Holmes next opened each drawer in the desk. Every one had its contents arranged in the most orderly fashion, as if it were part of a Chinese puzzle, with everything fitted perfectly in its place. All, that is, but the last drawer. This one was crammed with papers and ink bottles and ledgers, as though they had been tipped in carelessly. Even as I tried to grasp the significance, Crain returned.
“The keys are not there, Mr Holmes. I have searched Father’s room. I only hope the undertaker has not… What is this? Who has done this?” Crain looked accusingly at us.
“We found it this way, Crain,” I said. “I take it this is not normal?”
“It most certainly is not! Father was the most fastidious man I knew. Look around you!”
“That much is clear,” Holmes said. “No man who ordered his work so painstakingly would keep a messy desk. There is a lock on this drawer—why is it not locked?”
“It should be,” Crain said. “The key is on Father’s bunch.”
Holmes began taking the contents out of the drawer, arranging them neatly on the desk. He stopped only when he removed two folded parchments, bearing illuminated mastheads that read “Last Will & Testament”.
“Both blank,” Holmes said. “Was your father truly planning to change his will?”
The door to the study creaked open, and a thin voice said, “He had considered it.” We looked up to see Cavendish, approaching timidly, wringing his wrinkled hands before him.
“Mr Cavendish, how good of you to save us the trouble of coming to find you,” said Holmes.
“Yes, well, I was just passing, you see, and I… well. Yes.” Cavendish swayed just a fraction; I fancied he had already taken a tipple or two this afternoon.
“You supplied these forms to the late Lord Berkeley?” Holmes asked, holding up the blank wills.
“I did. At his request, I should add.”
“When?”
“On Sunday, before dinner. He wrote to my office a few days earlier, stating that he was considering making a codicil to his will, and he would like me to bring some forms along. I… I rather think that’s why he invited me. I don’t pretend to be on close personal terms with the Crain family.” Cavendish looked in embarrassment to Crain, and then back to Holmes.
“How many forms did you provide for Lord Berkeley, Mr Cavendish?” Holmes went on.
“Three, sir.”
“There are only two here.”
Cavendish shrugged. “Perhaps he used one.”
“We should make a thorough search of the office to be sure,” Holmes said, then paused. “Mr Cavendish, did anyone else know you were supplying these forms? Or of Lord Berkeley’s intent to create a codicil?”
Cavendish mumbled something indistinct, and looked to his feet.
“Speak up, man,” Holmes prompted.
“The Reverend Parkin,” Cavendish said, loudly, looking terribly guilty as he said it.
“You discussed this matter with the vicar?” Crain spluttered.
“No, my lord! When I left this room, I bumped into the vicar. He said he was just passing, but I had the oddest feeling he’d been eavesdropping. Then later… although my memory is indistinct, you understand…”
“That is why you were arguing in the library,” I said.
“You saw? Oh, yes, of course you did. I had forgotten you were there.”
“Not to be indelicate, Mr Cavendish,” said I, “but you were rather the worse for drink. I led the vicar away and left you to sleep it off.”
“And I appreciate it, Doctor. To my great shame, I remember very little from last night. But I do remember the vicar asking me to witness and sign some letter to the archdeacon. I honestly cannot recall the exact contents, but it seemed important to him, and so I signed his letter and was about to settle back to my nap, when the vicar’s tone became a little… how shall I put it? Forceful. He became most insistent about knowing the contents of Lord Berkeley’s will, and his intentions to change it. Parkin was consumed by the subject; he was most anxious to discover if the church was to receive an increased stipend. Something about a promise made quite recently.”
“Was there any indication why this promise was made?” asked Holmes. “Think carefully; it may be important.”
“I… yes. Well, it’s rather delicate, I suppose. But the vicar was worried about the dwindling numbers at church. What with the state of St Mary’s, and the rising fortunes of Madame Farr, Parkin thought Lord Beving—I mean, the new Lord Berkeley, so sorry—would, um…”
“Go on.”
“Would squander the family fortune on… and these are his words… ‘charlatanry and devil worship’.”
“Good heavens,” said I.
“Thank you, Mr Cavendish,” Holmes said. “You have been most helpful. Lord Berkeley, did you notice this morning if the vicar had a bag with him?”
“No, he didn’t,” Crain said, with a distracted air. “I thought he would have returned by now; his things must still be in his room.”
“And would you object if we examined his room?”
“No, I would not object at all.”
Thus we went next to the vicar’s room. I saw at once why he had been so eager to claim it as his own, for it had perhaps the prettiest aspect of all the rooms I had seen so far, with a broad bay window overlooking many acres of forests, fields and hills. It was light and airy, compared to the rather fussy and dark décor of my own quarters, although the bed was small and the furnishings sparse.
Holmes noted that the small table near the bed was arranged with ink, pen and blotter.
“Not violet,” Holmes said of the ink. “The vicar favours a sepia blend. The blotter is interesting.” He held the page up to the light. “There is little to go on, save the uniform arrangement of blotches. This is suggestive of a repeated pattern, as of someone practising a particular flourish, like the handwriting samplers at school.”
He turned now to the rest of the room. The vicar’s clothes were folded neatly on the bed, which had been made, and beside which was his brown leather bag, open. Holmes looked to Crain before searching the bag, and Crain nodded assent. Holmes dug around inside, and soon withdrew a slip of paper. It was a note, composed of what looked like newspaper clippings. Holmes read it aloud:
SIR
I HAVE INFORMATION OF GREAT IMPORT TO OUR MUTUAL GAIN. THE CHURCH WILL RECEIVE NOTHING FROM HIS WILL UNLESS YOU ACT. MEET ME IN THE ORCHARD AT SEVEN. COME ALONE.
A FRIEND
“Who do you suppose it is from, Holmes?” I asked.
“Let us see what clues can be gleaned from the composition of the note. Each word has been carefully clipped from a newspaper with a small pair of scissors. Some of the words have been pasted together from several sources. Some of them are taken very obviously from the Financial News. Look here—‘mutual gain’ is a single piece. Page two of the Financial News on Thursday last contained an item on the stock market gains of the South Africa Mutual. If I recall correctly, the headline was the clumsily worded ‘South Africa Mutual gains exceed expectation’. The bulk of the words come from The Times—you recall we saw a note very much like this in the Baskerville case.”
“I remember it all too well,” said I, with a shudder.
“There are some words whose type is a mystery to me. ‘Orchard’, for instance. One might expect such a word to be more common in a local paper, particularly in a rural community such as this. This blend of recent London newspaper and local might point us towards the person who constructed the note.
“Lord Berkeley, does anyone in the household read the Financial News?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Father might do—have done.”
“But there were no newspapers in his study.”
“Nor in his room, that I noticed, when I went for the key.”
“Very good.” Holmes took a last look at the note. “One more thing springs out. The vicar is not specifically named. One might first wonder if he was indeed the intended recipient, or if he merely came by
this note some other way. However, observe that Lord Berkeley is also not mentioned by name. Now we can deduce that matching up clippings to form names proved too difficult in the time available. Therefore this note was pieced together hurriedly.”
“Why?” I asked. “What could have been so important?”
“If we knew the answer to that, Watson, we would likely solve the whole case. The note has about it a sense of urgency. I would posit that the vicar received it shortly before dinner last night, which was why he was late. But did the vicar really meet someone in the orchard? Or was this note contrived to get him out of the house? Perhaps that is the answer…”
“What do you mean?”
“The vicar drove himself to the house, you said. And he left on foot… I would like to see his conveyance.”
“I don’t follow, Mr Holmes,” Crain said, frowning hard, as though merely speaking were a struggle. “The note requests the vicar’s presence in the orchard. The coach-house cannot be seen from the orchard.”
“Precisely, Lord Berkeley,” Holmes smiled.
He turned about and strode from the room. I followed at once, with Crain lagging behind. When we reached the hall, Holmes seized on the butler.
“My good man! What newspapers are delivered to this house?”
“We take The Times and the Abingdon Herald daily, sir; the Ascot Weekly Journal each Wednesday, and the Pall Mall Gazette each Friday, so Lord Berkeley can keep abreast of London affairs.”
“And there are no other London papers? The Financial News?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you have the Pall Mall Gazette to hand, by any chance?”
Eglinton went to the rack near the door and searched through several days’ worth of papers. He came back, shaking his head. “No, sir, Lord Berkeley must have taken it to his study.”
“It is not there,” Holmes said. “If you happen to find it, I should like to know.”
Eglinton looked somewhat confused, but agreed that he would tell Holmes as soon as the newspaper turned up. With that, we went out to the coach-house and stable block.
* * *
By the time we reached the coach-house, I was deeply concerned about Crain’s state of mind. He twitched constantly, and seemed incapable of staying still for more than a few seconds. He looked about himself with a frightened expression, as though he expected to see some assailant leap out at him at any moment. The after-effects of whatever drug he had been taking recently, combined with his grief, were exerting a heavy toll.
We summoned the groom, Benson, to show us the vicar’s fly. The man brought a lamp up, for it was now quite dark.
“Benson,” Crain said, “this gentleman is going to ask you some questions. Answer him as best you can.”
Benson nodded.
“This fly has not been moved all day?” Holmes asked of the groom.
“No, sir. It’s not been moved since yesterday, to the best o’ my knowledge.”
“You mean, when the vicar arrived?”
“No, sir, yesterday evenin’, before dinner. I wasn’t expectin’ any more work that night, so’s I was surprised when I heard a carriage leavin’.”
“And was it the vicar?”
“Who else, sir?”
“Who indeed?” Holmes said. “I take it the vicar’s horse was gone also.”
“Why, who else’s?” the man asked, wearing a puzzled expression.
“And at what time did the vicar return?”
“Well, that’s a funny thing. I ’eard a carriage pulling up… oo, must be shortly ’afore seven. Well, I was in the middle o’ my tea, wasn’t I? Been interrupted once already, and a man’s got to eat. So I pulls on me boots and comes running out, only to see the vicar on the other side o’ the courtyard, cutting through the gardens.”
“Heading into the house, or away from it?”
“Into it, o’course, sir. He was late for his dinner, wasn’t he? I know ’ow he felt…”
“And where were you stationed, my good man?” Holmes asked.
The groom pointed to a collection of sheds and outbuildings, about a hundred yards away across the courtyard.
“And you say the vicar came from the gardens, behind you? So he would have walked around to the front of the house from the east side?”
“Aye.”
“He got there awfully quickly, don’t you think?”
“Well… I s’pose he did, sir, yes. And him a real neck-or-nothing sort of nag. Like I say, must have been in an awful hurry for his dinner.”
“And here we are, keeping you from your meal, I expect,” Holmes said.
The man gave us a look suggesting that Holmes was correct.
“You mentioned you had been disturbed once already last night,” Holmes said. “By a house-guest?”
Benson only nodded.
“Mr Langton?”
He nodded again, clearly reluctant to speak of it.
“Answer the man,” Crain snapped.
“Yessir,” Benson mumbled. “Mr Langton came out for a little chat about the horses. Keen on the races, he is.”
“Very well,” Holmes said. “I need nothing more for now, Benson. That will be all.”
The man sidled off, and once he was out of sight I turned to Crain, who had begun swaying, and muttering to himself.
“Crain, are you quite all right?” I asked.
“N… no, Watson, I’m not. Mr Holmes, what does all this mean? Are you saying… are you saying that the vicar had something to do with my father’s death?”
“I would suggest no such thing, Lord Berkeley,” Holmes replied. “There is something strange afoot, and the vicar is involved, but beyond that I cannot say.”
“He was late for dinner last night. Where could he have been?”
“That I cannot say. But if he was preparing for any misdeeds, my lord, why would he not have prepared everything in advance? Why leave at all?”
“To fetch poison?” Crain queried, his voice rising in pitch almost hysterically. “To fetch poison to kill my sister!”
“Do you really think him the type, Lord Berkeley?” Holmes said, calmly. “And from where would a simple vicar obtain this poison? We have not even established what, if any, substance was used on your poor sister. And I still maintain that your father died of a heart attack, brought on by shock.”
“The vicar knew about his weak heart,” Crain said, his voice now dripping with malice.
“Lord Berkeley, I believe I am very close to bringing our case to a successful close. I ask only for a little more patience.”
“Patience!” Crain blurted. For a moment he looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. His eyes were glazed over and bloodshot, underlined with red. His lips were cracked and dry. I guessed that the effect of whatever substance he had taken was wearing off.
“I say, Crain,” I said, trying to sound cheerful, “why don’t we go back to the house? I think I should take a look at you… it’s been a frightful shock.”
He pulled away from me angrily. “No,” he said. “I think I should like to be alone.”
“Lord Berkeley,” Holmes said, gently. “It is my view that none of us should be alone just now.”
“Hang your view, Mr Holmes! I have tolerated your intrusion, and extended you every courtesy, but any authority I have vested in you does not extend to me, in my own home. Now you keep to your business, and I shall keep to mine.”
“Very well, my lord, and I apologise wholeheartedly if I have caused offence. But still I must request that you remain here at Crain Manor, at least until our friend from Scotland Yard arrives.”
“Bah!” Crain growled petulantly, and with that, he stormed from the coach-house.
“His behaviour grows more erratic,” Holmes said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, but otherwise unrattled. “It is likely to deteriorate before it gets better.”
“You know?”
“I would guess that whatever he has taken has some kind of hallucinogenic side-effect. Not the
usual type of thing one might seek for peaceful oblivion, but some men cannot see sense when their craving calls.”
I thought that perhaps Holmes would know that as well as anyone, and perhaps sensing my disapproval he quickly changed the subject.
“These little mounds of white ash on the wall here,” he said. “Pipe ash. Bird’s eye, if I’m not mistaken.”
“That will be Langton,” I said. “Bird’s eye is his preference.”
“A first-rate observation, Watson. Some of these mounds are recent, others older, others still dispersed due to wind and rain. How frequently does he smoke?”
“As if the world’s supply of tobacco might soon be exhausted. He comes out here because it’s really too much to expose the ladies to.”
“There are rooms in which he could smoke.”
“I think he’s just being polite, Holmes.”
“One can think too much,” Holmes said. “I must ask Mr Langton just a few more questions, before you and I go in search of the Reverend Parkin.”
* * *
“I don’t know what you mean. I didn’t see anything,” Langton said, but he kept his voice hushed lest anyone overhear.
“You saw Simon yesterday afternoon—or perhaps Arthur—and it’s fair to say he didn’t see you, otherwise he’d have been a trifle more careful. A man making such frequent visits to a concealed spot must be privy to all manner of interesting observations. Think hard, Mr Langton, for we are dealing with a case of fraud and probable murder, in which every guest at this house is in some way implicated.”
Langton shifted uneasily at this suggestion. He looked about furtively, drew nearer to Holmes and said, almost in a whisper, “Perhaps I did see something, but if a word of this reaches my wife’s ears I shall have a bone to pick with you, Mr Holmes.”
“She will hear nothing from me unless it is pertinent to the crime, for justice cannot hinge on gentlemen’s agreements. Your wife would not approve of the reasons you were loitering in the servants’ area rather than the courtyard?”
Langton reddened. “You could say that, yes. Look, Mr Holmes, please keep this between us. I have made some rather poor investments recently, which has made rather a dent in my fortunes.”
Sherlock Holmes--The Red Tower Page 17