The Secret Journals of Sherlock Holmes (A&B Crime)

by Thomson, June

  ‘No, Mr Smith. He was strangled. And I have good reason to believe you were responsible for his death. It is therefore my duty to charge you with Mr Eugene Mortimer’s murder and to warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you.’

  As Lestrade intoned the solemn words of the official charge, Holmes glanced at me and motioned with his head towards the door.

  We slipped quietly from the room.

  ‘Where are we going, Holmes?’ I enquired as he set off at a fast pace across the hall and down a passage which led to the rear of the house.

  ‘To find Mrs Deakin and make a few enquiries of her,’ he replied.

  ‘Enquiries? But surely the investigation is over? Lestrade has arrested Smith and quite rightly so, in my opinion. All the evidence points to his guilt.’

  ‘I agree with you, Watson. The case against Smith looks black indeed. But it has always been my first principle to examine all evidence with a healthy degree of scepticism, especially when it is circumstantial, as it is in this case.5 It is then most vital to ask the question: Exactly what set of circumstances is one looking at? It is like a child’s kaleidoscope. Shake it and the pieces form an entirely different pattern. Ah, I believe this must be the housekeeper’s room. I hear voices inside,’ Holmes concluded, coming to a halt in the passage and tapping on a door.

  A woman called out to us to come in and we entered a small, cosily furnished chamber where we found Mrs Deakin seated at the table in the company of a tall, bearded man; her husband, as we discovered when she introduced him.

  Holmes set about the interview briskly, first asking Mrs Deakin to describe in the fullest detail exactly what had occurred at Woodside Grange the previous day, starting with the arrival of Mr Berkinshaw.

  He had driven up to the house, said she, at about half-past two in a hired dog-cart, bringing with him a valise containing documents which concerned the late Mr Franklin Mortimer’s estate. As he wished to work on them undisturbed, she had shown him into the study.

  Mr Eugene Mortimer was expected at ten past four, his cousin shortly afterwards.

  ‘Who let Mr Smith in?’ Holmes enquired.

  ‘Mr Berkinshaw, sir. He told me he would answer the door to both the visitors, Mr Johnathen and Mr Eugene.’

  ‘Where were you?

  ‘In the small pantry, sir. As all the household effects are to be sold, he asked me to clean the table silver and put it away in its boxes.’

  ‘And where is this pantry?’

  ‘At the side of the house, sir.’

  ‘Near the kitchen?’

  ‘No, sir. It is at the far end of the passage,’ Mrs Deakin replied, sounding bewildered at this fusillade of questions.

  ‘And you, Mr Deakin, were meanwhile cutting and raking the lawn at the front of the house?’ Holmes asked, turning to her husband.

  The man looked surprised.

  ‘That I was, sir. Mr Berkinshaw sent me out to tidy up the front garden. A lot of people are expected at the auction and he wanted the place looking its best.’

  ‘And very trim it looks, too, Mr Deakin. I noticed the grass was newly cut as I came up the drive. I suppose you saw Mr Smith arrive?’

  ‘I did, sir.’

  ‘And Mr Berkinshaw admitted him?’

  ‘That’s right. He came to the front door himself.’

  ‘Did anyone leave the house between the arrival of Mr Berkinshaw and the departure of the two gentlemen later that afternoon?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You are quite sure of that?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. I was out in the front garden all afternoon and I swear no one came or went. Mr Berkinshaw was sat at the desk in the study window, working away at his papers.’

  ‘You actually saw him writing?’ Holmes demanded sharply.

  ‘Why, yes, sir. As I was going up and down the lawn, I could see him quite plain, sitting there in his black coat, his pen scribbling away and that fair head of his bent down over the desk. He didn’t move from his chair. And then, after Mr Smith arrived, I could see them both in the drawing-room from time to time, looking out for Mr Eugene. But he never came, sir.’

  The man hesitated and, after exchanging a glance with his wife, burst out, ‘Has Mr Eugene been found, sir? Me and the wife are so worried about him. We know both the gentlemen well from the visits they used to pay to my late master.’

  ‘I am afraid Mr Eugene Mortimer is dead,’ Holmes said gravely, ‘and Mr Smith has been arrested for his murder.’

  Mrs Deakin cried out in disbelief and, covering her face with her hands, broke into the most bitter sobs.

  Deakin regarded us stonily, although I saw his eyes had filled with tears.

  ‘I do not believe Mr Johnathen is guilty,’ said he in a tone of quiet assurance. ‘Quick-tempered he might be, Mr Holmes, but he’d never harm anybody. I know him and Mr Eugene quarrelled over the young lady and Mr Johnathen knocked his cousin down. But murder him? Never, sir! Mr Johnathen loved Miss Constance too tenderly to cause her any unhappiness or deprive her little son of his father.’

  Putting his arm about his wife’s shoulders, he led her to a chair.

  Holmes touched my arm and we went quietly from the room, leaving the Deakins to their grief.

  ‘Where now, Holmes?’ I asked, hurrying to catch up with him as he strode down the passage.

  ‘To the study which must be in the front of the house. Deakin said he could see Mr Berkinshaw through its window.’

  We reached the hall and Holmes flung open a door.

  It led into a square, sunny room, smaller than the drawing-room and furnished less sumptuously. A plain mahogany desk stood at right angles to a long sash window which overlooked the drive and the lawn. A swivel chair, such as one might find in an office, was placed behind it. The bookcases lining the walls and a pair of armchairs, covered in buttoned red velvet, which were drawn up in front of the fireplace, gave it the comfortable air of the smoking-room in a gentlemen’s club.

  Holmes stood for a few moments just inside the door, surveying the room and its contents. Then, moving swiftly forward, he examined first the desk, paying particular attention to the blotting-pad which lay upon it, the top sheet of which he scanned eagerly with his pocket lens. He then inspected the swivel chair, spinning it round to peer at its slatted back.

  From the desk, he moved to the fireplace, picking up the brass poker which was propped up against the fender and scrutinising that, too, with the aid of the lens, before passing to the bolster cushions on the two armchairs. These he lifted in turn, subjecting each to the same rapid but scrupulous examination.

  It was only when the last cushion had been replaced that Holmes seemed satisfied, although I was greatly puzzled.

  ‘I have seen enough, Watson,’ said he. ‘I shall now lock this room and leave the key in Mrs Deakin’s care with strict instructions that nothing in it is to be disturbed until tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow? You intend returning then? For what purpose, Holmes? Surely Smith’s guilt is beyond all doubt? Besides, Mr Berkinshaw has an alibi for the murder.’

  Holmes chuckled softly. ‘I should not wish to spoil your pleasure by explaining. You shall witness all in good time, my dear fellow, when we shall give the kaleidoscope another shake and see what new pattern emerges. But not a word to Lestrade or anyone else on this matter.’

  There was, in fact, no need for concealment. When we returned to the drawing-room, we found that the inspector had already left, taking Smith into custody in Fordham, and only Mr Berkinshaw remained.

  The three of us departed shortly afterwards for London, the conversation on the train turning entirely on the iniquity of Smith’s crime and the dreadful effect it would have on Mrs Mortimer and her small son, for whom Mr Berkinshaw expressed the utmost compassion.

  There was no reference to Holmes’ plans for the following day, either then or on our return to Baker Street, and I was left to ponder alone on the significance of his remark concerning the kaleidoscope
and the new evidence he expected to discover.

  III

  Holmes was out all morning on some mysterious errand of his own which I assumed was connected with his enquiries into the Smith-Mortimer case, although he refused to discuss that with me either. Nor would he reveal what was in the small carpet bag he took with him on the journey to Essex.

  We caught the 2.10 slow train from Liverpool Street station, the same one we had taken the previous afternoon, alighting at Boxstead Halt.

  However, as we were leaving the station, Holmes suddenly announced, ‘You go on ahead, Watson. There is a small matter I must attend to first. I shall catch up with you shortly.’

  Assuming he wished to make further enquiries of the station-master, I set off alone, passing the gate where Johnathen Smith had lain in wait for his cousin before strangling him and dragging his body into the ditch.

  It was a pleasant September day, the air crisp and dry, the mellow sunshine falling on field and hedgerow, rich with autumn colours.

  But to my eyes, the scene was tinged with melancholy as I thought of Mrs Eugene Mortimer, left widowed and her little son fatherless.

  Deakin was again raking the lawn at the front of the house as I reached the end of the long drive to Woodside Grange. A dog-cart and a four-wheeled cab also stood before the door, suggesting the presence of several visitors. I was surprised by this as I had imagined that whatever business had brought Holmes and myself back to Boxstead, it would concern only the two of us.

  I was even more astonished when, on reaching the porch steps, the front door opened and Holmes appeared on the threshold.

  ‘Holmes!’ I cried. ‘I left you at the station. How on earth have you managed to arrive before me?’

  ‘Never mind that now, Watson. There are more urgent matters to attend to first. I want you to go to the drawing-room, where you will find Inspector Lestrade and Mr Berkinshaw already waiting. I sent them telegrams this morning, asking them to take the 2.20 train to Fordham. They arrived a short time ago. At my request, Inspector Jenks has accompanied them. I shall join you as soon as my own preparations are complete, which should take no more than a minute or two. And no questions, my dear fellow,’ he added, bustling me inside the house.

  I found Mr Berkinshaw and the two inspectors as much in the dark as I, for as I entered the drawing-room, all three men jumped to their feet to enquire what plans Holmes had in mind. I had begun to explain that I knew no more than they when Holmes put his head round the door with the suggestion that we take a little stroll together in the garden.

  Much mystified, we followed him out of the house and down the porch steps to the lawn where we began to walk slowly across the grass towards a clump of rhododendron bushes on the far side, Holmes remarking as we went on the beauty of our surroundings.

  ‘Now, see here, Mr Holmes,’ Lestrade broke in impatiently. ‘I have not come all the way down from London to discuss the merits of the ornamental shrubbery over the herbaceous border. In your telegram, you mentioned new evidence. Inspector Jenks and I would like to know what it is.’

  ‘What new evidence?’ Mr Berkinshaw demanded before Holmes could reply. ‘You said nothing about it in your telegram to me.’

  Holmes smiled benevolently.

  ‘Then, gentlemen,’ said he, ‘since you appear to regard our afternoon walk as a waste of time, shall we return to the house? You will find there all the evidence you need.’

  Turning on his heel, he set briskly off, the rest of us, after exchanging bewildered glances, hurrying to catch up with him.

  However, we had hardly gone a few paces than he stopped suddenly and, flinging out an arm, pointed dramatically to the front of Woodside Grange.

  ‘Great heavens!’ he cried. ‘Who is that? But it is impossible!’

  For a moment, the four of us stared in silence before breaking out into exclamations of astonishment at what we saw. For seated at the study window was the unmistakable figure of Mr Ralph Berkinshaw in his black coat, his flaxen head bent over the desk, writing with a pen on a document which lay before him.

  The effect on Mr Berkinshaw of this double of himself was even more dramatic than Holmes’ outflung gesture which had first drawn our attention to it.

  With a cry of mingled horror and rage, he began to run towards the house like a man demented. So rapid was his flight that he had reached the study door and was struggling in vain to turn the handle before we caught up with him.

  ‘Stand aside, Mr Berkinshaw,’ Holmes told him coolly, taking a key from his pocket. ‘The game is over. Now, sir, will you accompany us quietly into the study? Or shall I ask Inspector Jenks to put you in handcuffs and take you out to the waiting cab? The choice is yours. You prefer to come with us? Then,’ Holmes continued, as he turned the key in the lock and flung the door open, ‘you shall sit over there in that chair and you shall not utter a word until I have finished my account.’

  As Mr Berkinshaw, looking much shaken, sat down, Holmes took up his own position in front of the desk, facing the chair on which was sitting, as we discovered on closer examination, nothing more than a dummy.

  It consisted of a bolster from one of the armchairs, propped up against the back of the chair, a black coat draped across it. The brass poker from the fender, wedged between the slats, supported a blond wig, tilted at such an angle that it gave the impression of a head bending down over the desk. On the right-hand side, the jacket sleeve, padded out with paper, was drawn forward across the surface, concealing the base of a metronome but not its rod, which was ticking busily backwards and forwards. As it did so, it gave the most realistic motion to what seemed to be a black pen fastened to the shaft.

  ‘A deception, gentlemen, as you see, but a very ingenious one,’ Holmes announced. ‘To anyone standing in the garden, Mr Berkinshaw appeared to be seated at his desk, engaged in working on his papers. It certainly convinced Deakin whom Mr Berkinshaw had asked to cut and rake the lawn. By this means, he established an alibi for himself, for Deakin was prepared to swear that, at the time Eugene Mortimer was murdered, Mr Berkinshaw had not left the house but was writing in the study.

  ‘If you care to examine the metronome more carefully, you will see exactly how the illusion of the moving pen was achieved. The upper part of the casing has been removed, leaving the rod exposed. To that, I have attached a strip of black paper with a tiny blob of sealing-wax, to give the appearance of a penholder. I then adjusted the weight on the shaft so that it moved to and fro at a convincing speed.6 Once fully wound up, the clockwork mechanism would run for at least an hour, which allowed Mr Berkinshaw plenty of time to commit the murder. You wished to say something, Lestrade? I see from your expression that you are not entirely convinced by my explanation.’

  ‘To be frank, Mr Holmes, I cannot see what put you on to this little stratagem in the first place.’

  ‘The evidence, of course,’ Holmes replied. ‘What else could it be based on? As shall soon become clear, my suspicions of Mr Berkinshaw were already aroused. So yesterday afternoon, I made a point of examining the study and noticed several small but revealing features.

  ‘First, there were fresh scratches on the two middle slats in the back of the chair, suggesting something had been thrust between them. As the handle of the brass poker had similar marks corresponding to those scratches, it was logical to deduce that it was this that had caused them. But to what purpose? This became clearer when I examined the bolsters on the armchairs and discovered that one of them had flaxen hairs clinging to the velvet; not, as might be expected, in the centre of the cushion where a head would normally rest, but on one of its ends. From this evidence, a picture began to emerge of an upended bolster, a head of flaxen hair, and a poker thrust through the slats of the chair.

  ‘I had already noticed something unusual about the sheet of blotting-paper on the desk. If you care to examine it, gentlemen, you shall see for yourselves what it was.’

  ‘But it is perfectly clean!’ Lestrade protested, bending down to look
.

  ‘Exactly!’ Holmes exclaimed. ‘And yet Mr Berkinshaw apparently sat writing at this desk for at least an hour and a half. Is it not curious that, in all that time, he never once needed to blot his papers? However, you are wrong, Lestrade, in thinking it entirely free of marks. If you examine it more closely you will see four small, round indentations pressed into the blotting-paper, marking out a shape roughly five inches square, which suggests that something fairly heavy, supported on four little feet, stood there for some considerable time. It is quite clearly not a book and yet this description matches no object in the room. It therefore followed that Mr Berkinshaw must have brought it with him, almost certainly in the valise which contained his papers.

  ‘I confess that I could make nothing of it at the time. Nor could I understand how the pen was made to move. It was only late last night, after considering the problem for several hours, that the answer came to me in one of those bursts of imaginative perception such as Newton must have experienced when he observed the apple falling from the tree.

  ‘The object was, of course, a metronome!

  ‘Once I had come to that conclusion, I could then put together the final picture from the scattered pieces of evidence. Mr Berkinshaw had assembled a dummy similar to that which you see before you, using a metronome to create the illusion of the moving pen. All of this was, of course, done when Deakin, who was mowing the lawn, had his back to the window. It would not have taken long. In fact, I accomplished the same task in less than two minutes.

  ‘Then, having wound up the metronome and set it in motion, Mr Berkinshaw left the house by the back door, unobserved by Mrs Deakin whom he had earlier asked to clean the silver and who was fully occupied with that task in a pantry some distance from the kitchen.

  ‘There is a path which cuts across the grounds and comes out on the road at the point where it turns sharply to the left, close by the small grove of beech trees. It is a much shorter route to and from the house, as Dr Watson will verify. This afternoon, I made an excuse to leave him at the station and yet, by taking that same path, I arrived before him. Is that not so, my dear fellow?’