The Man From Hell

by Barrie Roberts

  ‘Was that his usual manner?’ I asked.

  ‘He did not like the idea of your being called in,’ said the Inspector. ‘He feels it an affront to his force. When he’s angry he either shouts and threatens or he turns sarcastic. I dare say I shall hear a deal of sarcasm at your expense when I make my nightly report. What shall I tell him, Mr Holmes?’

  ‘Tell him what you wish, Inspector,’ replied Holmes. ‘My enquiries are not secret from the official Police. If Colonel Caddage prefers to reject the fruit of them that is his affair.’

  We had climbed aboard the station trap and Inspector Scott explained that he was taking us to the scene of the crime. ‘I recall your remarks on the value of the place as evidence and I have had it roped off and a constable set by,’ he said, and earned an approving nod from Holmes.

  Our road took us into old woodland, richly green and deeply shaded at this season. ‘All in front of us is part of Lord Backwater’s land,’ Inspector Scott explained. ‘The Chief Constable’s estate is smaller and lies to our left.’

  He halted the trap at one point, where a break in the woods revealed a distant view of Backwater Hall. I was aware that Lord Backwater had purchased an existing estate upon his return to England and I had expected that the Hall would be Tudor, perhaps, or at the latest Georgian. To my surprise the building that lay across the meadows to our right was of relatively recent design, though a handsome house in its own right.

  ‘I had thought Backwater Hall was an ancient building,’ I remarked.

  ‘The old Hall was Tudor, I believe,’ said the Inspector, ‘but the locals say that when Lord Backwater bought the estate he had the old Hall burned to the ground and built this new one. The old house stood there, nearer to the road,’ he said, pointing.

  ‘What an extraordinary thing to do,’ I said.

  ‘Lord Backwater was a man who liked everything up to date,’ said Inspector Scott. ‘The new house had all the latest inventions from America. It has electric lighting everywhere, even in the skivvies’ rooms, a cold store, even telegraph instruments. I dare say he simply wanted to start afresh.’

  We continued on our way until we reached a green track into the Backwater estate. Here we dismounted and followed the Police Officer along the track until we came to one end of a row of magnificent old beeches. The long glade pierced the woodlands from the track where we stood to the open meadows that sloped away to Backwater Hall. The ancient trunks stood like grey Norman pillars and the afternoon sun on the canopy of young leaves above cast a pale green glow through the glade.

  Inspector Scott led us down the row until we reached one particularly large tree near the far end. It had a wide, scarred trunk, rising about eight feet before it branched out wide and high. A rope barrier supported on iron stakes had been erected around the tree and a few feet from it. Beneath the next tree sat a young constable who sprang to his feet and saluted Inspector Scott.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said. ‘All in order here, I think.’

  ‘I hope so, for your sake,’ said Scott. ‘This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, and this is his friend Dr Watson, Constable. You would do well to watch Mr Holmes and observe how he addresses a problem.’

  He turned to Holmes. ‘We’ve had no rain, Mr Holmes, and I secured the ground as soon as the body was removed. I hope there is material for you.’

  ‘I am sure of it, Inspector,’ said Holmes, and stepped up to the rope. For a few moments he scanned the ground inside the barrier and the trunk of the tree. Then he paced around the roped perimeter, never taking his eyes off the ground. At last he ducked under the rope.

  Even I could see that the moss around the old tree’s roots and the roots themselves had been hacked and scarred by boots, but Holmes seemed barely to glance at these marks. Instead he would stoop now and then, draw his lens from his pocket and apply it closely to areas of the moss. At one point he descended to his hands and knees, casting continually about the mossy ground with his lens in one hand, while the fingers of the other traced something on the ground. He seemed like nothing so much as a great dark hound, seeking the scent of some other creature on the forest floor.

  When he had been twice around the bole of the beech, and had examined that too, to head height and beyond, he pocketed his glass, brushed down his clothing and ducked under the rope.

  ‘Do you find any indications?’ enquired Scott.

  ‘I find more than indications,’ said Holmes. ‘I find clear evidence of what occurred here. Your preservation of that evidence has enabled me to learn much.’

  All of us looked at him expectantly and he continued, ‘Three men came on foot from the same direction as ourselves. Two were heavy-set men in strong working boots, one was lighter and wore old, broken boots. They came well in advance of their prey and concealed themselves behind the tree. While they waited they rolled cigarettes. The tobacco, which was a coarse American variety, was held in a pouch by one of the heavy-set pair, but the match was struck by his lighter companion who was left-handed.’

  The young constable was staring at Holmes in frank amazement and I was moved to protest. ‘Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘I can see how you deduced much of this from the footmarks, but the tobacco pouch and the left-handedness are too much!’

  ‘You know my methods, Watson, but you do not apply them,’ Holmes replied. ‘As you remark, much of my information comes from the footprints, including the left-handedness. The match was struck against the tree-trunk and the striker’s foot pressed into the moss close to the trunk. It was his left foot,ergo he struck with his left hand. The slight spillages of tobacco as it was handed around show where each stood and which held the pouch. Now, may I continue with my remarks?’

  I made no further interruption as he explained how the three had stubbed out their cigarettes on seeing Lord Backwater approach across the meadows and had lurked behind the great tree as the nobleman waited for his visitor.

  ‘And that,’ said Holmes, ‘establishes one important fact.’

  ‘What is that?’ I asked.

  ‘That they had no interest in Lord Backwater, but waited for the Man from Hell,’ said the Inspector.

  ‘Precisely,’ responded my friend and continued his narrative. ‘Lord Backwater waited a few minutes and lit a cigar. He paced this side of the tree and he stood and examined the initials carved on the trunk. Then he became aware of his visitor approaching across the meadows and he walked to the edge of the wood.’

  He pointed with his stick towards the meadow then went on, ‘Together they returned to this tree, where they stood in conversation. At that point two of the ambushers sprang upon them.’

  He paused. ‘A fierce struggle ensued, but Lord Backwater was eventually struck down from behind. If he was not their intended prey, it is probable that his death confused them momentarily, allowing the stranger to make his escape across the meadow. The murderers were unwilling to pursue him in open country and retreated the way they had come.’

  He fell silent and I offered him a cigarette. Inspector Scott turned to his constable. ‘Let that be a lesson to you,’ he said, ‘in the importance of preserving every trace of evidence at the scene of a crime.’

  With Holmes’ permission the constable was left to remove the rope fence and we made our way back to the trap. As we boarded, the Inspector asked, ‘Is there anything more that you wish to know before I leave you at Backwater Hall, Mr Holmes?’

  ‘If you know it,’ said Holmes, ‘I would be grateful for the name of Colonel Caddage’s hedger and ditcher.’

  The police officer looked as confused as me. ‘Why,’ he said, ‘it’s a mad old creature known as Tin-Fiddle Williams.’

  ‘And where might I find him?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘On a Saturday night you will find him in the tap-room of the Backwater Arms, playing his tin fiddle, but otherwise he has a shack on the Colonel’s land. I will point out the path as we pass.’

  On the way to Backwater Hall the Inspector showed us a gre
en ride that led into the Chief Constable’s estate. ‘About a half-mile up there,’ he said, ‘is a path to the right that leads down to a pool. Tin-Fiddle’s shack is at the bottom of that path, but I would not let Colonel Caddage catch you on his land.’

  ‘Never fear,’ said Holmes. ‘I have no such intention.’

  As he left us at our client’s door the Inspector asked one last question. ‘I have to report to the Colonel,’ he said. ‘What may I tell him, Mr Holmes?’

  ‘You may tell him,’ said Holmes, ‘everything that I have observed and deduced, but you should emphasise that they are merely the views of a Cockney agent.’

  Five

  TIN-FIDDLE WILLIAMS

  We lodged that night at the Hall, where Holmes outlined to Lord Backwater his discoveries in the beech glade. The young nobleman had theories of his own, most particularly that the stranger who met his father had led him into a trap.

  ‘It remains possible,’ admitted Holmes, ‘but I am far more ready to believe that the exercise was designed to trap and kill your father’s visitor.’

  ‘Then why did he escape?’ demanded Lord Backwater. ‘Why did he not stay and assist my father?’

  ‘The blow that felled your father was instantaneously fatal, and obviously so,’ said Holmes. ‘There was nothing further to be done for him and his death left his visitor outnumbered two-to-one which is, no doubt, why he disengaged himself and made off across the meadows.’

  ‘I still believe the stranger was part of the plot,’ said Lord Backwater, and on that unresolved note the conversation ended.

  After breakfast the next morning, Holmes invited me to join him on a visit to Tin-Fiddle Williams. We walked the road between the two estates and readily found the grassy ride which Inspector Scott had shown us. Here and there along its length we caught glimpses through the trees of a large pool fringed with reeds.

  At length we came to a footpath leading towards the water. It was a narrow track, winding closely under the trees, sometimes skirting rotted stumps and occasionally crossed by twisted roots. The trees in full leaf above darkened the path and we had to pick our way carefully.

  After about another half-mile we came to a point where the path opened out on to a wide tree-covered slope, running down to the edge of the lake. To our right stood a grotesque shanty. It seemed to me that it might once have been a shooting hut, but it had been repaired and extended with a wide variety of materials from galvanised iron sheets to enamelled railway advertisements and the panels of tea-chests. A part of the roof was formed from a flattened tin bath and the chimney, which smoked fitfully, was a section of cast drainpipe.

  ‘It seems we have found Mr Williams at home,’ remarked my friend, pointing with his stick to the smoke, and we approached the only door we could see in the shack. It was made from rough planks and bore a railway company’s enamelled warnings that trespassers made themselves liable to imprisonment or transportation.

  Sherlock Holmes rapped on the boards with the handle of his stick and, after a pause, the door opened by inches. A lean face, darkened by soot and weather, appeared and two watery, red-rimmed eyes surveyed us from either side of a craggy nose.

  ‘Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr Tin-Fiddle Williams?’ asked Holmes cheerily.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ grunted the door-keeper.

  Holmes gave him our names and added, ‘I am a fellow musician who has heard of your remarkable instrument and hoped that I might see it.’

  Holmes had held up a coin and the old man took it without a word and pulled the door wide, standing back to admit us to his unique dwelling. We stepped into the shanty and stood in the middle of what seemed to be its principal room. The area was perhaps twelve feet by twenty, but scarce an inch of it was empty. Every surface, every nook and cranny and much of the floor space was piled high with an indescribable assortment of oddments that put even our Baker Street sitting-room to shame.

  ‘My word, Holmes!’ I whispered. ‘This fellow is more of a magpie than you!’

  He ignored my pleasantry and kept his eyes on our host, who was extracting from a dark corner of the hovel a bundle wrapped in oilskin. When he removed the oilskin I saw that it had covered a violin, but one that gleamed bright silver in the lamplight.

  ‘Remarkable!’ exclaimed Holmes. ‘Would you be so good as to let us hear it, Mr Williams?’

  The old man plucked the strings and quickly tuned his instrument, then picked up a bow and commenced to play. I enjoy a wide variety of music so long as it is well played, but I had nerved myself for a crude performance on an ill-sounding instrument. To my surprise our host extracted from his strange instrument a passably pleasant tone and his playing, though the melodies were only country dances and music-hall airs, exhibited no little skill.

  Holmes removed a bundle of wire snares from a rickety kitchen chair and sat, apparently enthralled by the old man’s performance. I pushed a pile of rabbit-skins aside and made myself comfortable on the top of an old tin trunk. Williams stood in the centre of the room, his bald head flung back and his eyes half closed. His greasy grey locks swung around his dark features as he worked at the instrument. I was so distracted by the music that I almost failed to notice when the left sleeve of his ragged shirt fell away from his forearm momentarily and revealed a glimpse of what was certainly the same tattoo that I had seen on the arm of the dead Lord Backwater.

  I had no doubt that Holmes would have seen the mark, so I made no mention of it. The old man drew his recital to a close, opened his eyes and stared belligerently at Holmes.

  ‘There y’are!’ he exclaimed. ‘What d’you say to that?’

  ‘I say that is truly remarkable,’ said Holmes. ‘Tell me, Mr Williams, did you construct that instrument yourself?’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said the fiddler. ‘When I was... when I was at sea, I hadn’t no wood to make one so I thought of tin and I put it together with tin-snips and solder.’

  ‘It has a splendid tone,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Tidy enough,’ said Williams, looking pleased. ‘I finds a good rub down with a handful of sand puts a shine on her and makes her sound better.’

  ‘May I try it?’ asked Holmes, quickly adding when he saw a frown crossing the old man’s features, ‘I have a Stradivarius myself.’

  ‘There’s more than one Stradivarius,’ said our host, ‘but that’s the only one as I ever made.’ He handed Holmes the fiddle and bow. ‘You’ll find it difficult,’ he said. ‘She’s back-strung.’

  ‘I have exercised with both hands,’ said Holmes and, after a few exploratory flourishes with the bow, he plunged into a spirited melody. Now it was the old man’s turn to listen as Holmes ran through a medley of bright tunes.

  At last he paused and enquired with seeming innocence, ‘Did you ever hear this tune, Mr Williams?’ and he launched into a sad, slow air.

  The old man became visibly uneasy, but when Holmes lowered the bow he said, ‘I can’t say as I recall it, no.’

  ‘Now you do surprise me,’ said Holmes. ‘I felt sure you would recognise it. Perhaps the words would help your memory.’

  He cleared his throat and sang quietly but clearly:

  ‘I’ve been a prisoner at Port Macquarie,

  On Norfolk Island and at Emu Plains,

  Upon Castle Hill and in cursed Toongabbie,

  At all those settlements I’ve worked in chains,

  But of all the places of condemnation,

  The penal stations of New South Wales,

  To Moreton Bay there must be no equal,

  Excessive cruelty each day prevails.

  ‘An exaggeration of the writer’s, I believe,’ he said, when his song was done. ‘Surely Norfolk Island was worse than Moreton Bay?’

  Williams’ face had paled even under its coat of grime. ‘Get out!’ he snarled. ‘You damned sneaking spies! Get out of my house!’

  Holmes laid the gleaming violin and its bow carefully upon the corner of a cluttered table and looked the furious old man
squarely in the eye.

  ‘Whoever encouraged, paid or ordered you to the beech glade as a guide to those two killers has put a rope around your neck, Williams. I know that you did no more than that, but that may not save you from the gallows. Tell me what you know and I promise you I will save your neck.’

  ‘Get out!’ the old man roared again. ‘I’ve nothing to say to the likes of you – not now and not never. Get out of my house!’

  He lifted his gnarled fists threateningly.

  ‘Very well,’ said Sherlock Holmes calmly, ‘but my offer remains open. Good-day to you, Williams, and thank you for the use of your instrument.’

  We withdrew in good order and the makeshift door slammed at our backs with a volley of imprecations.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said to Holmes as we retraced our steps along the woodland path, ‘how on earth did you know that Williams was left-handed?’

  ‘When I observed the signs of a left-handed man in the beech glade,’ he replied, ‘we had just passed by the hedges of Colonel Caddage’s estate and I had noted that his hedger was left-handed. It might not have been our man, but Inspector Scott’s reference to a tin fiddle made me realise that Williams was not only left-handed but was possibly an old transport.’

  This confused me even more. ‘But how could you detect left-handedness from a hedge?’ I asked.

  ‘Very simply, Watson. A right-handed hedger takes a long shoot of the hedge in his left hand and bends it down. With a billhook in his right hand he then cuts the shoot part-way through just above the ground and weaves it into the hedgerow to his left to thicken and reinforce the hedge. A left-handed hedger must cut with the left hand and weave the shoots to his right.’

  ‘But what has all this to do with Australia?’ I asked.

  We had come to a point where a gnarled root lay across our path and a drift of dead leaves was gathered behind it. I was in the act of stepping over the root when Holmes seized my shoulder in a steely grip and forced me to a halt.