Settling Scores

by Martin Edwards

  “Let me see,” said Holmes, seating himself on Staunton’s bed. “You are the day porter, are you not?”

  “Yes, sir; I go off duty at eleven.”

  “The night porter saw nothing, I suppose?”

  “No, sir; one theatre party came in late. No one else.”

  “Were you on duty all day yesterday?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you take any messages to Mr. Staunton?”

  “Yes, sir; one telegram.”

  “Ah! that’s interesting. What o’clock was this?”

  “About six.”

  “Where was Mr. Staunton when he received it?”

  “Here in his room.”

  “Were you present when he opened it?”

  “Yes, sir; I waited to see if there was an answer.”

  “Well, was there?”

  “Yes, sir. He wrote an answer.”

  “Did you take it?”

  “No; he took it himself.”

  “But he wrote it in your presence?”

  “Yes, sir. I was standing by the door, and he with his back turned at that table. When he had written it he said, ‘All right, porter, I will take this myself.’”

  “What did he write it with?”

  “A pen, sir.”

  “Was the telegraphic form one of these on the table?”

  “Yes, sir; it was the top one.”

  Holmes rose. Taking the forms he carried them over to the window and carefully examined that which was uppermost.

  “It is a pity he did not write in pencil,” said he, throwing them down again with a shrug of disappointment. “As you have no doubt frequently observed, Watson, the impression usually goes through—a fact which has dissolved many a happy marriage. However, I can find no trace here. I rejoice, however, to perceive that he wrote with a broad-pointed quill pen, and I can hardly doubt that we will find some impression upon this blotting-pad. Ah, yes, surely this is the very thing!”

  He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards us the following hieroglyphic:—

  Cyril Overton was much excited. “Hold it to the glass!” he cried.

  “That is unnecessary,” said Holmes. “The paper is thin, and the reverse will give the message. Here it is.” He turned it over and we read:—

  “So that is the tail end of the telegram which Godfrey Staunton dispatched within a few hours of his disappearance. There are at least six words of the message which have escaped us; but what remains—‘Stand by us for God’s sake!’—proves that this young man saw a formidable danger which approached him, and from which someone else could protect him. ‘Us,’ mark you! Another person was involved. Who should it be but the pale-faced, bearded man, who seemed himself in so nervous a state? What, then, is the connection between Godfrey Staunton and the bearded man? And what is the third source from which each of them sought for help against pressing danger? Our inquiry has already narrowed down to that.”

  “We have only to find to whom that telegram is addressed,” I suggested.

  “Exactly, my dear Watson. Your reflection, though profound, had already crossed my mind. But I dare say it may have come to your notice that if you walk into a post-office and demand to see the counterfoil of another man’s message there may be some disinclination on the part of the officials to oblige you. There is so much red tape in these matters! However, I have no doubt that with a little delicacy and finesse the end may be attained. Meanwhile, I should like in your presence, Mr. Overton, to go through these papers which have been left upon the table.”

  There were a number of letters, bills, and note-books, which Holmes turned over and examined with quick, nervous fingers and darting, penetrating eyes. “Nothing here,” he said, at last. “By the way, I suppose your friend was a healthy young fellow—nothing amiss with him?”

  “Sound as a bell.”

  “Have you ever known him ill?”

  “Not a day. He has been laid up with a hack, and once he slipped his knee-cap, but that was nothing.”

  “Perhaps he was not so strong as you suppose. I should think he may have had some secret trouble. With your assent I will put one or two of these papers in my pocket, in case they should bear upon our future inquiry.”

  “One moment! one moment!” cried a querulous voice, and we looked up to find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching in the doorway. He was dressed in rusty black, with a very broad brimmed top-hat and a loose white necktie—the whole effect being that of a very rustic parson or of an undertaker’s mute. Yet, in spite of his shabby and even absurd appearance, his voice had a sharp crackle, and his manner a quick intensity which commanded attention.

  “Who are you, sir, and by what right do you touch this gentleman’s papers?” he asked.

  “I am a private detective, and I am endeavouring to explain his disappearance.”

  “Oh, you are, are you? And who instructed you, eh?”

  “This gentleman, Mr. Staunton’s friend, was referred to me by Scotland Yard.”

  “Who are you, sir?”

  “I am Cyril Overton.”

  “Then it is you who sent me a telegram. My name is Lord Mount-James. I came round as quickly as the Bayswater ’bus would bring me. So you have instructed a detective?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And are you prepared to meet the cost?”

  “I have no doubt, sir, that my friend Godfrey, when we find him, will be prepared to do that.”

  “But if he is never found, eh? Answer me that!”

  “In that case no doubt his family—”

  “Nothing of the sort, sir!” screamed the little man. “Don’t look to me for a penny—not a penny! You understand that, Mr. Detective! I am all the family that this young man has got, and I tell you that I am not responsible. If he has any expectations it is due to the fact that I have never wasted money, and I do not propose to begin to do so now. As to those papers with which you are making so free, I may tell you that in case there should be anything of any value among them you will be held strictly to account for what you do with them.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Sherlock Holmes. “May I ask in the meanwhile whether you have yourself any theory to account for this young man’s disappearance?”

  “No, sir, I have not. He is big enough and old enough to look after himself, and if he is so foolish as to lose himself I entirely refuse to accept the responsibility of hunting for him.”

  “I quite understand your position,” said Holmes, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Perhaps you don’t quite understand mine. Godfrey Staunton appears to have been a poor man. If he has been kidnapped it could not have been for anything which he himself possesses. The fame of your wealth has gone abroad, Lord Mount-James, and it is entirely possible that a gang of thieves have secured your nephew in order to gain from him some information as to your house, your habits, and your treasure.”

  The face of our unpleasant little visitor turned as white as his neckcloth.

  “Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of such villainy! What inhuman rogues there are in the world! But Godfrey is a fine lad—a staunch lad. Nothing would induce him to give his old uncle away. I’ll have the plate moved over to the bank this evening. In the meantime spare no pains, Mr. Detective! I beg you to leave no stone unturned to bring him safely back. As to money, well, so far as a fiver, or even a tenner, goes, you can always look to me.”

  Even in his chastened frame of mind the noble miser could give us no information which could help us, for he knew little of the private life of his nephew. Our only clue lay in the truncated telegram, and with a copy of this in his hand Holmes set forth to find a second link for his chain. We had shaken off Lord Mount-James, and Overton had gone to consult with the other members of his team over the misfortune which had befallen them.

  There was a telegraph-office at a short distance from the hotel. We halted outside it.

  “It’s worth trying, Watson,” said Holmes. “Of course, with
a warrant we could demand to see the counterfoils, but we have not reached that stage yet. I don’t suppose they remember faces in so busy a place. Let us venture it.”

  “I am sorry to trouble you,” said he, in his blandest manner, to the young woman behind the grating; “there is some small mistake about a telegram I sent yesterday. I have had no answer, and I very much fear that I must have omitted to put my name at the end. Could you tell me if this was so?”

  The young woman turned over a sheaf of counterfoils.

  “What o’clock was it?” she asked.

  “A little after six.”

  “Whom was it to?”

  Holmes put his finger to his lips and glanced at me. “The last words in it were ‘for God’s sake,’” he whispered, confidentially; “I am very anxious at getting no answer.”

  The young woman separated one of the forms.

  “This is it. There is no name,” said she, smoothing it out upon the counter.

  “Then that, of course, accounts for my getting no answer,” said Holmes. “Dear me, how very stupid of me, to be sure! Good morning, miss, and many thanks for having relieved my mind.” He chuckled and rubbed his hands when we found ourselves in the street once more.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “We progress, my dear Watson, we progress. I had seven different schemes for getting a glimpse of that telegram, but I could hardly hope to succeed the very first time.”

  “And what have you gained?”

  “A starting-point for our investigation.” He hailed a cab. “King’s Cross Station,” said he.

  “We have a journey, then?”

  “Yes; I think we must run down to Cambridge together. All the indications seem to me to point in that direction.”

  “Tell me,” I asked, as we rattled up Gray’s Inn Road, “have you any suspicion yet as to the cause of the disappearance? I don’t think that among all our cases I have known one where the motives are more obscure. Surely you don’t really imagine that he may be kidnapped in order to give information against his wealthy uncle?”

  “I confess, my dear Watson, that that does not appeal to me as a very probable explanation. It struck me, however, as being the one which was most likely to interest that exceedingly unpleasant old person.”

  “It certainly did that. But what are your alternatives?”

  “I could mention several. You must admit that it is curious and suggestive that this incident should occur on the eve of this important match, and should involve the only man whose presence seems essential to the success of the side. It may, of course, be coincidence, but it is interesting. Amateur sport is free from betting, but a good deal of outside betting goes on among the public, and it is possible that it might be worth someone’s while to get at a player as the ruffians of the turf get at a race-horse. There is one explanation. A second very obvious one is that this young man really is the heir of a great property, however modest his means may at present be, and it is not impossible that a plot to hold him for ransom might be concocted.”

  “These theories take no account of the telegram.”

  “Quite true, Watson. The telegram still remains the only solid thing with which we have to deal, and we must not permit our attention to wander away from it. It is to gain light upon the purpose of this telegram that we are now upon our way to Cambridge. The path of our investigation is at present obscure, but I shall be very much surprised if before evening we have not cleared it up or made a considerable advance along it.”

  It was already dark when we reached the old University city. Holmes took a cab at the station, and ordered the man to drive to the house of Dr. Leslie Armstrong. A few minutes later we had stopped at a large mansion in the busiest thoroughfare. We were shown in, and after a long wait were at last admitted into the consulting-room, where we found the doctor seated behind his table.

  It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my profession that the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me. Now I am aware that he is not only one of the heads of the medical school of the University, but a thinker of European reputation in more than one branch of science. Yet even without knowing his brilliant record one could not fail to be impressed by a mere glance at the man, the square, massive face, the brooding eyes under the thatched brows, and the granite moulding of the inflexible jaw. A man of deep character, a man with an alert mind, grim, ascetic, self-contained, formidable—so I read Dr. Leslie Armstrong. He held my friend’s card in his hand, and he looked up with no very pleased expression upon his dour features.

  “I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am aware of your profession, one of which I by no means approve.”

  “In that, doctor, you will find yourself in agreement with every criminal in the country,” said my friend, quietly.

  “So far as your efforts are directed towards the suppression of crime, sir, they must have the support of every reasonable member of the community, though I cannot doubt that the official machinery is amply sufficient for the purpose. Where your calling is more open to criticism is when you pry into the secrets of private individuals, when you rake up family matters which are better hidden, and when you incidentally waste the time of men who are more busy than yourself. At the present moment, for example, I should be writing a treatise instead of conversing with you.”

  “No doubt, doctor; and yet the conversation may prove more important than the treatise. Incidentally I may tell you that we are doing the reverse of what you very justly blame, and that we are endeavouring to prevent anything like public exposure of private matters which must necessarily follow when once the case is fairly in the hands of the official police. You may look upon me simply as an irregular pioneer who goes in front of the regular forces of the country. I have come to ask you about Mr. Godfrey Staunton.”

  “What about him?”

  “You know him, do you not?”

  “He is an intimate friend of mine.”

  “You are aware that he has disappeared?”

  “Ah, indeed!” There was no change of expression in the rugged features of the doctor.

  “He left his hotel last night. He has not been heard of.”

  “No doubt he will return.”

  “Tomorrow is the ’Varsity football match.”

  “I have no sympathy with these childish games. The young man’s fate interests me deeply, since I know him and like him. The football match does not come within my horizon at all.”

  “I claim your sympathy, then, in my investigation of Mr. Staunton’s fate. Do you know where he is?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “You have not seen him since yesterday?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “Was Mr. Staunton a healthy man?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Did you ever know him ill?”

  “Never.”

  Holmes popped a sheet of paper before the doctor’s eyes. “Then perhaps you will explain this receipted bill for thirteen guineas, paid by Mr. Godfrey Staunton last month to Dr. Leslie Armstrong of Cambridge. I picked it out from among the papers upon his desk.”

  The doctor flushed with anger.

  “I do not feel that there is any reason why I should render an explanation to you, Mr. Holmes.”

  Holmes replaced the bill in his note-book. “If you prefer a public explanation it must come sooner or later,” said he. “I have already told you that I can hush up that which others will be bound to publish, and you would really be wiser to take me into your complete confidence.”

  “I know nothing about it.”

  “Did you hear from Mr. Staunton in London?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Dear me, dear me; the post-office again!” Holmes sighed, wearily. “A most urgent telegram was dispatched to you from London by Godfrey Staunton at six-fifteen yesterday evening—a telegram which is undoubtedly associated with his disappearance—and yet you have not had it. It is most culpable. I shall certainly go down to the office here and
register a complaint.”

  Dr. Leslie Armstrong sprang up from behind his desk, and his dark face was crimson with fury.

  “I’ll trouble you to walk out of my house, sir,” said he. “You can tell your employer, Lord Mount-James, that I do not wish to have anything to do either with him or with his agents. No, sir, not another word!” He rang the bell furiously. “John, show these gentlemen out.” A pompous butler ushered us severely to the door, and we found ourselves in the street. Holmes burst out laughing.

  “Dr. Leslie Armstrong is certainly a man of energy and character,” said he. “I have not seen a man who, if he turned his talents that way, was more calculated to fill the gap left by the illustrious Moriarty. And now, my poor Watson, here we are, stranded and friendless in this inhospitable town, which we cannot leave without abandoning our case. This little inn just opposite Armstrong’s house is singularly adapted to our needs. If you would engage a front room and purchase the necessaries for the night, I may have time to make a few inquiries.”

  These few inquiries proved, however, to be a more lengthy proceeding than Holmes had imagined, for he did not return to the inn until nearly nine o’clock. He was pale and dejected, stained with dust, and exhausted with hunger and fatigue. A cold supper was ready upon the table, and when his needs were satisfied and his pipe alight he was ready to take that half comic and wholly philosophic view which was natural to him when his affairs were going awry. The sound of carriage wheels caused him to rise and glance out of the window. A brougham and pair of greys under the glare of a gas-lamp stood before the doctor’s door.

  “It’s been out three hours,” said Holmes; “started at half-past six, and here it is back again. That gives a radius of ten or twelve miles, and he does it once, or sometimes twice, a day.”