Sherlock Holmes and the Abbey School Mystery

by John Hall

  Graves seemed to soften somewhat at this. ‘Yes, yes, I can see that.’

  ‘In point of fact, I was rather hoping to persuade Carstairs, or someone else, to act as an unofficial guide, show me round the school.’

  ‘And perhaps tell you a little of our history?’

  There was a curious note in Graves’s voice, keenness blended with a hint of diffidence, perhaps? I glanced at him, and seemed to see in his eyes reflections of those perished cities whose great phantasmata o’erbrow the silent citizens of this or that. I was prompted to ask him, ‘You are yourself something of an expert in the history of the school, perhaps, sir?’

  He smiled, positively eager to respond. ‘An amateur, sir, nothing more. History is my subject, you see, and also by way of a hobby of sorts. I think I may say without boasting that no man knows more of the history of the Abbey School than I do.’ He looked at the oak panelling of the corridor, the pictures of what I took to be former pupils on the walls, the stained glass that still shone out in the slanting rays of the winter sun. ‘I love this old place, you know,’ he said, quite unexpectedly. ‘I have been here pretty well all my life.’

  ‘In that case, sir, I should consider it an honour if you could find the time to show me around,’ I said. ‘Whenever it may chance to be convenient to you, that is.’

  Graves consulted his watch. ‘We have some time before the dinner bell, so if you are free at the moment? Yes? I can do no more than scratch the surface, you understand, in so short a time, and particularly as it grows dark, but it may serve to whet your appetite.’

  He led me down the corridor, pausing to indicate a particularly fine portrait here and there, and then took me through the assembly hall to the main door. ‘You get a better overall view of the school from the other end of the drive,’ said Graves, setting off at a fair pace. I made what speed I could, but I had all on to keep up with Graves, who glanced back after a score of paces, and asked, ‘Do you have trouble with your leg, sir?’

  ‘I do,’ I answered. ‘A souvenir of India, I fear.’

  Graves slowed down. ‘Ah, I beg your pardon. My eagerness to show the place off outweighed my courtesy.’ He looked at me again. ‘You are too young to have fought in the Mutiny, so I guess the Afghan campaign?’ He raised his bushy eyebrows.

  ‘Absolutely correct,’ I told him.

  ‘It must have been most interesting. You must tell us all about it some time.’

  Not likely, was the vulgar retort which came to my mind. In fact I cursed myself silently for having given even that much away. Still, I had already claimed that all my teaching experience was in India, so perhaps no great harm had been done. I smiled weakly, and walked on in silence.

  ‘Now,’ said Graves, as we reached the porter’s little lodge at the main gate. ‘How’s that for a prospect?’

  When I had arrived at the school that morning I had been riding in a cab which I found at the station, and through the window, obscured with condensation, I had not been able to see much more than the trees in the driveway, so this was my first real look at the building. It was a lovely sight that met my eyes. The setting sun lit up the mellow grey stone and the slates all covered with lichen, and made the stained glass windows glow as if lamps had been lit behind them.

  The school buildings themselves were extensive. The tower from which the unfortunate young man had fallen, if fallen he had, lay straight ahead of us at the end of the carriage drive, and dominated the whole view. It was some eighty feet high, and had something of the appearance of a clock tower or bell tower in a church.

  Below this tower was the outer door of heavy oak, through which we had just come. Through that door was a short passage, actually built into, and part of, the base of the tower. This passage led to an inner door which gave on to the assembly hall.

  The main body of the building, three storeys high, ran to left and right of the tower and the great outer door, and ran for a considerable distance, too. I knew that on the far side of the building, hidden from my sight at the moment, were short wings at right angles to the main block. These were mostly used by servants, or as store rooms, I gathered. Then a stable block at which ran parallel to the main building at the rear had been partly converted to house modern chemical laboratories and the like, and formed the fourth side of the quadrangle.

  ‘Proper country house,’ I remarked.

  Graves nodded. ‘It was built as such three hundred years ago.’

  ‘Where’s the abbey, then? Or wasn’t there one?’

  ‘There was, centuries ago. The records are fragmentary, I regret to say, but there was certainly a foundation here by 1155. The earliest mention I have found is of one Abbot Roger de Jourdain, or Jordan, a determined man but a fair one by all accounts, a man who kept his unruly monks in order with an iron hand. No easy task, I gather. The abbey did not survive the Dissolution, and the land was sold to a local gentleman who built the present house, or at least the older part of it, for his descendants added to it quite considerably.’

  ‘I thought the tower looked early eighteenth century.’

  Graves nodded. ‘It is. Perhaps the owner at that time thought it gave the house something of an ecclesiastical look not entirely inappropriate to its origins? Or perhaps it was merely one of those “follies” which were popular at that time?’ Somewhat hurriedly, as if he wanted to change the subject, he said, ‘The ruins of the abbey are still here, by the way.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. I believe that some of the stones were incorporated into the house. And some of the stained glass, although much of it is comparatively new, as you will doubtless have observed. Again the owner of the day seems to have thought stained glass suitable for a house with such a beginning.’

  ‘The house was not built directly upon the old foundations of the abbey, then?’ I asked.

  ‘No, the ruins are over there,’ and Graves swung round to indicate a point to the far left of the school grounds. ‘In that little spinney affair.’

  I gazed at the little knot of trees on the edge of the grass sward. ‘Must be quite interesting. I think I may take a stroll over there when I have an hour or so to spare.’

  Graves frowned. ‘There is not much to see, the place is quite ruinous. Although there is an underground room which is not entirely devoid of all interest. I may add that the ruins are out of bounds to the boys, although it is sometimes difficult to ensure that they keep out. And masters are requested –’ and he stressed the ‘requested’ rather significantly – ‘not to go clambering about there and setting a bad example to the lads. I myself have conducted a survey of the place, but that was some time ago, and conducted under strictly scientific conditions, of course. I made some flashlight photographs, which I shall be more than pleased to show you.’

  ‘Of course I shall not dream of going there, if that is the correct form,’ I said at once. But privately I thought, Oh, yes? An underground chamber in a ruined abbey, out of bounds to all and sundry? Surely if there were anything untoward happening, that was the very place for it? I resolved to explore the ruins at the earliest opportunity. Seeking to change the subject, I asked, ‘If it was first an abbey, and next a private house, when did the school come along?’

  ‘It is an interesting question. The records, as I say, are exiguous in the extreme, but I have found a hint that there was a school associated with the abbey from the very earliest times. Not an uncommon occurrence, of course, particularly where there were choristers. If there were indeed a school in those early days, then like the abbey itself it vanished at the Dissolution. The present establishment dates from the beginning of this century.’

  ‘I see.’

  We stood there in silence for five minutes or so, then Graves suddenly shivered. ‘It seems to have turned colder.’

  ‘Sun’s gone now,’ I said. ‘A fire and a glass of something warming might be rather pleasant.’

  Graves laughed. ‘I concur, sir. The normal practice here is to wait until after dinner, at wh
ich nothing stronger than tea is served. Then, of course, masters may drink what they will in the Senior Common Room, provided always that no bad example is set to the boys.’

  ‘Of course that is understood. But I am relieved to find that you are not all teetotallers here,’ I said. Which was nothing more or less than the truth, I may add.

  ‘Oh, by no means. Within reason, that is to say. Did the Greek philosopher not counsel “moderation in all things”?’

  ‘I thought it was “all things in moderation”, you know.’

  ‘A common misapprehension, sir.’ Graves started back towards the school building. As we hurried along, for it had turned quite cold by this time, he added, ‘As it is the first day of term, though, we might stretch a point, do you think? Since there is a nip in the air outside, we might indulge in a “nip” indoors?’ He compensated for this atrocious pun by adding, ‘I have a rather superior Oloroso, if you have a few moments to spare?’

  I agreed readily enough, and went with Graves to his study. His sherry was excellent, its age complementing the sweetness, and I accepted a second glass. ‘Mustn’t overdo it, though,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed not.’

  It now occurred to me that I had pretty well covered all the ground that I could with regard to Lord Whitechurch’s expulsion, and I might just as well take this opportunity to ask some pertinent questions about the other, more serious, matter. ‘I have often thought that this is one of the greatest dangers facing men such as ourselves,’ I added, raising my glass. ‘A hard day’s teaching, a roaring fire, the temptation to have a second glass.’

  Graves sighed. ‘We’ve all seen it, have we not? Not so much here, thank Heaven.’

  ‘Oh? I thought I had heard some talk of the young man whom I replaced?’

  Graves set down his glass on the table. He sighed again, more theatrically this time. ‘People will gossip so, you know.’

  ‘Understandable, when you consider the rather singular circumstances under which I obtained this post.’ And I repeated what I had said to Carstairs, ‘Better to hear the true facts from an authoritative source such as yourself, than overhear silly rumours from the boys. For they are sure to talk about it in my presence sooner or later.’

  ‘H’mm, I suppose so. Well, the general consensus seems to be that he drank himself silly, then climbed the tower and either threw himself off deliberately, or else lost his footing by sheer accident.’

  ‘Do you share in the general consensus?’

  Graves frowned. ‘It was a very curious affair, I must say. The young man had been here a couple of years, and as deputy head I very naturally took him under my wing to some extent, took particular notice of his abilities and so forth. Certainly I never saw him drunk, nor even slightly tipsy. Of course,’ he added doubtfully, ‘one hears of secret drinkers, and so on. But I’d never have believed it of young Greville. Again, how did he get into the tower? The only ingress is via the little door in the passageway between the inner and outer doors, and that is normally kept locked, for obvious reasons.’ He frowned, and added, ‘Although it was not locked that morning.’

  ‘And the key?’

  ‘The headmaster has one, I think, and the porter certainly has another.’

  ‘Now, that is curious. Was any key found on the young man’s body, do you recall?’

  Graves shot me a look. ‘Is there some reason for the question, sir?’

  ‘Oh, just idle curiosity. Well, possibly more than that, you know. In India, of course, as an Englishman, I often had to look into little problems for the locals. It was expected that one would possess the judgement of Solomon.’ Rather neat, that, I thought.

  ‘I see. And, in point of fact, I have mused about that myself. No, sir, he had no key about his person. The accepted theory is that the porter had unlocked the door in connection with his duties, and forgotten to lock it again after him. There is nothing in the tower, of course, it is not even used as a store room, but the porter occasionally goes in there to check the roof, after a storm, shall we say, or to make sure that the glass in the windows is sound.’

  ‘And had he been in there about the time that the young man died?’

  ‘The porter had been up there about a week previously, and replaced a pane of glass broken in the autumn gales. He swore that he had locked the door afterwards, of course. But it was indubitably unlocked on the morning that the body was found.’

  ‘And had this porter left doors unlocked, or anything of that kind, before then?’

  Graves frowned. ‘He has occasionally had a slight lapse of memory. I am sure most of us would have to admit the same.’

  ‘Oh, indeed. Still, it is a rather odd chain of coincidences, is it not?’

  Graves looked at me intently for a while before he spoke. ‘What exactly are you suggesting, Mr Harris?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not suggesting anything,’ I told him quickly. ‘Just an odd chain of circumstances, that’s all. The young man was unused to drink, he had one too many, found the door open – yes, I can see how it might happen. Tell me, I did not particularly notice the tower as we returned to the school, but is it open at the top, is there a door or something? How did he actually get out?’

  ‘There is a window at the very top, big enough for a man to climb through without any great difficulty.’

  ‘But he would have to climb through the window? There is no door, or anything like that? He could not just have fallen?’

  ‘He would have had to make up his mind to climb out, yes.’

  ‘I see. Dreadful business.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Almost as if he were conscious of having said too much and wanted to change the subject, Graves rose from his chair and went to a cupboard. ‘I promised to show you those photographs of the ruins, I think? If you are interested, that is.’ He brought a leather album over to the table.

  ‘I should be more than interested,’ I said, truthfully enough.

  Graves was evidently a skilled photographer, and I studied the pictures intently. The ruins left above ground were neither extensive nor particularly attractive, but there were a couple of plates, evidently taken with the aid of magnesium powder, of the underground room which Graves had mentioned. It was much bigger than I had expected, with a proper vaulted ceiling, rather like the nave of a cathedral, though on a smaller scale. A shallow flight of steps led upwards, evidently to an entrance at ground level, and there were three or four large stone pillars to support the ceiling. ‘Impressive,’ I said. ‘What would that have been used for, do you think?’

  Graves shrugged his shoulders. ‘Hard to say. It may have been nothing more than a store room of some sort. Even barns of the day were impressive structures. Of course, the boys have all sorts of different explanations,’ he added with a laugh.

  ‘Secret societies, wicked monks, and that sort of thing? Yes, I expect they have.’ I indicated the stairs shown in the picture. ‘These lead to the entrance at ground level, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, there is a door, not original, but placed there later. It is kept locked, for, as I told you, we discourage visitors.’

  ‘Oh? Are you quite sure it’s locked? The tower door was open, I believe you said.’

  ‘I checked the door in the ruins, the day of the tragedy. You may be sure of that,’ said Graves with some emphasis.

  ‘And who has that key? You?’

  ‘The headmaster keeps that key as well. If you are genuinely interested, I can try to arrange a visit. I would be more than pleased to show you round, and it will be much safer, as I know the place. The masonry is a little insecure in places, a natural consequence of the passage of time.’

  ‘It is extremely kind of you to offer, sir, and I assure you I should be most interested,’ I told him. I looked at the clock. ‘I must not detain you any longer just at the moment, though, as we shall have to think about getting ready for dinner.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Graves shook my hand in a most friendly manner, and on that happy note I took my leave.

  Uns
urprisingly, when you consider the age and size of the school buildings, there were a good many doors leading out into the quadrangle. Graves’s rooms were near one of these doors. And my own rooms were quite near yet another of them, but were at some distance from Graves’s rooms, if I make myself clear. It seemed to me that it would be much easier for me to return to my rooms by going outside and across the quadrangle, particularly considering that I did not yet properly know my way round the maze of corridors and rooms.

  I let myself out, then, and hurried across the stone flags, now damp with a thin wintry drizzle. It was much colder than it had been earlier, and I lowered my head against a stiff breeze, eager to get back to my own rooms, light the fire, if that had not already been done, and get tidied up ready for dinner.

  I have said that I lowered my head, and thus I did not notice another man who was crossing the quadrangle but in the opposite direction to me. Not, that is, until we all but collided, for he too was walking head down, bracing himself against the heavy weather.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said I, pulling myself up just in time to prevent myself knocking him over, for he was a tall, thin, elderly man.

  ‘Not a bit of it, sir! Entirely my fault. I was not looking where I was going, I fear. I was musing, to be plain, upon the austere beauty of the imaginary numbers.’

  ‘Oh? And what are they when they’re at home, then? Sounds like my bank balance. Or perhaps my tailor’s bills.’

  He blinked at me as the rain struck his face. ‘They are, as every schoolboy knows, the numbers which have as a component the square root of minus one.’

  I wrinkled my brow. ‘I can’t remember much about it,’ I confessed, ‘but I seem to recollect that minus one cannot have a square root.’

  ‘No more it can, sir, no more it can! Of course it cannot. Ridiculous to suppose that it could. But imagine for one moment, if you will, that it could. Ah, there’s the mystery and the beauty of it! In that imagination is all the challenge, the riddle, and – yes, I shall say it, plainly and unashamedly – the sheer fun!’ He scrabbled in the pocket of a rusty frock coat. ‘Mathematics is my field, sir, and that is my card.’