The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part IV
Page 40
“There, lying in a slumped posture, face down on his desk, his arms outstretched, was Alan Cameron. There was a broad red stain on the back of his jacket. It glistened in the gaslight. I could see that it was blood. The result of a series of terrible wounds. It was quite clear that the man was dead. What increased the horror of this scene was that standing by him was his wife, holding a vicious looking dagger in her hand which was covered in gouts of blood. She seemed frozen with shock. She did not move or say a thing as we entered the chamber, and her face registered no emotion whatsoever.”
The young man paused in his narrative to take a sip of brandy. I glanced over at Holmes and saw that his face was alive with interest and anticipation.
After a moment, our visitor resumed his narrative. “The doctor gently took hold of Mrs. Cameron and, relieving her of the knife, walked her from the room and administered a sedative. Meanwhile, I coped with Morag who, on realising that her father was dead, became hysterical. I did as best I could, but Mrs. Pavlow took her from the room to comfort her, leaving me with the dead body. I looked closely at it. Mr. Cameron had clearly been stabbed several times in the back. His position sitting at the desk suggested that he had no notion that he was about to be attacked. To be slaughtered.” Sinclair shivered at the recollection.
“The police were summoned, and a rather brusque Inspector called Crabtree from the Ayr constabulary took charge and promptly arrested Mrs. Cameron for murder. She was carted away, much to the extra distress of my darling Morag.”
“Presumably Mrs. Cameron protested her innocence,” said Holmes.
“Indeed she did.”
“How did she explain the fact that she was holding the murder weapon and standing by the dead body?”
“She said that she entered Mr. Cameron’s study and discovered her husband slumped forward on the desk. At first she didn’t see the knife protruding from his back. The room was dimly lighted. On approaching him, she realised the horror of the situation and instinctively grabbed the dagger, pulling it out of her husband’s back, and then she screamed. After this, she froze with the shock of it all.”
“Do you believe this story?”
“Well, yes. The alternative is too unpleasant to contemplate.”
“And yet, the man was murdered, and the culprit must be one of the people in the house at that time. And Mrs. Cameron was found with the body and holding the weapon. I can understand Inspector Crabtree’s motives in arresting her. But of course the official police always jump to the obvious conclusions.”
“It seems too fantastic that Mrs. Cameron should commit such a deed, Mr. Holmes. As far as I know, they were a happily married couple. I am desperate for this mystery to be solved, not so much for myself, but for my darling Morag. Someone else - I have no idea who - must have committed this deed.”
“A pretty little problem, eh, Watson?” said Holmes rising and taking his cherrywood pipe from the mantelpiece and stuffing it with tobacco.
“Either that, or no problem at all: the lady is guilty.”
“I cannot accept that,” cried Sinclair hotly. “I appeal to you, Mr. Holmes, come back with me to Tragere House and see what you can make of the matter.”
Holmes puffed meditatively on his pipe, his sharp lean features obscured by smoke for some moments. “It is a pretty little problem,” he repeated, “I grant you. What do you say, Watson, do you fancy taking in some lungfuls of bracing Scottish air?”
It was early the following evening that Holmes, Sinclair and I found ourselves travelling in a dogcart from Ayr Station to Tragere House. Holmes had spent most of the journey from London in profound silence. I knew this behaviour of old. I was aware that he was weighing up the evidence that had been provided by our client and considering the various possible scenarios which might lead him to a successful conclusion of the case.
He had discussed the matter with me briefly after Sinclair had left our rooms to find lodgings for the night. “The evidence is certainly damning,” he said. “If the lady is guilty, it is certainly the most extreme case of crime passionel I have encountered. If you mean to do away with your husband, you do not do it in the middle of a dinner party with a set of guests in attendance.”
I agreed. “However,” I added, “Sinclair did suggest that Mrs. Cameron was irritated with her husband, and this could have been the culmination of years of frustration - a sudden breakdown of reason.”
Holmes shook his head. “It would be a very strong form of irritation that could lead you to stab your husband many times in the back. No, I am sure that it is not as simple as that. Well, we do have the basic facts, but as yet these do not provide us with enough straw to make bricks. We shall have to wait until we get to Scotland and learn more.”
Although Sinclair did not comment on my friend’s apparent rudeness in his lack of communication during the train journey, it was clear from his behaviour that he was surprised and offended by it. As usual, it was left to me to indulge in trivial conversation with him as the train steamed us north. Luckily, after lunch in the dining car, our client fell into a quiet doze.
Sinclair had wired ahead that we were coming. Doctor Pavlow and his wife had remained at Tragere House in order to comfort and look after the distraught Morag while Sinclair had travelled to London to engage Holmes’s help. The dark veil of dusk had already settled itself on the countryside which was ablaze with autumn colours, and the wind was stiffening, causing us to wrap our coats tightly around us as the dogcart rattled along the country lanes and tracks. The Tragere estate was very large, and once we had passed the ancient gateway, it took us some ten minutes before the house itself loomed into view. It was a large, impressive, gothic style structure with fairy-tale turrets. A dull light shone through the heavily mullioned windows, and from the high chimneys there sprang a single black column of smoke.
A tall well-built man stepped from the shadows of the porch to greet us. This was Rogers the butler, who attended to our luggage and led us into the grand hallway.
“Rogers will show you to your quarters,” said Sinclair.
Holmes shook his head. “To begin with, I would like to see the room in which the murder took place.”
Alan Cameron’s study was a small oppressive chamber, panelled in dark wood. The walls were adorned with pictures of Highland scenes, and a stag’s head glowered at us above a small fireplace. The desk at which he had been sitting when he was assaulted was splattered with blood. The room was now cold and dank, and even when Rogers turned up the gas, it was gloomy. Holmes threw off his Ulster and, like an eager bloodhound, began patrolling the room, examining carefully each square inch of the surroundings. At one point, he dropped to the floor and crawled about, magnifying glass in hand, muttering quietly to himself. He even examined the wastepaper basket, extracting something that looked like a white cloth. This performance was by now a familiar one to me, but I could observe that Andrew Sinclair and Rogers the butler were both fascinated and amazed at my friend’s behaviour.
He spent a great deal of time examining the surface of the desk and the chair in which Cameron had been sitting. He retrieved a penknife from his coat pocket, and then he produced two small envelopes and commenced scraping portions of dried blood from different areas of the desk. After scrutinising them carefully for some moments under the magnifying glass, he placed the scrapings into the envelopes.
He then opened the two drawers of the desk and quickly rifled through the contents. One document in particular arrested his interest, and he spent some time studying it. Meanwhile, we watched in silence as though we were the audience entranced by some remarkable dumb show, baffled and fascinated by what we saw. Eventually, he stood before us, with a smile on his face. “There are some interesting indications here, but nothing yet to fully clear the mist that surrounds this crime,” he announced briskly. “However they do provide a basis for some further thought.”
“Look at the two samples of blood I retrieved,” he said, casually, as he adjusted his evening tie.
I did so, but saw nothing of obvious consequence and admitted as much.
“See,” said Holmes, “the scrapings from this envelope are quite clearly dried blood. How often have we seen such débris, eh, old friend?”
I nodded in agreement.
“However, the flakes from the second envelope are of a different consistency and darker hue. They are not blood at all.”
“Not blood...!” I exclaimed in amazement. “Then what are they?”
Holmes shrugged. “Without my chemical apparatus I cannot be sure. It is certainly a manufactured substance. I should guess cochineal.”
“Great heavens. What does this mean?”
My question prompted one of Sherlock Holmes’s enigmatic smiles. “All in good time,” he said.
I tried another approach. “What was that document that caught your attention?”
“Ah, that was Alan Cameron’s Last Will and Testament. Most illuminating.”
“In what way?”
Holmes pressed a finger to his lips. It was an alternative expression to, “All in good time.”
“You know my methods, Watson. It is foolish to reveal one’s developing theory until it has fully blossomed. This is a paradoxical case. On one level, the solution seems simple, but dealing with all the clues to make a coherent narrative is more challenging. Come now, we shall be late for dinner.”
On entering the dining room, Sinclair introduced us to the Pavlows. Morag was absent, however. Sinclair informed us that she was still too distressed to be in company but would be happy to talk to my friend later that evening.
Dr. Eustace Pavlow was, to my mind, the epitome of an old country doctor. He was grey-haired, slight of build, with a pale kind face which seemed to bear a permanently serene expression. Gentle blue eyes stared out from behind a pair of gold pince-nez, and his whole manner radiated trust and reliability. His wife, Victoria, was a plump cheery-faced lady who seemed overcome by the tragic event that had occurred the previous evening and had little to say for herself. Indeed, conversation was stilted during the course of the meal, and Holmes, as was his way, remained virtually mute until the coffee arrived. It was then that he turned his attention to Dr. Pavlow.
“What do you make of this matter, Doctor?” he said in an almost casual manner. “Have you any alternative theories concerning the murder?”
Pavlow shook his head sadly. “I am afraid not, Mr. Holmes. It is all quite baffling to me.”
“I assume you believe that Mrs. Cameron is innocent.”
“Certainly. It is not in the lady’s nature to carry out such a heinous crime. I have known Alan and Anne many years, and they were a loving and devoted couple.”
“And yet Mrs. Cameron seemed inordinately angry at her husband’s non-appearance at the dinner table last evening...”
Pavlow gave a wry smile. “Husbands and wives often get irritated with each other, Mr. Holmes. That is the nature of marriage, but it does not lead to murder.”
“You examined the body?”
“I checked Alan’s pulse and looked closely the wounds. There were three in all; they were quite vicious and administered with great force.”
“With great hatred?”
“I suppose you could say so.”
“There is no means of concealment in the room, so the murderer must have entered by the door. It is clear to me that whoever administered the blows was someone that Alan Cameron knew well, since he was sitting at his desk and had no concerns about his assailant being behind him.”
“You cannot think that dear Anne did such a thing,” said Victoria Pavlow suddenly, with some passion.
“The superficial evidence points in that direction, but I admit I am not fully convinced that she did. Tell me, when you and your husband arrived for dinner, did you go straight into the dining room?”
This enquiry seemed to discomfort Mrs. Pavlow. “Why... no, not straight away. I went to the bathroom on the first floor to freshen my toilette, and Eustace waited for me in the hall. This is the usual practise when we come to dinner at Tragere House, which we do at least half-a-dozen times a year.”
“You did not encounter Mr. Cameron on your journey there and back?”
“Of course not,” she replied with some heat, deeply irritated by my friend’s question. “If I had, I would have informed the police.”
Holmes nodded gently, apparently unaware of the lady’s sharpness of tone.
“Would you mind describing the gown you were wearing at dinner last evening?”
“Really, Mr. Holmes,” snapped Dr. Pavlow, “what has this to do with your investigation? It seems a puerile and very personal enquiry.”
“It may have much to do with my investigation,” Holmes replied lightly, waving his hand airily. “But, of course, Mrs. Pavlow is under no obligation to answer.” With a quick swivel of the head he turned his gaze upon the lady in question and she shrank visibly from it.
“It was a long blue taffeta gown,” she said quickly. “A very simple outfit.”
“Not adorned with seed pearls?”
She shook her head.
“Do you now require to know what I was wearing?” sneered the usually placid doctor.
Holmes chuckled. “I think I can guess. Now then, Mr. Sinclair, I wonder if I could have those few words with your fiancé.”
This suggestion seemed to unsettle the young man. “Well,” he said, hesitating, “I suspect she is resting still.”
“I have no wish to disturb her, but there is a certain amount of urgency in this matter. You did say that she would grant me an interview. If we are to prove Anne Cameron’s innocence we must act with alacrity. I only require a few moments conversation with her.”
“But why? I am sure there is nothing she can add to the report I have given to you.”
“Are you sure? Sometimes we see things, are aware of things, that appear to have no relevance, without realising their crucial importance. I have trained myself to use such apparent inconsequentialities and identify any key factors that may otherwise rest unnoticed. To put it another way, sir, we must turn over every pebble on the beach in order to discover the truth.”
Holmes and I, led by Sinclair, made our way up the central staircase and along a gloomily lit corridor to Morag Cameron’s room. On reaching it, the young man turned to us with a flushed face held in a rigid earnest expression. “If you would bear with me gentlemen, I will appraise my fiancé of your desire to speak with her, and ascertain if she is well enough to cope with being questioned about this dreadful tragedy.”
“Certainly,” said Holmes, adding when Sinclair had entered the room. “Our young friend has certainly mastered the circumspect nature of the legal language.”
A few minutes later, Sinclair ushered us into the room. Morag Cameron was sitting up in bed. She was indeed a pretty young thing with startling hazel eyes and luxurious blonde tresses, but her complexion was pale, and dark shadows under her eyes gave evidence of the strain and distress she was suffering.
Sinclair introduced us and drew up a chair so that Holmes could sit by the bed. “I apologise for this intrusion, especially at this most difficult time,” Holmes said in his most solicitous tone. “I just want to clarify a few details concerning the death of your father, so that we can get to the bottom of this terrible tragedy.”
“I understand, Mr. Holmes. I am so desperate to uncover the truth, so that my mother is proved innocent and can be released from prison.”
> “I notice the long black dress hanging on the wardrobe over there. Is that the gown you wore last evening?”
Miss Cameron’s eyes widened in surprise at this question. “Why, yes.”
Holmes rose from his chair and moved to the wardrobe to study the garment at close quarters. “Most charming,” he said softly as he peered at it carefully. “Most charming.”
Miss Cameron shook her head in bewilderment.
“Surely you digress from your purpose here, Mr. Holmes,” observed Sinclair, somewhat coldly.
“Do I?” remarked my friend casually as he resumed his seat and turned his attention to Morag Cameron once more. “You suffered from a nosebleed the other evening. Is this a regular affliction, Miss Cameron?”
“No.”
“But I understand you dealt with it calmly and efficiently.”
“I believe so.”
“When you excused yourself from the sitting room, what did you do?”
“I came back here, to my room, bathed my nose, and stemmed the flow of blood. Then I returned to the sitting room.”
“I see.”
“You do not seem content with my answers, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes gave Morag Cameron a cold grin. “I am afraid I am not. I always react in this fashion when someone is telling me a series of lies.”
“What the devil do you mean by this effrontery?” roared Andrew Sinclair, rushing forward. I feared for an instant that he would assault my friend, but Holmes raised his hand and stopped in him in his tracks. “I am afraid the truth can often be hurtful, Mr. Sinclair. I am sorry to inform you that your fiancé was responsible for her father’s death.”
Colour drained from Sinclair’s face and he sank down on the edge of the bed. By contrast, Morag Cameron seemed quite unperturbed by this revelation and merely smiled.
“You must be mad! It can’t be true,” groaned Sinclair, his head sunk upon his chest.