by June Thomson
‘Now, my dear fellow, I know I have repeated to you before that old maxim of mine that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. No doubt you have grown tired of hearing it. But that does not lessen its validity. As I stood there contemplating the empty passage, logic told me there was only one explanation which had nothing to do with the supernatural. Arnsworth must have escaped through a hidden opening of some kind in the passageway itself, although none was immediately apparent.
‘However, halfway down on the right hand side stood a suit of armour, behind which hung a long curtain of heavy red velvet as if to serve as a backdrop for the figure. I noticed that the hem was swaying to and fro as if in a light draught, but there was no current of air that I could feel and everything else in the passage, the hanging lamps and the banners arranged crossways on the walls, remained motionless. Therefore, with Lestrade at my heels, I sprinted towards the curtain which I pulled to one side, revealing an ancient oaken door which stood ajar and, with its iron straps and studding, was very similar to that leading into the church.
‘This one, however, led on to a winding staircase, as I discovered when I pulled it fully open. It was, I surmised, the door to the west tower.
‘Up I went and round I went, following the tight spirals of the stone steps – a giddying sensation, especially as the staircase was so narrow that my shoulders brushed the walls on either side. At intervals, windows, little wider than slits, let in some much-needed fresh air and afforded me glimpses of the moat and the surrounding gardens, diminishing in size the higher I went until I could look down on the tops of trees and the sheet of water in the moat lying as flat and as still as a mirror in which were reflected the blue sky and the white, drifting clouds.
‘After what seemed like an eternity of climbing ever upwards, the staircase ended at a small semi-circular landing with a low door which I pushed softly open and, crouching down, emerged at the top of the tower with Lestrade behind me.
‘Gilbert Arnsworth was not expecting us. The thickness of the stone must have deadened all sound of our footsteps and it was only when Lestrade cried out as he stumbled over the threshold of the little door that Arnsworth was alerted to our presence.
‘He was standing at the far side of the tower, gazing out at the distant view of woods and fields and, by his lounging stance, I guessed he was confident that he had escaped detention. At Lestrade’s exclamation, he spun about to face us, his expression one of shocked disbelief and that kind of rage which a small child might exhibit when he is unexpectedly frustrated.
‘Throughout his life, Gilbert Arnsworth had been denied nothing and I believe he had come to expect that this fortunate state of affairs would continue, whether his own behaviour warranted it or not. In his own eyes, he was like a god, immune from all punishments and disasters to which ordinary mankind is subject. The sight of Inspector Lestrade, accompanied by the two constables who had joined us, advancing upon him, intoning those sonorous, doom-laden words “Gilbert Richard Grenville, ninth Earl of Arnsworth, I am arresting you on the suspicion of murder,” as he produced a pair of handcuffs from his pocket was not to be borne.
‘I saw him back away, his eyes fixed on Lestrade’s face as if mesmerised by the awful solemnity of the occasion, and then the spell broke and his glance darted back toward the stone battlements and the distant view.
‘I read his thoughts, Watson, as clearly as if they had been written on his face, but before I could shout out a warning he had turned and, with a great cry which drowned out my own exclamation, he had vaulted on to the narrow coping where he stood for a moment outlined against the blue sky, arms outstretched, before he dived down into space.
‘Lestrade and I, together with the two constables, rushed to the battlements and peered over them just in time to see his body plunging downwards like a great sea-bird, into the moat as if hunting for its prey within its very depths.
‘God knows what was in his mind. Did he still believe in his invincibility? Was he convinced that he would surface safely and could swim to the further side and make his escape?
‘If he did, he was tragically deceived. There was no sign of him apart from the ripples which spread out across the water to touch the grassy banks and, within a few moments, they too had disappeared and the surface once more lay as smooth and as still as glass.
‘The uniformed officers recovered his body later with the help of two of the gardeners. The rest, as they say, is history, not all of which was recorded correctly.
‘The new Earl of Arnsworth, Gilbert’s cousin Eustace, inherited the title and moved into the castle, while the Dowager Lady Arnsworth took up residence in the Dower house which was situated at the far side of the estate. As you know from my newspaper archives, she has since died. Gilbert Arnsworth’s death was attributed to a tragic accident, while at the inquest on Annie Davies a verdict of murder by a person or persons unknown was returned. As far as I know, no connection was ever made between the two deaths.’
‘“Persons unknown”!’ I protested. ‘That is not justice, Holmes!’
My old friend shrugged his shoulders and gave a small, cynical smile.
‘Not moral justice, perhaps, Watson; but legal justice all the same. There was no hard evidence against Arnsworth, only a strong suspicion. Neither the cab driver nor the night porter were ever asked to identify him as the young man seen running from the hotel in the early hours of the morning, nor as the client who engaged the cab which drove him to the gates of Arnsworth Castle. Besides, what does the death of a prostitute count against that of a belted earl? Shall you write up the story, my dear fellow?’
I paused to reflect for a moment. Although I felt a keen responsibility to place the facts of the case before my readers and to redress, if only a little, the imbalance of the scales of justice between the rich and powerful and the poor and weak, I knew in my heart I would never publish an account of the case. For, as Holmes had pointed out, there was no final proof of Gilbert Arnsworth’s guilt, only a very strong suspicion, and I myself would be committing an injustice by suggesting otherwise.
I shall therefore place this account among my other unpublished papers, trusting that future research into the case may at last provide that evidence which will prove Arnsworth’s guilt, so that the truth may finally be laid before the public.
1 See footnote 2 of The Case of the Aluminium Crutch. Dr John F. Watson.
2 There are several references to Sherlock Holmes’ encyclopedia, sometimes referred to as his ‘commonplace book’. In the ‘Adventure of the Sussex Vampire’, Dr Watson speaks of it as ‘the great index volume’, ‘the accumulated information of a lifetime’. Dr John F. Watson.
3 Sherlock Holmes kept all the documents and mementoes of past investigations in this tin trunk, such as the case of the Gloria Scott and the Musgrave Ritual. He brought it with him from his lodgings in Montague Street when he and Dr Watson moved into their Baker Street rooms. Dr John F. Watson.
4 It is generally believed that Sherlock Holmes set up as a private consulting detective in 1874 and had met Inspector Lestrade by the end of 1880, when he asked Sherlock Holmes to help him with a case of forgery. Dr John F. Watson.
5 The Haymarket, a turning off Piccadilly, was a notorious area for prostitutes and for cheap hotels in the side streets nearby, such as Windmill Street, where they took their clients. Dr John F. Watson.
6 A similar event is said to have happened at Glamis Castle in Scotland, the home of the Bowes-Lyon family, which included the late Queen Mother, and the Earls of Strathmore. According to a family legend, a ‘monster’ was said to be locked away in a secret room in the castle. On one occasion, members of the family and their guests searched all the rooms, hanging towels and sheets out of the windows to indicate which rooms had been inspected. Apparently, no ‘monster’ was found. Dr John F. Watson.
7 Sherlock Holmes makes this criticism of Inspector Lestrade in ‘The Adventure of the Three Garridebs’.
Dr John F. Watson.
8 Sherlock Holmes’ early cases included the Gloria Scott inquiry, which was his first case, and the Musgrave Ritual inquiry, his third case. Both these cases he recounted to Dr Watson, who later wrote up and published accounts of them. Sherlock Holmes also referred to other cases, the Tarleton murders, the case of Vamberry the wine merchant, the old Russian woman, the singular affair of the aluminium crutch, which is included in this collection, and the case of Ricoletti and his abominable wife. Vide: ‘The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual’. It is not known which was his second case. Dr John F. Watson.
9 In ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’, Sherlock Holmes arranges for Dr Watson to throw a smoke rocket into the drawing room at Briony Lodge, Irene Adler’s house, and in her eagerness to save the photograph of herself and the King of Bohemia, she unwittingly revealed its hiding-place. Sherlock Holmes used the same ruse in the adventure relating to the Norwood builder, Jonas Oldacre, whom he flushed out from the secret room in which he was hiding by setting light to some straw and making him believe the house was on fire. Dr John F. Watson.
10 The original vesta match was invented by William Newton in 1832 and consisted of a wax taper, the tip of which was coated with a friction composition which caught fire when rubbed against a rough surface. But safety matches were first produced in 1855 in Sweden, using red phosphorus, a much safer chemical than white phosphorus, which gave off a poisonous vapour. The match was tipped with an oxidiser which was struck against a special phosphorus strip on the side of the box. Dr John F. Watson.
THE CASE OF THE VANISHING BARQUE
Looking through my notes, I see that 1889 was a particularly busy year for my old friend Sherlock Holmes. In addition to those cases such as the mystery of the five orange pips or the Reigate squire, accounts of which I have laid before my reading public, there were others which, for various reasons, I withheld publication. These include the inquiries into the Paradol chamber, the Amateur Mendicant Society, the adventures of the Grice Patersons on the island of Uffa, the Camberwell poisoning case and, finally, the investigation into the disappearance of the British barque, the Sophy Anderson, in which I played a small part and of which I have kept the records.
The inquiry began, I recall, one morning in April of that year, some time after my marriage to Miss Mary Morstan1 and my return to civil practice. I was on my way home from visiting a patient in the Baker Street area when, on the spur of the moment, I decided to call on Holmes, whom I had not seen for several weeks. As I turned into the familiar road, I saw a stocky, heavily-built man on the opposite pavement walking in the same direction as myself but more slowly, for he frequently halted to glance up at the numbers on the doors before consulting a piece of paper he held in his hand.
His appearance was so striking that I decided to play the game with which Holmes often amused himself as well as me, that of judging an individual’s character and profession by his clothes and his demeanour.
The man in question was in his fifties, I estimated, and even at a cursory glance it was easy to guess from his pea jacket and peaked cap that he was a sailor. His rolling gait and weather-beaten face bore out this impression.
I hurried ahead of him, eager to reach Holmes and lay my deductions before him so that, by glancing out of the window, he could confirm my conclusions. I was so eager, in fact, that I took the stairs two at a time and, bursting into the room, seized my old friend by the sleeve and drew him across the room. The man was now directly opposite the house, staring straight across the street at it.
‘Look, Holmes!’ I cried. ‘I am right, am I not, in thinking the man is a sailor who has spent most of his life at sea?’
‘You are quite correct, my dear Watson,’ Holmes replied, looking down appraisingly at the man. ‘He is indeed a sailor. But more to the point, what sort of sailor is he?’
‘I do not quite understand,’ I began, rather chastened by Holmes’ response.
‘Come now. Is he an able seaman, for example? Or a naval officer? Or perhaps a stoker? One must be precise about such details. My own assessment is that he is a merchant seaman, someone of rank, probably a mate rather than a captain, that he has sailed extensively in the southern latitudes and that he is left-handed.’
Seeing my expression, he burst out laughing.
‘It is really quite simple, Watson. His bearing tells me he is a man used to authority but of a lower order. He lacks the demeanour of an officer of high rank. His skin is tanned but the wrinkles round his eyes are paler on their inner surfaces, suggesting he has spent considerable time with his eyes screwed up against bright sunlight. As for his left-handedness, that, too, is obvious. He is holding the piece of paper in his left hand. He is also a potential client,’ he added, ‘a deduction for which I claim no credit at all for the man has, at this very moment, crossed the street to our front door.’
As he spoke, there came a peal on the bell and, seconds later, the sound of heavy, deliberate footsteps mounting the stairs, and the man in question entered the room.
Seen at closer quarters, he bore out those particulars of his appearance which Holmes had specified but which I had failed to notice. His bearing did, indeed, have a stamp of authority, while the network of fine lines about his eyes showed the paler skin which lined their inner surfaces which Holmes, with his amazingly keen eyesight, had already remarked on.
However, what he had not apparently noticed and which I, as a medical man, immediately discerned, was the unhealthy flush about our visitor’s face and the difficulty he had in regaining his breath after mounting the stairs. If ever I saw a man suffering from heart disease, it was he.
In addition to these physical symptoms, there was an aura of profound melancholy about him which seemed to sit upon him like a large, heavy weight, bowing his shoulders and making his movements slow and cumbersome.
At Holmes’ invitation, he lowered himself ponderously into an armchair, bringing his two great hands, which put me in mind of shovels, to rest one on each knee. He had already removed his cap, revealing close-cropped grey hair and a deeply furrowed brow.
‘I’m sorry to call on you like this, Mr Holmes, without writing to you first to fix an appointment,’ he said in a gruff voice which had an unmistakable North country accent, ‘but I had to speak to someone about the affair and I daren’t go to the police with my tale.’
As he spoke, he glanced dubiously in my direction under heavy eyebrows, a look which Holmes intercepted.
‘This is my colleague, Dr Watson,’ he said briskly. ‘You may speak as frankly in front of him as you would to me. Now, sir, tell me about this affair which I see is causing you great disquiet. But first, I would like to know a little about yourself, including your name. You are a seafaring man, are you not?’
‘Indeed I am, sir. As for my name, it’s Thomas Corbett and I’m the mate on board the Lucy Belle, a four-masted barque which trades mostly between Newcastle and the Far East.’
At this point in his narrative, he hesitated and I saw him clasp his two huge hands convulsively together.
‘Leastways, sir, that is the name the ship has carried for the past three years. Before that, she used to sail under a different name.’
Although I was considerably taken aback by this last statement, as well as confused about exactly what it might imply, Holmes seemed to understand, for he gave a little inclination of his head.
‘And what was her original name, may I ask?’ he enquired.
‘The Sophy Anderson,’ Corbett replied, his voice husky with emotion as if he were naming a dead child.
‘If I recall correctly, she sank with all hands, did she not?’
‘Aye, sir; or so it was believed. She was supposed to have gone down in January three years ago off the coast of the Outer Hebrides when she was making for Glasgow from Valparaiso carrying a cargo of nitrate.’
I saw Holmes’ features sharpen and he murmured under his breath as if to himself, ‘Ah, an insurance fraud!’
Corbett heard him, fo
r he replied, his expression grave, ‘Aye, it was sir, and one I bitterly regret taking part in.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Holmes said, settling back in his chair and directing a sharp, attentive glance in Corbett’s direction.
‘That I will, Mr Holmes. But first I must explain a little about the circumstances behind it. The Sophy Anderson was built on the Clyde in 1876 and was owned by a small shipping company, called the White Heather Line, based at Glasgow, which ran three or four other barques. The owners were a pair of brothers, Jamie and Duncan McNeil, and the captain was Joseph Chafer, a relative of the McNeils by marriage.
‘It seems the McNeils owed a lot of money and were close to going bankrupt, which was why the scheme was put in place. The plan was this. The Sophy Anderson would pick up a cargo of nitrate from Valparaiso but no passengers on the return voyage. Months before this, the crew had been carefully looked over and anyone Chafer thought couldn’t be trusted to keep his mouth shut over the plan was turned off and a new crew member taken on his place. You see, they wanted men who would be willing to disappear, so to speak, as if they really had been lost at sea, and would take up new lives and new names. So they had to be men with no families to question their whereabouts. They’d be paid, of course, with a cut of the insurance money.