Sherlock Holmes and the Abbey School Mystery

by John Hall

  ‘Ah! Why d’you say that?’

  ‘He came to me, sir, a day or so before – before the trouble blew up. Introduced himself as a pal of my young brother, said he wanted a man-to-man chat with me. You know what these youngsters are like,’ he added, with no trace of irony in his voice.

  ‘Oh, indeed. Carry on.’

  ‘Well, he asked, in a very roundabout sort of fashion, what did I think of clubs, societies, that sort of thing. I answered as best I could, said they were very fine in their way, but a fellow has to be careful to ensure that his sympathies agree with the club’s objects, or there’s likely to be a falling out.’

  ‘Very sensible advice too.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Trouble was, he was so vague that I couldn’t really make out what he was after, if you follow me, so I just gave him vague sort of advice in reply. Then a day or so later, there was all the fuss.’

  ‘H’mm. Let me put this to you. Suppose that young Whitechurch had been approached to be a member of this secret society, and suppose that there was some sort of test, some initiation ceremony, involving some act of devilment, some daring exploit? Would that meet the case?’

  ‘You mean he had to steal something in order to prove his worthiness for admission to the order?’ Watson Major’s face showed that he felt this unlikely.

  ‘No?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir,’ he told me doubtfully. ‘I suppose it could be so, but then there has never been anything of that sort at the school before, not in my time at any rate. And if theft, or something of the sort, were part of the admission procedure, then it should be a regular occurrence, shouldn’t it, whenever a new candidate is proposed?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right there. Another point, though, and that concerns the ruins of the old abbey. Any stories about those?’

  ‘Again, sir, it’s funny you should mention those. There have always been tales about the old ruins, ever since I’ve known the place.’

  ‘Linking them with this mysterious secret society?’

  Watson Major shook his head. ‘The secret society is not something the chaps talk about, sir,’ he said. ‘The ruins, though, they have an odd reputation. I suppose their being out of bounds would account for a lot of that.’

  ‘Have you explored them?’

  Watson Major looked at me.

  ‘I shan’t be angry if you have,’ I told him. ‘I’d just like to know, that’s all.’

  ‘I suppose most of the fellows have taken a peep at some time, sir. And I’m no exception, I must admit. Though not for years, of course,’ he added hastily.

  ‘But there is feeling that the ruins hold some secret?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, Watson,’ I said, getting to my feet, ‘you’ve been candid with me, and I hope that you feel that I’ve been equally honest with you. I’ll tell you what, though, let’s just keep this conversation between the two of us, for the moment at any rate.’

  ‘Right you are, sir!’ Watson Major seemed relieved at this. He shook my proffered hand, glanced at the half of the cigar which remained, and ruefully deposited it in an ashtray. ‘Best not walk the corridors with that, sir!’

  ‘Indeed not. Well, mum’s the word, my boy. You may have done more good this evening than you realize, but it will all be wasted if we blab about our little chat.’

  ‘I’ll remember, sir.’

  I saw him to the door, and ushered him out. As I opened the door, I noticed a figure lurking – there is no other word for it – in the shadows at the other side of the corridor. I recognized the man at once. It was Tromarty. As I bade Watson Major farewell, Tromarty scuttled back out of sight.

  I tried to show no surprise as I watched Watson Major go down the corridor. But as I closed the door and sat down again, I did some thinking. It had definitely been Tromarty out there, and he had definitely been watching my door. I could stake my life on that. My life? More to the purpose, if Tromarty were somehow involved in Greville’s death, then young Watson Major might be at some risk, now he had been seen associating with me! It looked as if my latest theory that Greville’s death had been accidental might need yet another hasty revision.

  I got to my feet almost before I had sat down. One thing had emerged from Watson Major’s account, and that was that the ruins had a curious reputation among the boys. I linked that reputation with the mysterious ‘secret society’, of whose existence I, and Holmes, had hitherto been unaware. And there might be yet another link to the mysterious Tromarty.

  I might not be able to confront Tromarty just yet, I had no firm evidence, but I could do what I had earlier thought of doing and explore the ruins of the old abbey. It was nearly five o’clock, and now fully dark outside, so I should be able to do a little investigating unobserved.

  I found a candle and matches, muffled myself up in coat, hat and scarf, picked up my stick, and let myself out by a side door. It was cold outside, with a hint of sleet in the air. I was, as you may imagine, in a somewhat excited frame of mind as I hurried across the quadrangle and round the side of the school buildings, and I had the distinct impression that someone was following me. I stopped, more than once, and tried to see who it might be, but beyond a general impression that someone was there, behind me, I could make nothing out.

  I did not immediately dismiss the notion as mere fancy, though. I knew for a fact that Tromarty had been watching my rooms not twenty minutes earlier, and I strongly suspected that it was Tromarty who was dogging my footsteps now. I kept a careful eye open, you may be sure, as I made my way over the playing fields, now with a light dusting of white underfoot, and into the little spinney.

  It was, of course, pitch black in there. Such light as there was in the sky came perhaps from the last rays of the sun reflecting from the rain clouds, perhaps from the moon’s struggling to penetrate those clouds. In any event, there was a sort of ghastly grey tinge to the sky, which gave some fitful illumination out in the open fields, but which was completely useless once I was in amongst the trees. I was thus obliged to move at a snail’s pace, groping my way almost from tree to tree. I had not the least idea where the ruins might be, but I knew that the little wood was so small that they could not be very far from the edge, and so it proved. After a dozen yards, I came into a sort of clearing, where the grey sky cast some sort of light, enabling me to see that here indeed were those ruins I sought. An unimpressive assemblage, resembling an untidy builder’s yard. I struck a match to take a closer look, and as it flared up I distinctly heard a sound off to my left, as of someone treading on a twig or something of the sort.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I called out, starting towards the sound and blowing the match out as I did so.

  There was a second sound, similar to the first, a muffled footstep, but this time behind me, not in front. Two of them, then! Tromarty and the man I suspected him of meeting earlier, perhaps? This looked bad; there were two of them and only one of me, and I had no weapon but my stick. Useful enough as a stick, and as a makeshift defence, but I could have wished for my old revolver just then. I decided that discretion was better than valour, and made my way back to the ramshackle walls of the ruins, feeling a little safer when they were solidly behind me.

  I strained my eyes in the darkness, trying to make out if anyone was there. A muffled sound, a thud, off in the direction of the first sound? I could not be certain, but I fancied something of the sort. Then silence, a long silence.

  After a time, and I assure you that it was a long time, I ventured towards where I had heard the first sound and the last. I was, as before, moving slowly from tree to tree, and looking round me in a very apprehensive fashion. I had gone perhaps twenty feet when I stumbled, literally, over some obstacle that lay upon the ground. I naturally put my hand out to save myself, and it encountered something unexpected. I have handled enough dead men in my army career to know a body when I touch one.

  I scrambled up to a kneeling position, and struck a match. It was Tromarty, and he had been
killed by a blow to the back of his head. ‘Damnation!’ was all I could manage by way of remark.

  A sound in front of me brought me to my senses, and I blew the match out hastily.

  ‘Who’s there? I say, is anyone there?’

  I recognized the voice. ‘Watson Major? Is that you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Meade’s with me.’

  Meade, I knew, was a friend of Watson Major’s, another strapping lad of seventeen or so. They could be relied upon, and I felt better for knowing that they were there. ‘Don’t come any closer,’ I warned. ‘There’s been – been an accident.’

  ‘Mr Harris? Is that you, sir?’

  ‘More or less. Only my name isn’t Harris. It’s Dr John Watson, and I’m afraid we shall have to call the police – and Mr Sherlock Holmes – at once.’

  Seven

  ‘Well, Watson –’ began Mr Sherlock Holmes.

  ‘Holmes,’ I warned him, ‘it has been a very long night, and I am feeling decidedly fragile. If you were about to make some remark about this being a “pretty kettle of fish”, or something of that sort, I would strongly advise against it.’

  I spoke no more than the literal truth. To begin with, I myself had, very naturally in the circumstances, come under some suspicion over Tromarty’s death. The local police had been summoned, they had contacted Scotland Yard, and, at my request, Sherlock Holmes. In view of the social standing of the pupils at the Abbey School, the Yard had been only too glad to allow Holmes to take the case, and had indeed dropped the case like the proverbial hot potato. Dr Longton, however, was by no means so eager to allow a private investigator into the school, and only the intervention of the Home Secretary, summoned by telephone from his bed in the very early hours of the morning, had managed to gain Holmes the headmaster’s rather grudging co-operation. This had all happened in the course of the one crowded night, so you will see that I was a touch disquieted.

  ‘On the other hand,’ I added ruefully, ‘if you were to mutter something about my making “a pretty hash” of things, I think that would be fully justified this time.’

  ‘Come, Watson, you have not done at all badly.’

  ‘Holmes, this poor, inoffensive old fellow is dead as a direct result of my incompetence!’

  ‘Hardly that, Doctor.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Holmes. Why, I suspected that he was Professor Moriarty come to life again, or one of his brothers – Moriarty’s brothers, I mean – and all the time he was being hunted by the same man who killed Greville. I am to blame, Holmes, no doubt of that.’

  He regarded me keenly. ‘You never cease to surprise me, my dear fellow,’ he said at last. ‘It is true that you erred in your identification of this poor inoffensive old chap, as you call him, but that was understandable. As for his being killed by the man, or men, who killed Greville, that is probably true enough. But you have, in your own inimitable fashion, quite missed the really significant point.’

  ‘Oh? And what is that?’

  ‘Well, why do you think this Tromarty was in the wood last night in the first place? It was not for any truly nefarious purpose, you have said as much yourself, or at any rate you implied it, and I concur.’

  ‘That’s true. But yet he was following me, Holmes. I can swear to that. Wait, though. If he was not following me to do any sort of mischief –’ I shook my head. ‘I give it up, Holmes. Explain, if you will. If you can.’

  ‘Oh, I fancy I can. He was curious, Watson. Nothing more elaborate than that. Greville, and then this lad, your namesake, both thought that something was amiss at the school. Why should Mr Tromarty not think the same? And then a mysterious “Mr Harris” arrives out of the blue, pretty clearly no school master – no offence, dear fellow – and starts asking some awkward questions, even claims an acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson! What more natural than that Tromarty should at once suspect Harris of being implicated in some way in the general mystery? He was right enough in that, in a general sense. And so what more natural than that Tromarty should keep an alert eye on Harris? And what does Tromarty see? He sees Harris scuttling out at night, and lurking in the ruins of the old abbey!’

  ‘He followed me for no better reason? Or worse reason?’

  ‘I think not, Watson.’

  ‘But why was he killed?’ I asked, puzzled.

  ‘Watson, Watson! You did not kill him, I take it?’

  ‘Really, Holmes!’

  ‘Well, then, that narrows the matter down somewhat, does it not?’ And Holmes lit his pipe with great care.

  I thought a moment, then had to lean against a tree trunk for support. ‘You mean that the murderer thought it was me?’

  Holmes nodded. ‘That is exactly what I mean, Watson. You were evidently getting too close to the truth, and the killer wanted you out of the way. Only he got the wrong man. That is my reading of it.’

  ‘Well, Holmes, if you are right, then that scarcely cheers me up to any great extent. I now feel that I am indeed to blame for Tromarty’s death.’

  ‘Oh, that is sheer nonsense. You are not to blame for his being curious. Curiosity killed the cat, you know, Watson. And besides, it is merely my surmise that he was killed in error. Tromarty had, when all is said and done, been at the Abbey School much longer than you have, and he may well have uncovered something you have not. You said, I believe, that he had visited the ruins, or the spinney, at any rate, before last night?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Well, then. That earlier visit cannot have been connected with your presence, can it? Perhaps the earlier visit was the result of an earlier suspicion that something was amiss. His suspicions of you, if any, may have been a part of the overall sense of unease which he felt. In that event, Tromarty’s death may very well not have been accidental. You may not have been the intended victim. Tromarty may in fact have uncovered something, a vital clue, and been killed to prevent his disclosing what he knew.’

  ‘H’mm, that’s true. You’re not merely saying that to salve my conscience, though?’

  Holmes smiled grimly. ‘I fancy that you know me better than that, Doctor.’

  ‘If that were so, it’s a pity I didn’t talk to him, find out what he knew.’

  ‘But it is all surmise, and he may have known nothing. No, I agree that it is sad, and I accept that it gives us both an extra incentive to find the killer, but you are no more to blame than I am for sending you here. Or at any rate you are not to blame for his death,’ he added, sighing as he gazed at the spot where I had stumbled over poor Tromarty the previous night. ‘Why the devil could you not leave him there?’ he complained.

  ‘Holmes! It was cold, beginning to snow, we could not leave the poor fellow out in all that filthy weather.’

  ‘Well at least you could have limited the number of spectators. The ground was wet, soft, ideal for taking an impression of a foot mark. As indeed it has; I see here the footprints of a couple of hundred boys, a dozen masters and a score of policemen.’ He shook his head and sighed again.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Holmes.’ I looked at the muddy soil, all churned up by the feet of those who had taken Tromarty from the spinney. ‘I agree that it is a trifle confused, but then that could be said with equal truth of events in general last night. I am truly sorry, Holmes.’

  ‘Ah, well, no great harm done, Doctor. But this nonsense has gone on quite long enough, I think.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Where is our starting point, though?’ asked Holmes, setting off back through the spinney.

  ‘I don’t know. This secret society, perhaps?’

  ‘Ah, yes, the secret society. You have no details of that, I gather?’

  ‘Only heard of its existence last night, Holmes.’

  ‘At that, you did better than I did!’ Holmes stopped at the ruins, and indicated a more substantial piece of masonry than the rest. A stout, and relatively new, wooden door stood in the middle of the stonework. Holmes lifted the modern padlock which held the door shut. ‘H’mm. This ha
s not been opened recently, at any rate.’ He produced a key. ‘I obtained this from the head this morning, despite his reluctance. Shall we see what the fuss is about?’

  He turned the key in the padlock with some difficulty. ‘As I thought, it has not been oiled, or opened, lately.’ He pulled the door aside, and produced a candle and match. ‘Shall I go first?’

  I followed him down a narrow, steep flight of steps. ‘Original stairs, Holmes?’

  ‘I imagine so.’ He held the candle up, to illuminate a vaulted cellar. ‘Impressive, Watson. But unoccupied, and, judging by the dust, hasn’t been visited for some considerable time.’

  ‘Yes, quite reminds one of your rooms. Graves – the deputy head – said that no-one had been down here recently. Though I rather took the liberty of doubting him.’

  ‘Ah, you did well not to take too much for granted. But I think he spoke the truth.’

  ‘But the rumours about the ruins, Holmes?’

  ‘I imagine they were originally more or less naturally occurring,’ said he, leading the way up the stairs and out into the open. ‘Then, of course, whoever is behind all this would encourage such tales, as a diversion, a red herring.’

  ‘I see! Whilst I, and others, are wondering, and indeed wandering, about the ruins, we are not bothering to look elsewhere. Ingenious.’

  Holmes nodded, and locked the door carefully. ‘And effective. For I take it you have no idea as to where else to start looking?’

  I shook my head. ‘Afraid not, Holmes. The only thing I can suggest is a laborious questioning of everyone at the school.’

  He groaned.

  ‘I know,’ I said quickly, ‘it’ll takes ages. But what alternative is there? Especially now you have arrived on the scene.’