Fisher put his tea-cup down.
“Perhaps. Riley was then summoned back. He was again given pen and paper and told to write half-a-dozen times, ‘Parson Jones adored the unselfishness of his son Luke.’”
“In which sentence,” said Holmes delightedly, “there lie concealed all the letter combinations of ‘John L. Porson.’ Mr Winter’s knowledge of calligraphy and interrogation is not the most subtle but I daresay effective in its way. Clever enough to outwit a confused and anxious fourteen-year-old.”
“More effective and more clever than you may suppose, Mr Holmes. The calligraphy, as you call it, was at once passed by the Admiralty to Mr Thomas Gurrin at the Home Office. Within two days, he gave his opinion that the signature upon the postal order and the specimen writing done in the headmaster’s study were by the same hand. That is to say, two different scripts by one hand. Mr Gurrin is an expert.”
“Whose evidence ensured that Adolf Beck went to penal servitude for seven years in 1896 for a crime we now know he could not have committed.”
Mycroft Holmes had been uncharacteristically silent during all this. He reached for another muffin and said, “Unfortunately, dear brother, the fact that Tom Gurrin was wrong in that case alone does not mean that he cannot be right in any other. I fear your defence will be built upon sand. And what of the identification parade, Sir John?”
“A dozen boys or so from Riley’s mess were paraded in the waiting room. They included all the Engineers and several Executive Cadets. Riley was allowed to remove his glasses. Miss Henslowe again complained that the cadets looked alike to her. She could not be sure. She looked into each face and studied each physique. In the end, she said that if it was any of them, it was the boy we now know to be Riley. Indeed, with glasses on it would probably be him. It was certainly none of the others.”
“And what was the outcome?” I asked.
Sir John shook his head.
“In the first place, doctor, Mr Winter quite properly communicated his findings to the seven school governors, two of whom are retired naval officers. Under the agreement by which St Vincent’s is licenced by the Admiralty, he also forwarded those findings to us. Having examined the boy face-to-face, he considered Riley was guilty of the theft. He had previously noted what he called certain defects of character in this cadet.”
“That last remark is a grotesque distortion of the evidential process!” Holmes snapped.
Fisher held up his hand.
“Mr Winter assured us that he mentioned it only to confirm that he had made allowance for this so that there should be no prejudice on that account during questioning.”
Holmes emitted a gasping guffaw of exasperation.
“The oldest trick in a barrister’s brief! The name of it in Cicero’s time was ‘mitto,’ I believe. You list every moral failing under the sun—fixing them well in the minds of your hearers—and then promise not to prejudice the accused by introducing them into evidence against him. His chances are nil.”
Sir John looked grim for the first time that afternoon.
“You fail to appreciate that a headmaster’s study is not a court of law!”
“And yet he seems to have behaved as though it were!”
Fisher relented at this and said unhappily, “In the circumstances, for the sake of the boy as well as the school, Mr Winter recommended that the mother should be asked to remove him. A few days later, Mr Gurrin’s opinion on the handwriting seemed to vindicate his decision.”
“Why the boy’s mother?” I asked before Holmes could get in again.
“It is an unfortunate case, doctor. That is why I am here. There is no father. Mrs Riley is a widow and lives in Dublin. I know little more than that. My impression is of a bright boy with very little money behind him. He has not been in trouble before. I should guess that his family has scraped everything together to pay his way through St Vincent’s in the hope of an Admiral’s Nomination for Dartmouth or Osborne. He seems to have the mental ability.”
“Meaning what?” Holmes asked suspiciously.
Sir John took a long breath.
“When they take their exams at fourteen or sixteen for the senior Royal Naval Academies, there is usually one Nomination for each school. It is rather the same as a scholarship to a college at Oxford or Cambridge. It pays the fees, of course, but there is also a good deal of prestige and it will carry a young man a fair way in his career. Of course, the admirals do not know all the boys personally and the headmaster’s advice carries great weight. Even if the present accusation proves no more than suspicion, Riley is no longer a likely candidate for such preferment. Unfortunately, he will always be known as the boy who stole the postal order, unless the contrary can be proved. I have come to you, Mr Holmes, because you are the one man I know who may be able to prove him innocent rather than not guilty.”
At last the two friends were on common ground, to my very great relief.
“And where is he now?” Holmes demanded.
“He was suspended as soon as the charge was brought, and kept apart from the other boys in the school sanatorium. Once his punishment is confirmed, arrangements will be made to return him home.”
“We must lose no time.”
“You had better hear the rest, Mr Holmes.” Fisher looked as if he did not quite know how to continue. However, he resumed.
“Riley has been quarantined in the sanatorium, but, of course, he could hardly be kept a prisoner there. Last Sunday he slipped out on his own. The boys are permitted to walk in the surrounding countryside on Sunday afternoons between lunch and tea. No one seems to have thought of forbidding him to do so.”
Our friend looked more uncomfortable than I had ever known him. Even Mycroft Holmes was studying his own toecaps. I felt that some catastrophe was about to be announced.
“Last Sunday afternoon,” Sir John continued, “it seems that Patrick Riley tried to kill himself by running towards the railway line beyond the school field and throwing himself in the path of a train that was just coming out of Bradstone St Lawrence tunnel. I think that says everything.”
Sherlock Holmes’s attitude and manner changed at once. His dark eyes glittered as he said quietly, “I think you had better give us the details, Sir John.”
“Very well. As I understand it, Riley ran across a field adjoining the school grounds. It is sometimes called the School Field and is commonly used by the boys on their Sunday walks. There were still several of them around, walking back to the main building for tea. At the far side, where the railway line runs on an embankment, there is hardly a fence at all, merely a strand or two of wire between a row of posts. Anyone of moderate agility could scramble up to the track and the linesman’s hut in a few seconds. A train had just emerged from Bradstone St Lawrence tunnel, when the boy stepped out from behind the hut and stood directly in the path of the locomotive. He showed no intention of moving.”
“How far distant is the hut from the tunnel?”
“Two or three hundreds yards, I believe. That would not have saved him. However, by the grace of God, the young fireman in the engine cab had seen him running just before he reached dead ground below the line and was lost to view for a moment. Perhaps sensing something was wrong, the fireman shouted a warning to the driver. In a split second more, Riley appeared from behind the hut. The driver threw the brakes on even as the boy came into view. Riley stood there, staring at the train which was slowing to a crawl. But for the fireman, he would have been hit. As it was, he saw the train losing speed and knew that he would more probably be injured or maimed than killed. Thereupon he ran down the far side. Afterwards he turned back and was identified by several witnesses, crossing the field towards the school.”
There was a pause while Holmes gave the matter some thought. Fisher added, unnecessarily as it seemed to me, “Had this attempt succeeded, a sordid schoolboy misdemeanour would have become a newspaper scandal. I understand that the field, which lies beyond the school’s sports pitches, has been put strictly ou
t of bounds to all boys since the incident.”
Holmes murmured approvingly and then asked, “No doubt this so-called suicide attempt was taken at St Vincent’s as confirmation of his guilt as a thief?”
“In the eyes of the world it will be taken as such,” said Fisher coldly, “How can it not be?”
“And has he some right of appeal against Mr Winter’s decision over the curious business of the postal order?”
Sir John put down his cup again.
“My dear Holmes! Nothing has so far been decided, given the boy’s obvious distress of mind and the probable need for legal advice on his mother’s side. He remains in the school sanatorium, but now he is there as a patient rather than a detainee. He will not, of course, be permitted to wander off again.”
Holmes stood up, removed the silver cover and handed round the plate of muffins.
“Sir John, let me be clear. Have you come to persuade me that I should act on the boy’s behalf—presumably not on the headmaster’s behalf—or as a servant of their lordships of the Admiralty?”
“From what I have told you, Mr Holmes, I would have you investigate and see if you can find the truth. Whatever help I can give you, I will. Now of all times, we cannot afford a public scandal involving the Admiralty. Thanks to St Vincent’s, that is what we are threatened with. To use a lawyer’s phrase, I suppose I am empowered to retain you.”
In my friend’s eye, there was the glint of the war-horse sighting or scenting battle. He replaced the muffin-dish and sat down.
“Very well, Sir John. Then perhaps this is the moment when I should have sight of the postal order with its contentious signature. I have no doubt you are carrying it in that black attaché case of yours.”
Admiral Fisher said nothing, but he sprang the two locks of the case and drew out a folder containing a single sheet of paper with a form pinned to it. He handed this to Holmes, who glanced over it with his pocket lens.
While Mycroft Holmes and Fisher looked on, my friend held the postal order at one angle and then another, allowing light and shade to play upon it. Finally, he drew out his silver propelling-pencil and made two or three cryptic notes on the white starched cuff of his shirt.
“You will, of course, wish to retain it for a thorough examination,” said Fisher encouragingly.
Holmes looked up as he handed it back.
“You are too kind. However, I believe I have seen all that is necessary to bring the case to a successful conclusion.”
Mycroft Holmes scowled at his sibling.
“You are quite certain, dear brother?”
“When I am certain, Mycroft, I am always quite certain. Now then, if you will allow me full discretion in the matter, I think I shall begin with the so-called attempted suicide.”
“Rather than the theft with which the boy is charged?” Fisher asked uneasily.
“I believe so.”
“But as yet you know nothing of the boy and little of the incident on the railway line.”
“Indeed not. That is precisely my point. I must know. I shall remedy my ignorance at the earliest possible moment. I do not know the boy, of course, but I know a little about self destruction. I have yet to hear any argument from you that would convince me of an attempt at suicide. However, I cannot help reflecting that Patrick Riley’s disappearance from this earth would have the convenient effect at St Vincent’s of confirming the charge against him with no likelihood that anyone else could prove otherwise.” He sat back with his cup of tea in one hand, a muffin in the other, and smiled.
Sir John blinked and said, “Mr Holmes, you are to investigate the evidence of theft, if you please, not theories of suicide. This is not one of your murder mysteries.”
“You would be surprised to know, Sir John, how many inquiries of a quite different kind have turned into one of my murder mysteries, as you are kind enough to call them. As for Patrick Riley, it is of the greatest importance that he should remain where he is until Watson and I have had a chance to examine him. Indeed, you may tell the school that my colleague has been retained by their lordships or the boy’s family as a medical consultant. However it is done, I beg that you will use your best efforts to keep him where he is until we can get there.”
“And of the utmost importance that we should have the opportunity to examine St Vincent’s itself,” I said quickly.
“Well done, Watson! You see, gentlemen? Watson is ahead of you there!”
“And when do you suggest your examinations will begin?” Mycroft Holmes inquired sceptically.
Sherlock Holmes got up from his chair and walked across to the door of the room. Beside it, on the wall, hung a handsome wheel-barometer of polished walnut. It was inherited from his parents and made by an English craftsman a hundred years ago. He tapped the glass and watched the delicate metal hand move slowly round the dial in a clockwise direction. Its prediction settled midway between “fair” and “set fair.”
“I had almost thought we should have to leave this afternoon,” he said, “At present, however, the glass is rising and I think tomorrow promises to be excellent ‘detective weather.’ It is of some importance that it should not rain before we have a chance to go over the ground. We shall entrust ourselves to an early train from Waterloo station to Portsmouth Harbour. The steamer crossings to the Isle of Wight are frequent. If we reach Ryde Pier by noon we shall take the local train to—Ventnor, I suppose?”
Sir John Fisher inclined his head. “Ventnor indeed.”
“If my geography of the island is correct, a cab will then take us westwards to Bradstone St Lawrence and St Vincent’s. I suppose we should arrive by two-thirty or three o’clock. I take it the bird will not have flown by then and that the venerable Mr Winter will be available?”
“I may guarantee it,” said Sir John enthusiastically. His good-natured features began to work into a smile of grateful acceptance. “I shall authorise the commissary office to book rooms for you both at the King Charles Hotel in Bradstone St Lawrence.”
Sherlock Holmes stooped over the tea-table, and lifted the cover of the muffin-dish. He inspected the contents and then held it out to our Admiral of the Fleet.
“Pray take another, Sir John, before my brother Mycroft has the chance to eat them all.”
“The Case of the Greek Key” in The Execution of Sherlock Holmes, Pegasus Books, New York, 2007; “The Case of the Zimmermann Telegram” in Sherlock Holmes and the King’s Evil, Pegasus Books, New York, 2009.
2
Shortly before noon on the following day we stepped out of a green South-Coast Railway carriage on to the platform of Portsmouth Harbour station. A stiff channel breeze was blowing and a red-funnelled paddle-steamer was waiting at the jetty. An hour later we were in an island railway carriage for the coastal journey to Ventnor. I had never seen the south-east coast of the Isle of Wight and was much taken by the little resort with its coastguard station and sheltered cove. Holmes, who seldom forgot anything that he read, assured me that Dr Thomas Arnold compared it for beauty to a resort on the Bay of Genoa. Mediterranean, Alpine and herbal flowers occupied the crevices of the rocks.
Behind the line of the shore rose a green hill that becomes St Boniface Down. Gentility was everywhere in the villas, rising in crescents, row upon row, like the boxes at a theatre with the sea as their stage. The elegant terraces of Clifton or Cheltenham might have been snatched up and set down again in this quiet resort. Thanks to Fisher’s efficiency, a cab was waiting for us at the station. We followed the shore westwards, until the road levelled out among gabled houses, set back in their own gardens. Beyond the town, we passed at length through the small village of Bradstone St Lawrence. Ahead of us through a screen of trees rose the outlines of several buildings in red-brick gothic. One of them boasted a short spire and a stained-glass chapel window.
Such was St Vincent’s Naval Academy, named in honour of John Jervis, victor of the battle of Cape St Vincent against the Spanish fleet in 1797. I recalled from my school lessons that h
is ferocity in the face of the enemy was equalled only by the grim acts of retribution by which he kept order among his men.
Our cab set us down in a gravelled yard, from which an archway led to a portico, double doors and porter’s lodge. We followed the route to the “Headmaster’s Corridor” on which Mr Winter’s study was located. A single Persian runner lay the length of it with black varnish either side. Beyond a tall bookcase, several beechwood chairs with horsehair seats accommodated those summoned to his presence. The walls were hung on either side with long photographs of past intakes and shorter ones of Cricket XI or Rugby XV teams, and regatta crews. In a final alcove rose a hall-stand with a central mirror, hooks on either side for hats and coats, a drawer for gloves, a well on each side for umbrellas or walking-sticks and a rack at floor-level for boots and shoes. Holmes paused to remove his deer-stalker and hang it on a convenient hook.
Winter was a somewhat younger man than Sir John Fisher had led me to expect but still closer to fifty than forty. A curiosity was that his expression, even under strong emotion, appeared to alter very little. His head, almost entirely bald, shone for all the world as if he polished it.
Reginald Winter shook us strongly by the hand, indicated two chairs, but himself remained standing before his fireplace. How much does a room tell one of its tenant? Pride of place at the centre of the mantelpiece was held by the most exquisite model of HMS Warrior, Britain’s first ironclad battleship, easily recognised by her black hull and stumpy yellow funnels. To one side stood an old-fashioned pipe-rack with a row of half-a-dozen briar-root pipes, a tobacco jar and a soft leather pouch. A new briar remained in its unopened box, bearing the familiar advertising scroll “Thinking Men Smoke Petersen Pipes.” Mr Winter plainly saw himself as a “thinking man.”
At the other end of the shelf, I noticed a business card advertising “William Fortescue, Army, Navy, And General Outfitter, Royal Opera Arcade, Pall Mall. Price Lists and Instructions for Self-Measurement Sent on Application.” The effect of Mr Winter was to make me wonder how much commission our host received for each garment bought by the parents from Mr Fortescue.
Sherlock Holmes and the Ghosts of Bly Page 2