One of the party, who was sitting on the cottage steps with his back up against the door, as much out of the rain as he could manage, indulging in a pipeful of Latakia while the damaged machine was being repaired, felt something sticky under his hand. He looked, and discovered a widening stain coming out from under the door. Now, according to which version of the story you find most to your liking, he either pointed to the stain and said, “I say, chaps, what do you suppose this is?” Or he leapt to his feet screaming, “It’s blood! It’s blood! Something horrible has happened here.” I tend to prefer the latter version, but perhaps it’s only the alliteration that appeals to me.
The young men, feeling that someone inside the cottage might require assistance, pounded on the door. When they got no response, they tried the handle and found it locked. The windows all around the building were also locked. They broke the glass in a window, unlocked it, and they all climbed through.
In the hallway leading to the front door they found Andrea Maples, in what was described as “a state of undress,” lying in a pool of blood—presumably her own, as she had been badly beaten about the head. Blood splatters covered the walls and ceiling. A short distance away from the body lay what was presumably the murder weapon: a mahogany cane with a brass duck’s head handle.
One of the men immediately cycled off to the police station and returned with a police sergeant and two constables. When they ascertained that the hard wood cane belonged to Professor Maples, and that he carried it about with him constantly, the policemen crossed the lawn to the main house and interviewed the professor, who was having breakfast. At the conclusion of the interview, the sergeant placed Maples under arrest and sent one of the constables off to acquire a carriage in which the professor could be conveyed to the police station.
It was about four in the afternoon when Sherlock Holmes came banging at my study door. “You’ve heard, of course,” he said, flinging himself into my armchair. “What are we to do?”
“I’ve heard,” I said. “And what have we to do with it?”
“That police sergeant, Meeks is his name, has arrested Professor Maples for the murder of his wife.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“He conducted no investigation, did not so much as glance at the surroundings, and failed to leave a constable behind to secure the area, so that, as soon as the rain lets up, hordes of the morbidly curious will trample about the cottage and the lawn and destroy whatever evidence there is to be found.”
“Did he?” I asked. “And how do you know so much about it?”
“I was there,” Holmes said. At my surprised look, he shook his head. “Oh, no, not at the time of the murder, whenever that was. When the constable came around for the carriage to take Professor Maples away, I happened to be in the stables. The hostler, Biggs is his name, is an expert single-stick fighter, and I’ve been taking lessons from him on occasional mornings when he has the time. So when they returned to the professor’s house, Biggs drove and I sat in the carriage with the constable, who told me all about it.”
“I imagine he’ll be talking about it for some time,” I commented. “Murders are not exactly common around here.”
“Just so. Well, I went along thinking I might be of some use to Lucy. After all, her sister had just been murdered.”
“Thoughtful of you,” I said.
“Yes. Well, she wouldn’t see me. Wouldn’t see anyone. Just stayed in her room. Can’t blame her, I suppose. So I listened to the sergeant questioning Professor Maples—and a damned poor job he did of it, if I’m any judge—and then went out and looked over the area—the two houses and the space between—to see if I could determine what happened. I also examined Andrea Maples’s body as best I could from the doorway. I was afraid that if I got any closer Sergeant Meeks would notice and chase me away.”
“And did you determine what happened?”
“I may have,” Holmes said. “If you’d do me the favor of taking a walk with me, I’d like to show you what I’ve found. I believe I have a good idea of what took place last night—or at least some of the salient details. I’ve worked it out from the traces on the ground and a few details in the cottage that the sergeant didn’t bother with. It seems to me that much more can be done in the investigation of crimes than the police are accustomed to do. But I’d like your opinion. Tell me what you think.”
I pulled my topcoat on. “Show me,” I said.
The drizzle was steady and cold, the ground was soggy, and by the time we arrived at the house the body had been removed; all of which reduced the number of curious visitors to two reporters who, having stomped about the cottage but failing to gain admittance to the main house, were huddled in a gig pulled up to the front door, waiting for someone to emerge who could be coaxed into a statement.
The main house and the cottage both fronted Barleymore Road, but as the road curved around a stand of trees between the two, the path through the property was considerably shorter. It was perhaps thirty yards from the house to the cottage by the path, and perhaps a little more than twice that by the road. I did measure the distance at the time, but I do not recollect the precise numbers.
We went around to the back of the house and knocked at the pantry door. After a few seconds scrutiny through a side window, we were admitted by the maid.
“It’s you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, stepping aside to let us in. “Ain’t it horrible? I’ve been waiting by the back door here for the man with the bunting, whose supposed to arrive shortly.”
“Bunting?”
“That’s right. The black bunting which we is to hang in the windows, as is only proper, considering. Ain’t it horrible? We should leave the doors and windows open, in respect of the dead, only the mistress’s body has been taken away, and the master has been taken away, and it’s raining, and those newspaper people will come in and pester Miss Lucy if the door is open. And then there’s the murderer just awaiting out there somewhere, and who knows what’s on his mind.”
“So you don’t think Professor Maples killed his wife?” I asked.
The maid looked at me, and then at Holmes, and then back at me. “This is Mr. Moriarty, Willa,” Holmes told her. “He’s my friend, and a lecturer in Mathematics at the college.”
“Ah,” she said. “It’s a pleasure, sir.” and she bobbed a rudimentary curtsey in my direction. “No, sir, I don’t think the professor killed the Missus. Why would he do that?”
“Why, indeed,” I said.
“Miss Lucy is in the drawing room,” Willa told Holmes. “I’ll tell her you’re here.”
“I see you’re well known here,” I said to Holmes as the maid left.
“I have had the privilege of escorting Miss Lucy to this or that over the past few months,” Holmes replied a little stiffly, as though I were accusing him of something dishonorable. “Our relationship has been very proper at all times.”
I repressed a desire to say “how unfortunate,” as I thought he would take it badly.
Lucinda came out to the hall to meet us. She seemed quite subdued, but her eyes were bright and her complexion was feverish. “How good—how nice to see you, Sherlock,” she said quietly, offering him her hand. “And you’re Mr. Moriarty, Sherlock’s friend.”
Holmes and I both mumbled something comforting.
“I’m sorry I didn’t see you when you arrived earlier, Sherlock,” Lucy told him, leading us into the sitting room and waving us to a pair of well-stuffed chairs. “I was not in a fit condition to see anyone.”
“I quite understand,” Holmes said.
“I am pleased that you have come to the defense of my—of Professor Maples,” Lucy said, lowering herself into a straight-back chair opposite Holmes. “How anyone could suspect him of murdering my dear sister Andrea is quite beyond my comprehension.”
“I have reason to believe that he is, indeed, innocent, Lucy dear,” Holmes told her. “I am about to take my friend Mr. Moriarty over the grounds to show him what I have found, and to se
e whether he agrees with my conclusions.”
“And your conclusions,” Lucy asked, “what are they? Who do you believe committed this dreadful crime?”
“You have no idea?” I asked.
Lucinda recoiled as though I had struck her. “How could I?” she asked.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” I said. “Did your sister have any enemies?”
“Certainly not,” Lucy said. “She was outgoing, and warm, and friendly, and loved by all.”
“Andrea went to the cottage to meet someone,” Holmes said. “Do you have any idea who it was?”
“None,” Lucy said. “I find this whole thing quite shocking.” She lowered her head into her hands. “Quite shocking.”
After a moment Lucy raised her head. “I have prepared a small traveling-bag of Professor Maples’s things. A change of linen, a shirt, a couple of collars, some handkerchiefs, his shaving-cup and razor.”
“I don’t imagine they’ll let him have his razor,” Holmes commented.
“Oh!” Lucy said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I may be wrong,” Holmes said. “I will enquire.”
“Could I ask you to bring the bag to him?” Lucy rose. “I have it right upstairs.”
We followed her upstairs to the master bedroom to collect the bag. The room was an image of masculine disorder, with Professor Maples’ bed—they for some reason had separate beds, with a night-table between—rumpled and the bed clothes strewn about. Clothing was hung over various articles of furniture, and bureau drawers were pulled open. Maples had dressed hastily and, presumably, under police supervision, before being hauled off to the police station. Andrea’s bed was neat and tight, and it was evident that she had not slept in it the night before.
I decided to take a quick look in the other five rooms leading off the hall. I thought I would give Holmes and Miss Lucy their moment of privacy if they desired to use it.
One of the rooms, fairly large and with a canopied bed, was obviously Lucy’s. It was feminine without being overly frilly, and extremely, almost fussily, neat. There were two wardrobes in the room, across from each other, each with a collection of shoes on the bottom and a variety of female garments above.
I closed Lucy’s door and knocked on the door across the hall. Getting no answer, I pushed the door open. It was one of the two rooms rented by the boarder, Crisboy, furnished as a sitting-room, and I could see the door to the bedroom to the left. The young athletic instructor was sitting at his writing desk, his shoulders stooped, and his face buried in his arms on the desk. “Crisboy?” I said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know you were here.” Which seemed a poor excuse for bursting in on a man, but my curiosity was probably inexcusable if it came to that.
He sat up and turned around. “No matter,” he said, using a small towel he was holding to wipe his face, which was red and puffy from crying. “Is there any news?” he asked me.
“Not that I am aware of,” I said.
“A heck of a thing,” he said. “That police person thinks that John—Professor Maples—killed Andrea. How could he think that? Professor Maples couldn’t hurt anyone. Insult them, yes; criticize them, yes; pierce them with barbs of—of—irony, yes. But hit anyone with a stick? Never!”
I backed out of Crisboy’s sitting-room with some murmured comment and closed the door. The hall door to the left was now identified as Crisboy’s bedroom. The door to the right turned out to be Andrea’s dressing room, with a small couch, a bureau, a dressing-table, and a connecting door to the master bedroom. The remaining door led to the lavatory.
Holmes emerged from the master bedroom with the traveling-bag thrust under his arm, shook hands with Lucy, and we went downstairs and out the back door.
“Here, this way,” Holmes said, taking me around to the side of the house. “There are markings on the path that, I believe, give some insight into what happened here. I have covered them over with some planks I found by the side of the house, to prevent them being washed away or tramped over.”
“Clever,” I said.
“Elementary,” he replied.
Holmes had placed four pieces of planking on the path between the house and the cottage. We paused at the one nearest the house. “The police theory—the theory of Sergeant Meeks—is that Andrea Maples left the house to have an assignation at the cottage with an unknown suitor—if a man who trysts with a married woman may be called a suitor. They are trying to determine whom he is. Professor Maples, awakening sometime during the night and finding his wife absent, went to the cottage, caught her as the suitor was leaving, or just after he left, realized what had happened by the state of her clothes, if not by other, ah, indications, and, in an uncontrollable rage, beat her to death with his walking-stick.”
I nodded. “That’s about the way it was told to me.”
“That story is contravened by the evidence,” Holmes declared carefully lifting the plank. “Observe the footsteps.”
The plank covered a partial line of footsteps headed from the house to the cottage, and at least one footstep headed back to the house. The imprint in all cases was that of a woman’s shoe.
“Note this indentation,” Holmes said, pointing out a round hole about three-quarters of an inch across and perhaps an inch deep that was slightly forward and to the right of an out-bound shoe imprint.
He sprinted over to the next plank and moved it, and then the next. “Look here,” he called. “And here, and here. The same pattern.”
“Yes,” I said, “I see.” I bent down and examined several of the footsteps closely, marking off the measurement from toe to heel and across the width of the imprint in my pocket notebook, and doing a rough sketch of what I saw, shielding the notebook as best I could from the slight drizzle.
“Notice that none of the footsteps in either direction were left by a man,” Holmes said.
“Yes,” I said, “I can see that.” There were three sets of footsteps, two leading from the house to the cottage, and one returning.
“It proves that Professor Maples did not kill his wife,” Holmes asserted.
“It certainly weakens the case against him,” I admitted.
“Come now,” Holmes said. “Surely you see that the entire case is predicated on the syllogism that, as Maples is never without his walking stick, and as his walking stick was used to kill Andrea Maples, then Maples must have murdered his wife.”
“So it would seem,” I agreed.
“A curious stick,” Holmes told me. “I had occasion to examine it once. Did you know that it is actually a sword-cane?”
“I did not know that,” I said.
“I believe that it will prove an important fact in the case,” Holmes told me.
“I assume that your conclusion is that Professor Maples was without his walking stick last night.”
“That’s right. Andrea Maples took it to the cottage herself. The indentations by her footsteps show that.”
“What is it that you think happened?” I asked Holmes.
“As you’ve noted, there are three sets of footsteps,” Holmes said. “Two going from the house to the cottage, and one returning to the house. As you can see, they are the footprints of a woman, and, carefully as I looked, I could find no indication of any footprints made by a man. One of the sets going seems to be slightly different in the indentation of the heel than the other sets. The returning set seems to be made up of footsteps that are further apart, and leave a deeper imprint than the others. I would say from examining them that Andrea Maples went to the cottage to meet someone. Before he arrived, she decided to arm herself and so she rushed back to the house and changed shoes—perhaps the first pair had been soaked by her stepping in a puddle—and then took her husband’s walking stick—which she knew to be actually a sword cane—and returned to the cottage.”
“And the person she was planning to meet?”
“He must have come by the road, as there are no markings on the path. But Professor Maples would surely have come by
the path.”
“So she thought herself to be in some danger?”
“So I would read it.”
“So you would have it that it was not a romantic tryst?”
“Perhaps it had been,” Holmes suggested. “Perhaps she had decided to break off an affair with some person, and she knew him to have a violent nature. In the event it seems that she was correct.”
We had reached the cottage and, finding the back door unlocked, entered the small back pantry leading to the kitchen. Holmes dropped the traveling-bag by the door and lay his topcoat and hat over a kitchen chair, and I followed suit.
“That would explain why she failed to wake up her husband and returned to the cottage by herself, although she believed herself in some danger,” I said. “It neatly ties up most of the known facts. But I’m afraid that you won’t be able to convince the police that you’re right.”
“Why not?”
“There’s the fact of the disarray of Andrea Maples’s clothing. As I understand it she was in her undergarments, and seems to have been dressing. It indicates that the meeting with her mysterious friend was, ah, friendly.”
“Perhaps he forced himself on her.”
“Perhaps. But then one would expect her clothing to be not merely loosened or removed, but stretched or torn. I did not hear that this was so. Did you have an opportunity to examine the woman’s clothing?”
“Yes, I paid particular attention to the state of her clothing. She was wearing a petticoat and an over-something—another frilly white garment covering the upper part of her body. I am not very expert in the names of women’s garments.”
“Nor am I,” I said. “I assume the remainder of her clothing was somewhere about?”
“It was in the bedroom.”
We entered the parlor. The shades were drawn, keeping out even the weak light from the overcast sky. Holmes struck a match and lit an oil-lamp which was sitting on a nearby table. The flickering light cast grotesque shadows about the room, creating a nebulous sense of oppression and doom. Or perhaps it was just the knowledge of what had recently transpired here that gave the room its evil character. “There,” Holmes said, pointing to a large irregularly-shaped bloodstain on the floor by the front door. “There is where she lay. She came from the bedroom, as the rest of her clothing was there, and was attacked in the parlor.”
Victorian Villainy Page 3