“Why, no, that is right. I had not turned his face to me before I was struck.”
“When did you recognize Donald Mayhew?”
“Not until my sergeant turned his body over. I cried out then that it was Donald. I was distressed, since I have known him for most of my life.”
“You say Mr. Molton accused you of killing his friend. Were he and Donald Mayhew such good friends then?”
“They were, sir, that is true. Although both desired Miss Jenny, they seemed to remain friendly and in no way did they appear to allow that rivalry to mar their good fellowship together.”
I saw Holmes was about to leave, and spoke kindly to the young man before us. “Thank you, Inspector, we have another interview shortly and must leave you.” He shook my hand, but said nothing as we departed.
I was glad to be out of the small cell and into the fresh air. It did not bear thinking of that the young man we had just seen should spend many years in such surroundings if Holmes could not prove the lad’s innocence.
At Miss Jenny’s home we were shown into the parlor, and her father who wished to remain then summoned the lady. Miss Jenny convinced him otherwise—and shortly thereafter we were in conversation with the girl alone. Colonel Hayter had been right when he called her a beauty, although it was not quite in the ordinary way. She was dark, with creamy skin which held an almost olive tint, and her lustrous black hair fell to her waist, while her eyes were so dark a brown that I knew they would appear black in most lights. Her figure was supple, and her movements graceful and yet not in the more sturdy English way. I began by asking her to tell me about her two suitors, while Holmes leaned back in his chair listening intently.
“Both are good men, I have known them for many years, but it is only in the past year that they have become more particular in their attentions.”
“We know that Donald asked you to marry him,” I said. “What of Inspector Forrester: did you believe he could have the same request in mind?” She blushed a little, hesitated, and nodded. Holmes spoke suddenly so that the girl jumped, having—as I thought—almost forgotten his presence.
“It may be very important that we know the whole truth in this,” he said quietly. “Do not hold anything back, but for the sake of both men tell us everything. You asked Donald Mayhew for time to consider, did you plan to accept his proposal?”
Her voice was low. “I did not. I liked Donald, he was a good man, but it is not he that I love.”
“But it was he who asked you,” I said, understanding her dilemma. “Whereas the man you love had said nothing.”
“There is no reason that you should marry; your father is not in debt?” Holmes questioned her.
Her eyes flashed. “My father owes nothing to any man, you are insulting.” Before I could soothe her she was gone, the door slamming vigorously behind her. Her father entered the room a moment later and smiled wryly at us.
“I’m afraid my daughter has a temper, gentlemen. I do not know what you said to anger her so, but she will not return. If there is anything I can tell you, please, do not hesitate to ask it of me.”
Holmes nodded equably. “Very well, since you offer. There is no reason your daughter need marry, you are not in debt or under pressure to give her to any man?”
Mr. Conham smiled. “I see now why Jenny was angry. No, Mr. Holmes, I owe nothing to anyone that I cannot pay. Jenny has a small income of her own left to her by her mother besides, and may marry for love if she will. I approved of both men—though not of all her suitors.”
“Whom and why?” I asked at once.
Mr. Conham hesitated. “I do not wish to traduce a man’s character, but murder has been done, so I think it best to be frank no matter how I dislike it. I distrust Daniel Beaufort; he has a poor reputation with money and is, or so I am told, none too honest. I think his pursuit of my Jenny is more likely pursuit of her capital. I know nothing against James Talfoy, but he is older than my lass, and I do not think he is of a temperament with which she would be happy.”
“And Molton?”
“He comes of a good family, not wealthy, but they have served their country well and faithfully. Alexander is their only son and will inherit what they have since his elder sister is married and has her share already.”
“Do you know how it is that the boy is not on his ship?” I asked.
“His father is gravely ill and like to die. Since Alexander will inherit the estate and his father has no steward, the boy sold out and came home to attend to whatever must be done. I think it possible he may return to his ship for some years once his father dies and all is settled.”
“How long has he been home?”
“Three months now.”
“And your daughter has never inclined towards Mr. Molton?”
“No, sir, she has known him many years, likes him well enough, and they are friendly. They may talk together, she will dance with him at informal parties, and they sometimes ride out, but that is all.”
“Her favored suitors have always been Donald Mayhew and Carlton Forrester?”
“Always, sir. No one could ever have been in any doubt. If she did not wed one, I believe that in time she would have wed the other. Like her mother, she is a woman made to marry, a woman who desires nothing more than her own home, husband, and children.”
“Her mother was not English?”
“She was not, but a better, truer woman never lived. She was a Spaniard from Brazil and accounted of noble blood there, but she wed me, who am a mere commoner, and we were happy every day together until she took a fever and died four years ago when my Jenny was fifteen.” His face fell into lines of sorrow as he remembered.
We took our leave to seek out Mr. Molton then, and found him at his home. We sent up a message asking if we might converse and received a curt reply. His father was dying, he said, and his good friend had been brutally slain while another acquaintance was accused. Worse yet, Mr. Molton must be witness against that man. He saw no need to speak with two men he did not know—who had—it appeared—come only to ply their cutlery in a rancid dish.
I was indignant of Holmes’ behalf, but he drew me away. “It is of no moment, we know from the Inspector what this man saw. The more we insist upon speaking with him, the more he will resist. Let us go; I think I may have enough information to address the case once I have heard a little more elsewhere.” We returned to the Colonel’s to eat a hearty dinner and play cards for some hours before retiring.
The next morning I accompanied Holmes while he wandered the lanes about the spinney. Now and again he halted to ask questions of those living in nearby cottages, and each time he nodded at the answers. One elderly woman held him with her description of seeing the Inspector making his way over the fields towards the spinney.
“There was no other person about the fields or spinney?”
“Nay, I see’d a wagon go past carrying hay to Joe Smith’s farm, an’ it come back again, but the driver didn’t never get off nor stop, and wagons, they keep to the road, they don’t go wandering off over no fields.” With which witticism she laughed heartily, showing a few blackened stumps of teeth.
“And you are certain it was at noon that you saw the inspector, you say. It could not have been later?”
“No, sir, it weren’t, an’ that I told the police as asked me. I know ’twas noon ’cos my son have a watch an’ a clock his employer give him after he worked there twenty year. He have the watch in his pocket always an’ I have the clock above the fire in my cottage. You can come in and see for yourself, sir if you wish. I saw the inspector, that was the time I saw him, an’ I couldn’t say different, not for nobody.”
Holmes accepted her suggestion and we entered and scrutinized the clock; quite a handsome affair, and keeping good time as I could tell by my own watch.
“Tell me,” Holmes asked her, as we were about to depart. “Did you notice anything odd about the Inspector’s walk?”
“Why, if that don’t beat all, sir, how came
you to guess that? I did so, but exactly how it seemed strange to me I couldn’t tell you. Just that I seen him often enough, ’cos a’fore we moved here we lived in Reigate’s Hill an’ I saw him walking there often. This time he did walk different somehow an’ that’s so indeed.”
I knew the area she mentioned, a section of the town where those who lived were sometimes criminals and always poor, well might the Inspector walk there regularly.
“And how was it that you were outside at that time?”
“Why, sir, I’m allus out then. I waits for my son to come for his meal. His employer lets him go about ten minutes to the hour, and that’s how long it takes Jack to get back to our cottage. He have nigh half an hour to eat then he must go. I watch so’s I can have the food on the table for him and not waste no time.”
Holmes dropped a half crown into her hand and we departed with her cries of gratitude echoing behind us. After that we spoke to others, but none had useful information or indeed anything of interest to say, so that finally we returned to the police station where Holmes spoke to Forrester’s superior.
“I have another suspect in mind. Have you considered—?” And here he spoke a name. The man addressed shook his head vigorously.
“The boy has an alibi. If that’s the best you can do, Mister Holmes, then Inspector Forrester is done for.”
“Can you explain his alibi? I require every detail.”
“I can do so, but it is of no use.”
Holmes’ rare smile flashed out. “Humor me, sir.”
“Oh, very well then. I have interviewed a number of those about the estate, roads, and villages and this is what they say: Donald Mayhew and the Inspector were both seen approaching the spinney about midday. Your suspect was out and about his land all morning until eleven, when he went into his house to consider some papers, and did not come out until near the half-hour after midday. He was seen to stroll towards the spinney then return in great haste crying for aid.
“It is all clear and there are more eyes watching about the countryside than you realize, Mr. Holmes. If your suspect had approached the spinney, he would have been seen. The Inspector and poor Mayhew were both observed.”
“At a distance?”
“Are you saying Mayhew wasn’t Mayhew?”
“On the contrary, he was. It was intended that he should be.” The man opposite us looked first puzzled, then angry.
“The life of one of my best men is at stake; do you joke with me, sir?”
“I do not. Write out a search warrant and I think I can both convince you I do not jest about a man’s life, and provide you with a suspect other than the inspector.”
“I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I risk my own career and my pension on this, but I’ll take the risk. What do we seek?”
“Mayhew’s ring.”
“Ah, yes, if that were found in anyone’s possession it would be strong evidence, and you believe this man has it yet?”
“Execute your warrant, sir, and I believe you shall find it.”
“You will come with us?”
Holmes nodded firmly, and so it was that in company with four policemen we entered a large rambling house and began the search. Those within were rounded up and held in the parlor despite their protests. The searchers found nothing, and I saw the face of Forrester’s superior grow dark. Had he risked everything to find nothing? He turned to make some harsh comment, but was stopped by Holmes’ upraised hand.
“Where do you hide a tree, sir, but in a forest? Where would you hide a genuine ring but amongst those which are false?”
One of the policemen cried out. “Sir, there is a great heap of such items in the children’s old nursery upstairs. I never thought.…”
It was close to a stampede such as I have read occurs in the wild Americas. All six of us rushed for the room mentioned and rummaged through the box filled with glass pearls, paste brooches, and strings of beads made from threaded seeds. It was I who laid hands on the ring, holding it up with a cry of delight. Holmes’ expression was one of satisfaction.
“Your suspect is clever, but I am cleverer. There, sir, there is your evidence. Now I can reveal to you the entire progression of events. Let us go to the parlor and our villain may listen as I reveal his damnation and his betrayal of one who called him a friend.”
On our reappearance, I holding the ring clearly visible in my hand, the suspect sank wordlessly and white-faced into his seat again. We saw the guilt writ plain then, and in obedience to an order the handcuffs were snapped shut on his wrists. Holmes helped us to a drink while the three constables stood guard, and began.
“It was quite simple once I looked at the murder the right way. My friend asked me if it were not possible that there were two murderers, and it then occurred to me, that while I did not believe so, it was possible there were intended to be two murders. In short, Donald Mayhew was slain so that Inspector Forrester might also die—or at the very least be ruined and outcast. Then another man might come into his own, a man who, of three lesser suitors, was most strongly favored both by the woman he desired and her father.
“See what could happen. Donald Mayhew is slain, Inspector Forrester is arrested for the murder—and even if he is found not guilty, still the verdict will not be generally believed and his name will be ruined, his career over, he himself shattered. Can he offer the girl he loves anything after that but his silent departure? No, for he is an honorable man. So in this way are both favored suitors removed at one blow.
“What then of the three remaining? Her father told me clearly his opinion. One has a poor reputation, the other is too old for his precious child and moreover, not of a temperament to match hers. There remains one man of the right age, who will shortly inherit a small estate, one who has served his country, and who is apparently upstanding and loyal. That above all, for see how—when his friend was raised above him in the girl’s eyes, still he remained his friend.
“And if all falls out as he plans? The girl is bereft, those two she might have cared for are gone, one to prison or disgrace, the other to the grave. She is young, it is natural that in time her thoughts will turn to another, and who better than the man that her father approves? So the murderer reasoned—and it is my belief he would have been right had I not been called in.”
“But his alibi?”
“He has none. Certainly he was not seen to approach the spinney until half the hour after midday. But he had already been there once when, wearing clothes identical to those of the inspector, he met Donald Mayhew and struck him down. It was simple. All he had to do was walk towards him calling softly that he had a joke to play on the inspector, that he would make their friend believe for a moment that he has seen a doppelgänger, and they would all share the jest. Once up with the man who called him friend and within the shelter of the trees so none who were not directly before them could observe what he would do, he points behind Donald.
“See,” he says, “Here is the Inspector now.” And as Donald Mayhew turns to look he is struck to the ground with a blow so savage it not only shatters the skull, it turns the body as it falls. The murderer checks Donald’s pockets for the letter that brought him to his death and is delighted to find the ring. It is of considerable value and can be sold in France where none will know it. Then he climbs a tree and waits on a low branch, concealed by foliage, for the Inspector to appear. It is the matter of seconds to lean down and strike Forrester to the ground from where the murderer is concealed.”
I protested. “Holmes, how is it that the murderer in his disguise was seen by several to approach the spinney, but none saw him leave?”
“The details, Watson, the details. The old woman with whom we spoke made it plain to me. At midday her son arrived from his work and they entered the cottage to eat. It was while awaiting him that she saw the man she mistook for the inspector enter the spinney. Donald would naturally be eager to meet Miss Jenny and would be a little early. The murderer guessed this would be so and allowed for it.
<
br /> “He also knew that the old lady made a habit of watching for her son at that time, and would see a man she believed to be the inspector enter the spinney. But clothes do not always make the man; our murderer could not completely counterfeit Donald’s walk so that the old lady, while she could not tell why that was different, was yet certain that it was so.
“And the wagon was also overlooked. One, which had been sent to another farm, the driver having instructions to leave the hay it carried, and return immediately. The murderer left his home within the hay, the inspector’s uniform concealed with him. He returned in secret to his home by the same method.”
The end of the tale was in my newspaper almost a year later when a notice appeared telling all that Miss Jenny Conham had wed Inspector Carlton Forrester of the Reigate police. But many months before that another man had paid the price for his wickedness. Lieutenant Alexander Molton was found guilty and hanged, his body buried in an unmarked grave. His father had died the night Molton was taken from the house, his mother followed only six weeks later, and the estate—which was not entailed—became the property of Molton’s sister and her husband—who promptly sold it.
I read the wedding notice and folded my paper afterwards with some satisfaction. The Bible says that the wicked flourish, as does the green bay tree—but I might add, that they do not flourish quite so often or so luxuriantly when Holmes accepts the case.
THE BLACKMAILERS
I was staring out of the window when I saw a cab halt below. A man of middle age exited, supporting someone I deemed to be a woman. I could tell no more than that since she was veiled to impenetrability. The man was of refined features, and a lithe slender build, with black hair surrounding an attractive face. Behind me Holmes said quietly.
“An interesting visitor.”
“Who?” I asked.
“That man. We know him. That is Neville St. Clair, he who disguised himself and earned a living as a beggar.”
I remembered the case now he called it to mind. But it was five years or more since we had seen the man. What case did he bring to us now? I said as much, and my old friend nodded.
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