The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters

by Michael Kurland

  Holmes left me at the college to continue on to the police station, and I returned to my rooms.

  The inquest was held two days later in the chapel of, let me call it, St Elmo’s College, one of our sister colleges making up the University. The chapel, a large Gothic structure with pews that would seat several hundred worshipers, had been borrowed for this more secular purpose in expectation of a rather large turnout of spectators; in which expectation the coroner was not disappointed.

  The coroner, a local squire named Sir George Quick, was called upon to perform this function two or three times a year. But usually it was for an unfortunate who had drowned in the canal or fallen off a roof. Murders were quite rare in the area; or perhaps most murderers were more subtle than whoever had done in Andrea Maples.

  Holmes and I sat in the audience and watched the examination proceed. Holmes had gone to the coroner before the jury was seated and asked if he could give evidence. When he explained what he wanted to say, Sir George sent him back to his seat. What he had to offer was not evidence, Sir George explained to him, but his interpretation of the evidence.

  “It is for the jury to interpret the evidence offered,” Sir George told him, “not for you or I.”

  Holmes’s face was red with anger and mortification, and he glowered at the courtroom and everyone in it. I did my best not to notice.

  Lucinda was in the front row, dressed in black. Her face wooden, she stared straight ahead through the half-veil that covered her eyes, and did not seem to be following anything that was happening around her. Crisboy sat next to her, wearing a black armband and a downcast expression. Professor Maples was sitting to one side, with a bulky constable sitting next to him and another sitting behind him. He had a bemused expression on his face, as though he couldn’t really take any of this seriously.

  Sir George informed the assemblage that he was going to proceed in an orderly manner, and that he would tolerate no fiddle-faddle and then called his first witness.

  It turned out to be the young bicyclist with the sticky fingers. “I could see that it was blood,” he said, “and that it had come from beneath the door—from inside the house.”

  Then he described how he and his companions broke a window to gain entrance, and found Andrea Maples’s body sprawled on the floor by the front door.

  “And how was she dressed?” the coroner asked.

  “She was not dressed, sir,” came the answer.

  A murmur arose in the audience, and the young man blushed and corrected himself. “That is to say, she was not completely dressed. She had on her, ah, undergarments, but not her dress.”

  “Shoes?” the coroner asked, with the bland air of one who is called upon to discuss semi-naked ladies every day.

  “I don’t believe so, sir.”

  “That will be all,” the coroner told him, “unless the jury have any questions?” he added, looking over at the six townsmen in the improvised jury box.

  The foreman of the jury, an elderly man with a well-developed set of mutton-chop whiskers, nodded and gazed out at the witness. “Could you tell us,” he asked slowly, “what colour were these undergarments?”

  “White,” the young man said.

  “Now then,” Sir George said, staring severely at the foreman, “that will be enough of that!”

  Sergeant Meeks was called next. He sat in the improvised witness box hat in hand, his uniform and his face having both been buffed to a high shine, the very model of English propriety. The coroner led him through having been called, and arriving at the scene with his two constables, and examining the body.

  “And then what did you do, sergeant?”

  “After sending Constable Gough off to Beachamshire to notify the police surgeon, I thoroughly examined the premises to see whether I could ascertain what had occurred on the, ah, premises.”

  “And what were your conclusions?”

  “The deceased was identified to me as Mrs Andrea Maples, wife of Professor Maples, who lived in the main house on the same property. She was dressed—”

  “Yes, yes, sergeant,” Sir George interrupted. “We’ve heard how she was dressed. Please go on.”

  “Very good, sir. She had been dead for some time when I examined her. I would put her death at between seven and ten hours previous, based on my experience. Which placed the time of her death at sometime around midnight.”

  “And on what do you base that conclusion?”

  “The blood around the body was pretty well congealed, but not completely in the deeper pools, and the body appeared to be fairly well along into rigor mortis at that time.

  “Very observant, sergeant. And what else did you notice?”

  “The murder weapon was lying near the body. It was a hard wood walking stick with a ducks-head handle. It had some of the victim’s blood on it, and a clump of the victim’s hair was affixed to the duck’s head in the beak area. The stick was identified by one of the bicyclists who was still present as being the property of Professor Maples, husband of the victim.”

  “And what did you do then?”

  “I proceeded over to the main house to question Professor Maples, who was just sitting down to breakfast when I arrived. I told him of his wife’s death, and he affected to be quite disturbed at the news. I then asked him to produce his walking stick, and he spend some time affecting to look for it. I then placed him under arrest and sent Constable Parfry for a carriage to take the professor to the station house.”

  “Here, now!” a short, squat juror with a walrus moustache that covered his face from below his nose to below his chin, shifted in his seat and leaned belligerently forward. “What made you arrest the professor at that there moment? It seems to me that whoever the Maples woman was having an assigerna…—was meeting at this here cottage in the middle of the night was more likely to have done her in.”

  “Now, now, we’ll get to that,” the coroner said, fixing the fractious juror with a stern eye. “I’m trying to lay out the facts of the case in an orderly manner. We’ll get to that soon enough.”

  The next witness was the police surgeon, who testified that the decedent had met her death as a result of multiple blunt-force blows to the head and shoulders. He couldn’t say just which blow killed her, any one of several could have. And, yes, the duck-headed cane presented in evidence could have been the murder weapon.

  Sir George nodded. So much for those who wanted information out of its proper order. Now…

  Professor Maples was called next. The audience looked expectant. He testified that he had last seen his wife at about nine o’clock on the night she was killed. After which he had gone to bed, and as he had been asleep, had not been aware of her absence.

  “You did not note that she was missing when you awoke, or when you went down to breakfast?” Sir George asked.

  “I assumed she had gone out early,” Maples replied. “She went out early on occasion. I certainly didn’t consider foul play. One doesn’t, you know.”

  Professor Maples was excused, and the audience looked disappointed.

  An acne-laden young man named Cramper was called up next. He was, he explained, employed at the local public house, the Red Garter, as a sort of general assistant. On the night of the murder he had been worked unusually late, shifting barrels of ale from one side of the cellar to the other. “It were on account of the rats,” he explained.

  Sir George, wisely, did not pursue that answer any further. “What time was it when you started for home?” he asked.

  “Must have been going on for midnight, one side or ’nother.”

  Sir George stared expectantly at Cramper, and Cramper stared back complacently at Sir George.

  “Well?” the coroner said finally.

  “Well? Oh, what happened whilst I walked home. Well, I saw someone emerging from the old Wilstone cottage.”

  “That’s the cottage where the murder took place?” Sir George prompted.

  “Aye, that’s the one aright. Used to be a gent named Wi
lstone lived there. Still comes back from time to time, I believe.”

  “Ah!” said Sir George. “And this person you saw coming from the, ah, old Wilstone cottage?”

  “Happens I know the gent. Name of Faulting. He teaches jumping and squatting, or some such, over by the college field building.”

  There was a murmur from the audience, which Sir George quashed with a look.

  “And you could see clearly who the gentleman was, even though it was the middle of the night?”

  “Ever so clearly. Aye, sir.”

  “And how was that?”

  “Well, there were lights on in the house, and his face were all lit up by them lights.”

  “Well,” Sir George said, looking first at the jury and then at the audience. “We will be calling Mr Faulting next, to verify Mr Cramper’s story. And he will, gentlemen and, er, ladies. He will. Now, what else did you see, Mr Cramper?”

  “You mean in the house?”

  “That’s right. In the house.”

  “Well, I saw the lady in question—the lady who got herself killed.”

  “You saw Mrs Maples in the house?”

  “Aye, that’s so. She were at the door, saying goodbye to this Faulting gent.”

  “So she was alive and well at that time?”

  “Aye. That she were.”

  The jury foreman leaned forward. “And how were she dressed?” he called out, and then stared defiantly at the coroner, who had turned to glare at him.

  “It were only for a few seconds that I saw her before she closed the door,” Cramper replied. “She were wearing something white, I didn’t much notice what.”

  “Yes, thank you,” you’re excused,” Sir George said.

  Mr Faulting was called next, and he crept up to the witness chair like a man who knew he was having a bad dream, but didn’t know how to get out of it. He admitted having been Andrea Maples’ night visitor. He was not very happy about it, and most of his answers were mumbles, despite Sir George’s constant admonitions to speak up. Andrea had, he informed the coroner’s court, invited him to meet her in the cottage at ten o’clock.

  “What about her husband?” the coroner demanded.

  “I asked her that,” Faulting said. “She laughed. She told me that he wouldn’t object; that I was free to ask him if I liked. I, uh, I didn’t speak with him.”

  “No,” the coroner said, “I don’t imagine you did.”

  Faulting was the last witness. The coroner reminded the jury that they were not to accuse any person of a crime, even if they thought there had been a crime; that was a job for the criminal courts. They were merely to determine cause of death. After a brief consultation, the jury returned a verdict of unlawful death.

  “Thank you,” Sir George said. “You have done your duty. I assume,” he said, looking over at Sergeant Meeks, “that there is no need for me to suggest a course of action to the police.”

  “No, sir,” Meeks told him. “Professor Maples will be bound over for trial at the assizes.”

  Sir George nodded. “Quite right,” he said.

  “Bah!” Holmes said to me in an undertone.

  “You disagree?” I asked.

  “I can think of a dozen ways Faulting could have pulled that trick,” he said. “That young man—Cramper—didn’t see Andrea Maples in the doorway, he saw a flash of something white.”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “Bah!” Holmes repeated.

  When we left the building Miss Lucy came over to Holmes and pulled him away, talking to him in an earnest undertone.

  I walked slowly back to my rooms, trying to decide what to do. I disliked interfering with the authorities in their attempted search for justice, and I probably couldn’t prove what I knew to be true, but could I stand by and allow an innocent man to be convicted of murder? And Maples would surely be convicted if he came to trial. There was no real evidence against him, but he had the appearance of guilt, and that’s enough to convince nine juries out of ten.

  About two hours later Holmes came over, his eyes shining. “Miss Lucy is a fine woman,” he told me.

  “Really?” I said.

  “We talked for a while about her sister. That is, she tried to talk about Andrea, but she kept breaking down and crying before she could finish a thought.”

  “Not surprising,” I said.

  “She asked me if I thought Professor Maples was guilty,” Holmes told me. “I said I was convinced he was not. She asked me if I thought he would be convicted if he came to trial. I thought I’d better be honest. I told her it seemed likely.”

  “You told her true,” I commented.

  “She is convinced of his innocence, even though it is her own sister who was killed. Many—most—people would allow emotion to override logic. And she wants to help him. She said, ‘Then I know what I must do,’ and she went off to see about hiring a lawyer.”

  “She said that?” I asked.

  “She did.”

  “Holmes, think carefully. Did she say she was going to hire a lawyer?”

  Holmes was momentarily startled at my question. “Well, let’s see. She said she knew what she must do, and I said he’s going to need the best lawyer and the best barrister around to clear himself of this, for all that we know he is not guilty.”

  “And?”

  “And then she said she would not allow him to be convicted. And she—well—she kissed me on the cheek, and she said, ‘Goodbye, Mr Holmes, you have been a good friend.’ And she hurried off.”

  “How long ago did she leave you?”

  “Possibly an hour, perhaps a bit longer.”

  I jumped to my feet. “Come, Holmes,” I said, “we must stop her.”

  “Stop her?”

  “Before she does something foolish. Come, there’s no time to waste!”

  “Does what?” he asked, hurrying after me as I hastened down the hall, pulling my coat on.

  “Just come!” I said. “Perhaps I’m wrong.”

  We raced out of the college and over to Barleymore Road, and continued in the direction of the Maples’ house at a fast walk. It took about ten minutes to get there, and I pushed through the front door without bothering to knock.

  Mr Crisboy was sitting in the parlour, staring at the wall opposite, a study in suspended motion. In one hand was a spoon, in the other a small bottle. When we entered the room he slowly put both objects down. “Professor Maples depends on this fluid,” he said. “Two spoons full before each meal.” He held the bottle up for our inspection. The label read: Peals Patented Magical Elixir of Health. “Do you think they’d let me bring him a few bottles?”

  “I’m sure they would,” I told him. “Do you know where Lucy is?”

  “She’s upstairs in her room,” Crisboy told me. “She is quite upset. But of course, we’re all quite upset. She asked not to be disturbed.”

  I made for the staircase, Holmes close behind me. “Why this rush?” He demanded. “We can’t just barge in on her.”

  “We must,” I said. I pounded at her door, but there was no answer. The door was locked. I put my shoulder against it. After the third push it gave, and I stumbled into the room, Holmes close behind me.

  There was an overturned chair in the middle of the room. From a hook in the ceiling that had once held a chandelier, dangled the body of Lucy Moys.

  “My God!” Holmes exclaimed.

  Holmes righted the chair and pulled a small clasp knife from his pocket. I held the body steady while Holmes leaped up on the chair and sawed at the rope until it parted. We lay her carefully on the bed. It was clear from her white face and bulging, sightless eyes that she was beyond reviving. Holmes nonetheless cut the loop from around her neck. “Horrible,” he said. “And you knew this was going to happen? But why? There’s no reason—”

  “Every reason,” I said. “No, I didn’t predict this, certainly not this quickly, but I did think she might do something foolish.”

  “But—”

  “She must ha
ve left a note,” I said.

  We covered her body with a blanket, and Holmes went over to the writing desk.

  “Yes,” he said. “There’s an envelope here addressed to ‘The Police.’ And a second one—it’s addressed to me!”

  He ripped it open. After a few seconds he handed it to me.

  Sherlock,

  It could have been different had I been different.

  I like you tremendously.

  Think well of me.

  I’m so sorry.

  Lucy

  “I don’t understand,” Sherlock Holmes said. “What does it mean? Why did she do this?’

  “The letter to the police,” I said, “what does it say?”

  He opened it.

  To whomever reads this—

  I am responsible for the death of my sister Andrea. I killed her in a jealous rage. I cannot live with myself, and I cannot allow Professor Maples, a sweet and innocent man, to suffer for my crime. This is best for all concerned.

  Lucinda Moys

  “I don’t understand,” Holmes said. “She was jealous of Faulting? But I didn’t think she even knew Faulting very well.”

  “She kept her secrets,” I said, “even onto death.”

  “What secrets?”

  “This household,” I said, gesturing around me, “holds one big secret that is, you might say, made up of several smaller secrets.”

  “You knew that she had done it—that she had killed her sister?”

  “I thought so, yes.” I patted him on the shoulder, and he flinched as though my touch was painful. “Let us go downstairs now,” I said.

  “You go,” Holmes said. “I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

  I left Holmes staring down at the blanket-covered body on the bed, and went down to the parlour. “Lucy has committed suicide,” I told Crisboy, who had put the bottle down but was still staring at the wall opposite. “She left a note. She killed Andrea.”

  “Ahhh!” he said. “Then they’ll be letting the professor go.”

  “Yes,” I said.