambled along the flat roof, only his head and helmet visible. And then he was gone.
Twenty-One
he doing up there?” asked Emmeline.
“Nothing good,” I said.
I’d completely forgotten about the missing policeman. I’d assumed he’d caught sight of Selden, run off in pursuit, and exited tor left, forgetting all about his previous mission to visit the Hall. But this changed everything. Custodians of the law do not give up their helmets willingly. They search, leaving no suspect unturned until the missing headgear is restored to the rightful cranium.
“How do we get up there, Reeves?” I asked. “Is there a long ladder?”
“One would suspect a house of this size, sir, would have a door to the roof.”
“Lead on, Reeves. And keep the gun handy.”
Reeves took us up the servants’ staircase to the third floor which we then combed in search of a further set of stairs. It took a while, but eventually we found a door that led to a spiral wooden staircase up into a turret with a door onto the roof.
The door was bolted top and bottom.
“Does this mean Lupin’s still out there?” asked Emmeline.
“He may have bolted it behind him,” I said. “Never underestimate an orang-utan.”
I unbolted the door and slowly pushed it open.
I couldn’t see Lupin. I looked left and right as far as I could without poking my head out from the turret. For all I knew Lupin could be perched on the turret roof waiting to leap down upon me.
I took a deep breath and shot out the turret, running along the raised ridge of the gently shelving lead roof before stopping to look back behind me. No Lupin. The cupola on top of the turret was devoid of anything ginger and furry.
Emmeline and Reeves joined me. We stood and peered across the roof.
“There!” said Emmeline, pointing.
Lupin was no longer wearing the helmet. He was sitting on the parapet on the far side of the west wing. He looked our way, lifting his giant head and rather looking down his nose at us. I had the feeling he may have smirked.
And then he got up, bounced a few strides and swung himself over the parapet and disappeared.
We ran over. By the time we got there, Lupin was on the lawn, ambling along on all fours towards the walled garden. He didn’t even deign to look up at us.
“What did he do with the helmet?” asked Emmeline.
We all looked. I couldn’t see it anywhere. And then I noticed a pair of feet sticking out from behind a chimney.
~
It was Pasco. And not just Pasco, behind the chimney we found a veritable treasure trove of objects — including the police helmet, a pair of size twelve boots, a blowpipe and a large coil of rope.
“Well,” I said, not knowing where to start first. “Pretty conclusive, I think.”
“Lupin’s the murderer?” asked Emmeline.
Reeves coughed.
“You may cough, Reeves,” I said. “But the evidence does not lie. Unless you think someone planted all this on him?”
“The murderer would appear to have a penchant for evidentiary tampering, sir.”
I had to be firm.
“Reeves, we all saw Lupin wearing the helmet but five minutes ago. If anyone planted the helmet here it was Lupin. This is obviously his treasure nest.”
“Indeed, sir, but Lupin cannot be the murderer as he is unable to talk.”
“One can find other ways to communicate, Reeves,” I said. “Lupin might have written his instructions to Pasco. I expect there was a note pinned to that black dress. What ho, Pasco, old fruit. Kindly slip on this dress and walk the landing at midnight.”
“Pasco could not read, sir. Very few automata can.”
I wondered if Reeves had fallen under Lupin’s influence. One hears about that sort of thing. Svengali types swanning about mesmerising all and sundry, creating an army of devoted followers. And Lupin had a way of looking at a chap as though he knew all.
But Reeves was also a devotee of logic, and that, I decided, was the way I’d win him round.
“I shall prove Lupin’s guilt, Reeves, by examining each of these objects in turn and using advanced deductive reasoning. But, first, I need to recharge my little grey cells. Any chance of rustling up a spot of luncheon? A hamper maybe, and a bot of the good stuff. We shall dine alfresco on the roof-o.”
~
I felt pretty braced for a starving man whose legs had circumnavigated half a moor. The case was nearing its conclusion. I could probably perform the dénouement over dinner tonight. I’d write a script this afternoon — jot down all the salient facts and then, tonight, when everyone was least expecting it, I’d point the accusing finger at Lupin to the gasps of the assembled guests.
I might even wear a white hat.
“Do you really think Lupin’s behind everything?” asked Emmeline.
“I shall prove it.”
Reeves returned anon with a hamper of Mrs Berrymore’s finest. We dined like kings, gazing out over the battlements at the landscape below. Even the mist over the mire had lifted. We could see all the way to the high moor beyond.
And when our meal was over, and I felt that warm buzz emanating from the little grey c’s, the deducing could begin.
“I shall start with the helmet,” I said.
“Are you going to flour it for fingerprints?” asked Emmeline.
“No,” I said. “I think fingerprinting may be somewhat overrated.”
I picked up the helmet and gave it a good eyeballing. The badge had Devon County Constabulary written upon it, which fitted my hypothesis that it belonged to our missing boy in blue. And inside there was a number — eight — and a word — Brown.
“I deduce that ‘eight’ refers to the helmet size,” I said. “Brown is either his name or, possibly, his hair colour. What do you think, Reeves?”
“I think the name would be favourite, sir.”
“Well, there we are then. This is the helmet of Constable Brown of the local constabulary, and, if I’m not mistaken, these are his shoes. You will note how large they are.”
I put down the helmet, picked up the left shoe and peeked inside for a size.
“Ha!” I said. “Who else but a policeman wears size twelves? That’s a rhetorical question, Reeves. I’m sure Goliath could fill a pair of size twelves. As could a circus strongman. Maybe even a larger specimen of blacksmith. But I think your friend with the razor would agree — the simplest answer is the missing policeman.”
“I concur, sir.”
Well, that was heartening. Reeves had the habit of casting spanners into even my best deductions.
“Constable Brown is also the owner of a large dog,” I said. “Observe the bite marks on the left upper here.”
I consider myself something of an expert on dog bites. I don’t know if you’ve read The Severed Leg in the Library by E. L. Napper, but it’s a corker. The detective’s this chap who’d compiled the definitive index of dog bites by studying the scarred legs of retired p
ostmen. One look at a bitten leg and he could practically name the dog!
“Too large for a spaniel,” I continued. “Too bold for a bloodhound. Probably some kind of mastiff. A mastiff who’d fallen upon hard times and had to make do with shoes instead of his usual bone to chew on.”
Reeves coughed. I wondered if perhaps it might be best to exclude Reeves from this evening’s dénouement. There’s nothing more off-putting than a serial cougher in the audience.
“Yes, what is it, Reeves?” I said curtly. “Do you have an issue with the mastiff?”
“I was rather concerned, sir, about the sharpness of the bite.”
“They’re big dogs, Reeves.”
“Indeed, sir. They are also more noted for the power of their bite rather than the sharpness of their teeth. Whereas cats...”
Reeves didn’t need to say any more. The penny droppethed like the gentle rain. This wasn’t Constable Brown’s best friend having a companionable nibble on his footwear, this was his worst enemy — Selden!
We all stared at the shoe.
“Constable Brown’s dead, isn’t he?” said Emmeline.
“I fear so,” I said.
“Eaten by Selden,” said Emmeline.
“So it would appear. We must stiffen our lips, Emmeline. It may appear hard-hearted — and I’m sure Constable Brown was an excellent fellow — but, once the game is afoot, we detectives have but a single goal — to solve the puzzle.”
I took a longer look at the shoe. Could Reeves have been wrong about the mastiff? But the more I looked, the more bite marks I discovered. No policeman would turn up for duty in punctured footwear. The damage had to have occurred while he was on duty.
I put the shoe down. “I don’t suppose orang-utans are noted for the sharpness of their teeth, Reeves?”
“No, sir.”
“Selden could still be working under Lupin’s direction though,” I said, somewhat hopefully.
“I think it more likely, sir, that Constable Brown died because he observed Selden shortly after leaving us, and gave chase. Selden then panicked, triggering his transformation into the Clerkenwell Cat. The Constable was then killed and, later that night, his helmet and shoes were deposited on the lawn — that being Selden’s modus operandi. But, before those articles could be discovered by anyone in the household, Lupin found them and brought them here to his hiding place on the roof. I suspect that Lupin may be somewhat of a magpie, sir, drawn to collect items that catch his interest.”
“Well, yes,” I said. “That might have happened.”
I don’t consider myself a petty chap — I’m usually the first to heap praise on Reeves and his remarkable brain — but sometimes one can feel a little peeved when he uses it to skewer one’s pet theory.
“I thought we decided Selden couldn’t have killed Pasco or Sir Robert?” I said. “All that modus operandi stuff and not being able to sneak into the Hall to trouser the curare bottle?”
“Indeed, sir. The evidence would suggest there are two murderers.”
“One murderer on the loose may be regarded as a misfortune,” said Emmeline, doing a rather good impersonation of Lady Julia. “Two looks like Whitechapel.”
“I think Lady Julia would make an excellent Lady Bracknell,” I said.
“She was born to play the role,” said Emmeline. “Do you think I should suggest it to Henry? He could do a moving picture of The Importance of Being Earnest.”
“More likely The Importance of Being Earnest in the Quarry.”
“With Lady Julia in a black hat.”
“Attended by a giant octopus.”
“An oc-topus!” said Emmeline, giving the octopus the full Lady Bracknell treatment.
Reeves coughed. “I have observed something unusual about the blowpipe, sir.”
“Nibbled by a cat, perhaps?” I said.
“Not that I observe, sir. But there is something very unusual about the mouthpiece. May I pick it up? I shall use gloves.”
“The floor is yours, Reeves.”
Reeves picked up the blowpipe and gave it a good squint from all angles. It was about two feet long and looked to be made of bamboo.
“Most unusual,” said Reeves. “The blowpipe has been modified by the addition of a threaded metal mouthpiece, sir.”
“Why would anyone do that?” I asked.
“Unless I am mistaken, sir, the modification was undertaken to allow the weapon to be used by an automaton. If you will allow, I shall attach the weapon to Pasco.”
I watched, spellbound, as Reeves screwed the blowpipe into Pasco’s belly button — which, as regular readers will know, is the screw-threaded intake valve via which automata connect to the steam outlet pipe thingy in order to top up their pressure.
It fitted perfectly.
Loathe as I was to exonerate Lupin, it did appear that Sir Robert’s murderer had to be an automaton.
“The internal steam pressure would provide the necessary impetus to eject the dart, sir,” said Reeves. “It would be a simple process for any automaton to trigger an abdominal vent.”
“That’s as maybe, Reeves, but I can’t see an automaton walking into the Hall and running off with a bottle of curare. There is a guiding brain behind this, and it’s not a mechanical one.”
“I think Falconbridge could do it,” said Emmeline. “Dress him up in Baskerville livery, and he could waltz right in.”
“Possibly,” I said. “But I can’t see Lottie or any of the feral automata carrying it off. They’d trail in too much mud. No one could walk across the mire without ruining their uniform.”
“There is a less conspicuous entry into the Hall, sir,” said Reeves, indicating the turret door. “If one arrived at night, one could steal the curare from the second floor laboratory and make good one’s escape without being seen by the guards at the doors.”
“Can automata climb as well as Lupin?” I asked.
“Not generally, sir. But if I may bring your attention to the rope, you’ll notice that one end is tied around the chimney stack.”
I’d rather overlooked the rope — what with all the other objects lying there — but now I could see its purpose. It looked the right length, but I thought it best to check. So, I picked up the coil, took it to the nearest spot on the parapet and threw it over. All three of us leaned over the parapet to watch the rope hit the ground with a good few yards to spare.
It was a good place to choose for a spot of burglary too. It wasn’t visible from any door or path. And, with the wing tucked back a yard or two from the end of the main house, the rope was shielded from anyone observing from the south as well.
In fact, now I looked closer, I recognised the spot. We’d searched the area below extensively the night the ghost appeared.
“I fear my deduction concerning the purpose of this rope was in error, sir,” said Reeves. “It is not for providing access into the house, it is for providing a way out.”
I saw it too. The rope was hanging directly outside the window that the ghost had exited. No need for a ladder, or — and I regretted admitting this — Lupin. Pasco could have climbed down the rope and legged it back to the old stable block.
“Did Pasco climb up the rope or down?” said Emmeline. “If he climbed down, someone else would have to be up here to pull up the rope. We’d have seen it otherwise.”
“That would be the brains behind the murder,” I said. “They’d be up here waiting for Pasco to reach the ground ... which means they couldn’t have been in the hallway when the ghost appeared!”
I tried to remember who had been in the hallway with us. Lily for one. She was the one who’d screamed. Henry and Ida had been talking to us when Lily screamed. But who else had been there?
“Lady Julia wasn’t with us,” said Emmeline. “She’d retired early. Stapleford left early too — to go home ... or so he said.”
“There is a circumstance that does not necessitate a second person on the roof, miss,” said Reeves. “I agree it is more likely that P
asco climbed down the rope, but if he did, indeed, ascend, then he could have pulled the rope up after him, waiting until everyone was asleep before letting the rope down again.”
“Someone would still have to pull the rope back up before morning, Reeves. Dangling ropes get noticed.”
“Indeed, sir, but the murderer could have done that at any time during the night, allowing them to be present in the hallway when Miss Lily screamed.”
We may not have been back to square one, but we’d tumbled a good few squares back towards its general vicinity.
“I don’t suppose you can glean anything from the variety of knot used to tie the rope to the chimney?” I asked Reeves, hoping for one of those nautical ones that only one-legged whalers were in the habit of tying.
“It’s a clove hitch, sir.”
“Not an unusual knot then?”
“No, sir.”
I scratched the old noggin. We’d discovered so much and, yet, were we any closer to discovering the identity of the brains behind the murders? We had Selden pegged for Constable Brown’s murder, but an hour ago we hadn’t even realised he was dead. We’d come to the roof looking for Sir Robert’s and Pasco’s killer. Now it looked like we were going to leave in the same quandary.
“It has to be Stapleford,” said Emmeline. “He wasn’t present when Lily screamed. He knows all about automata. And he has one of Edison’s automata.”
“A strongly-reasoned suggestion, miss, though predicated upon the conjecture that Mr Edison has such a strong desire to see the demise of Quarrywood that he is prepared to order Sir Robert’s and, presumably, Sir Henry’s murder.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “You assume everyone acts out of logic, Reeves. For all we know Stapleford might have woken up one morning and thought, ‘I don’t like the way Sir Robert looked at me yesterday. I shall reap terrible revenge.’ Facts and motives are all very well, but when it comes down to it, there is only one mantra in the consulting detective’s quiver. The person least likely is always the one what done it.”
“In that case, I vote for Ida,” said Emmeline. “No one’s even mentioned her as a suspect, and yet she’s American, and her father knows Edison.