“Disregarding Mr. Stoddard’s warning to stay inside, I stepped out onto the porch and pulled the door shut behind me. I’d left the lantern in the side room, not wanting to spoil my night vision, and I noticed that the heavy drapes in that room, combined with the closed shutters, prevented any of that light from leaking outside.
“Although it is October, it hasn’t been cool yet, and the leaves on the trees are still quite thick, and just starting to turn. The moon was shining out on the river, and I took a few steps that way, the better to get a view of that romantic aspect. I stood for a few moments, inhaling deeply, and then, realizing that my eyes had adjusted quite a bit, I moved laterally along the river, staying an even distance away from the house. I was very quiet, without really intending to be, but it was fortunate, as it may have saved my life.
“I had come past the far end of the house, the river behind me, when I saw a movement near one of the abandoned outbuildings that we’d passed earlier. I’ve read that in darkness, one’s peripheral vision is stronger at sensing motion than if one stares directly at an object, so I paused in the shadow of a thick tree trunk and generally cast my vision in that direction without looking too hard, if you catch my meaning. I was rewarded, as I saw the movement once again. It was a man, and he was moving slowly toward the front door of the house.
“A feeling of terror swept over me as I recalled the warning that Mr. Stoddard had made before he left, advising me to stay inside. What had he known? Was there some sinister association with this house that made living here dangerous? I was willing to believe it, when the man that I watched passed through a bar of moonlight, and I realized that it was Mr. Stoddard himself.
“With a sense of relief, I was about to hail him when I saw that his hands were not empty. In one, he appeared to hold something very much resembling a gun, and in the other - and upon this point there could be no mistake - he carried a hatchet.
“I watched as he progressed, thinking at first that he was hunting whatever the danger was that permeated these woods. But then I realized that he paid no attention to anything around him. He was focused on the front door, which he approached in a most stealthy manner, as if the enemy were within instead of without. At that point, I understood with vivid clarity that he was not protecting me, but attempting to reach me.
“He stepped to the doorway and fumbled for a moment before producing what could only be a key - another key, in spite of his recent statement that the one he had left for me was the only one. I tapped my own pocket to assure myself that it was still with me. He bent to the door, but with a barely audible sound of surprise, he discovered that his efforts had been unnecessary, as I’d left it unlocked. He opened it, so very slowly, and then slipped silently inside.
“I realized with a shock that I’d come down to that part of the world without informing anyone, upon this man’s instructions, and that the only person in the entire world who knew that I was there was now approaching where he thought I waited, carrying both a gun and a hatchet. I didn’t understand anything about what might be in back of all of this, but it didn’t matter. All I knew then was that I needed to be somewhere else.
“Creeping along the river, staying in the trees so the moonlight wouldn’t show me, I made my way back to the other side of the house, and the narrow lane leading out to the road. I could imagine Stoddard, finding the lantern and the basket, and wondering where I was. He would explore the house, trying to locate me, but eventually he’d realize that I wasn’t there, and then he would look elsewhere. Seeing as how he’d approached the house without a light, I suspected that he wouldn’t use one when he searched the grounds, and every step I took was with the terror that he would step out in front of me, a shadow only identified by the shine of moonlight on the gun and the blade.
“I may have sobbed with relief when, about halfway up the lane, I came upon his dog-cart, tied to a small tree. I’d loosened it and hurried the horse up the road before I even had time to think what I was doing. I reached the pillars at the main road, turned the way that seemed familiar, and kept going. Here in the open, with the moon high in the sky, the route was clear. Wherever there was a road that was wider than before, and seemed to be in the direction of Exeter, I took it. Soon I was on the main road, which I recognized, and I finally reached the outskirts of Exeter, where I found an inn of middle quality. I obtained a room, and asked that they stable the horse, with the instruction that it not be left where it could be seen. No doubt they were a bit suspicious, especially as I had no bags with me. I was fearful that the innkeeper was friends with Stoddard, would recognize the dog-cart, and somehow get word to the man, leading him to show up in the middle of the night. I don’t think I slept a wink, hearing every creak and settlement in the old building.
“In the morning, I silently departed, leaving the cart, and wandered in a stealthy manner until I found a cab. I was then deposited at St. David’s Station. It was still a bit before the London train, so I had a bite of breakfast in the Great Western Hotel, where I watched the doorway in fear and trusted no one, not even the old man dozing at a nearby table. My face, reflected in the mirror on the nearby wall, was ghastly. Finally it was time for my train and I departed. Along the way, I relaxed enough to fall into casual conversation with the man in my compartment and, upon learning his profession, told him my story. He suggested that it was odd, and while no crime had actually been committed, it might be something upon which you could advise me. Thus, here I am.” And he spread his hands as if to demonstrate that, indeed, he was actually sitting in our basket chair.
I had felt a thrill of terror as he described the events of the previous evening, the dark and sinister isolation of the abandoned house, the moonlight and the river and the looming trees, and the sudden identification of the man who had invited him there, holding instruments of murder, moving silently toward where our visitor was thought to be innocently waiting...
“The wine!” I cried.
Jerrold Hayden looked surprised and confused, but Holmes nodded. “Very good, Watson. My thoughts exactly.”
“I’m sorry, but...” said Hayden.
“I believe that Watson has worked out that, if you had chosen to drink the wine list night, you might have soon found yourself sleepy, or at least in such a fog as to be unable to defend yourself, making your end - for that is what we will suppose was planned by Mr. Stoddard - to be that much easier.”
“You mean that the wine was drugged?”
“Possibly. He could have used a hypodermic needle to add something to the contents through the cork.”
“Then why not the food or the water?”
“Any number of reasons. Perhaps what he used would have been noticeable when used in that fashion. Perhaps some of the food was drugged. Did you sample all of it?”
“I did not. I simply opened one of the potted meat tins and ate it with crackers.”
“Of course. Both items are purchased unopened. Your lack of appetite may have saved you. Was the water sealed?”
“Yes, with a metal cap. No cork.” He looked uncomfortable. “So you agree that there is something sinister about this business?”
“On the face of it, how could we not?” replied Holmes. “And yet, you say the documents, and the office itself, were legitimate enough.” He leaned forward. “I will investigate this matter, although today being Saturday complicates things a bit. Do you have somewhere to stay, in order to avoid going home?”
“I... I can get a room at a hotel, if you recommend it.”
“I do. When you are established, send word around as to where you can be reached. I cannot stress enough that you should avoid your lodgings. Where are they, by the way?”
Hayden provided an address near Moxon Street. Holmes noted it on his cuff, and then stood, indicating that the interview was over. A bit puzzled at this abrupt shift, Hayden rose as well, thanking us and moving toward th
e door. In moments he was gone, and Holmes was consulting one of his reference books. Then, with a snap, he shut it and replaced it on the bookcase.
“Stoddard and Stoddard is indeed an actual firm.”
“Was there a doubt? I thought that the description of the old office, the framed documents, and so on, was enough to convince you.”
“Confirmation, especially when it is so easily obtained, should never be ignored.”
I shifted, as if to stand. “Shall I make arrangements to go with you down to Exeter?”
He smiled. “This cake isn’t quite baked yet, Watson. I’m afraid that you might need to plan on substituting for Dr. Weaver for just a bit longer.” He shed his dressing gown, pulled on a coat, and reached for his Inverness and fore-and-aft cap, which he wore in both town and country, indifferent to convention. “I shall likely miss supper.” And then he was gone.
I did not see him that night, but he returned the next evening, looking rather worn. As usual, he didn’t provide any information as to his activities since his departure on Saturday. He glanced at Hayden’s temporary address, delivered to our door the previous night, and wrote a message, which he handed to our page boy. Then, hungrily attacking the remains of the cold dinner provided by Mrs. Hudson, he asked if I could make myself available for a journey to Exeter the next day. I confirmed it, frankly happy to be free and rescued from my obligation to Dr. Weaver’s grim practice, and set about making arrangements with a young physician of my acquaintance who had taken over my duties in the past. While I was doing so, Holmes said goodnight and retreated to his room.
And so on Monday, I found myself on the late morning Great Western Railway train out of Paddington, in the company of my friend, along with Jerrold Hayden and Inspector Youghal of Scotland Yard.
The inspector had a jovial smile, and seemed to appreciate being included. “I knew that you could make something out of this, Mr. Holmes. I knew it as soon as Mr. Hayden here told me his story.”
“I’m still in the dark,” said Hayden. “Am I to understand that you know the circumstances behind the events of last Friday night?”
I wished to know the details as well. Fortunately, Holmes began to explain.
“On Saturday, after you departed, Mr. Hayden, I found a location from which to observe your rooms. I soon learned that I was not alone.”
“Stoddard?” asked our client with shock.
Holmes nodded. “If your Mr. Stoddard is about five feet, eight inches tall, with broad shoulders and a squarish head, blonde hair cut rather longish in back, and a habit of standing with one foot flat and the other leg bent and resting upon a pointed toe.”
“Yes, that sounds like him. He did that several times while we were talking last Friday.”
“He wasn’t there when I arrived, but showed up soon after, finding a place in a doorway across the street. He stayed for several hours before giving up, shifting back and forth impatiently but never trying to enter the building. He kept watch up and down the street, becoming more alert whenever someone approached.”
“And he didn’t see you?” asked Hayden.
Youghal laughed, and Holmes smiled. “He did not, for I did not wish to be seen.” Then, the smile dropped away and he continued. “Eventually, he gave up and made his way to a small nearby hotel - fortunately, not the same one where you chose to stay! When he was in for the night, I arranged to have the place watched in my absence, and made myself useful elsewhere.”
I was certain that assistance had been provided by those lads, and sometimes lasses, who made up Holmes’s Irregular force. They were always willing to help, and the promise of payment was only part of the attraction. Their respect for Holmes, who valued them when often no one else did, made them very loyal allies indeed.
“I caught the late train to Exeter,” Holmes said. “I had wired ahead to arrange an appointment with Fenton Stoddard, the surviving partner, and Ethan Stoddard’s uncle. Although it was quite late by then, I felt that the matter would progress with a greater chance of success if I was able to make my investigation while Ethan, or so I believed the man I had observed to be, was still in London. Upon arrival at St. David’s Station, I made my way to the home of Fenton Stoddard, who had waited up for me. I had revealed just enough in my message to rouse his concern. I didn’t want to specify too much in my wire before I had ascertained that he wasn’t in on the plot.”
“Holmes,” I said. “You were taking a chance. If the uncle was involved in this affair, you were placing yourself in the same position that Mr. Hayden had just a day or so earlier - traveling to Exeter and walking into the lion’s den without letting anyone know where you had gone!”
Holmes smiled. “I took the precaution of arranging for covering fire, so to speak. You may recall that Thad Flatcher lives in Exeter. He and his brother met me at the station, and both of them waited hidden outside of Stoddard’s home to see what would happen, and if I reappeared - which I did.”
My thoughts flashed instantly to the man to whom Holmes was referring. If not for my friend’s assistance, young Thad would have been hanged in late ’81 for a crime he didn’t commit, wherein the theft of an ancient Devonshire Charter, and the hidden message it contained, had played such an unfortunate part in the brutal and unnecessary murder of old Dr. Chambers by the wicked Pennington Gang.
“After offering refreshments,” continued Holmes, “the elder Stoddard clearly wished to know more of my assertions, as I had only wired that there was a matter of grave and confidential concern regarding his practice. Now, in his presence, I related your entire narrative, Mr. Hayden, along with showing him the letter you received last Tuesday. Needless to say, he was shocked, and I was convinced of his sincerity - but only to a certain degree. After all, while he might only be discovering the plot as I related it, he might still see some personal benefit to it and make a move of his own to support it. Therefore, I remained wary.
“Following his initial reaction, he shook his head sadly, as if it wasn’t so great a surprise after all. ‘Ethan has always been a wrong ’un,’ he explained. ‘He is my sister’s boy. She married a man with a temper who died young. He had a way of believing that the world owed him something, and he passed it on to Ethan. When I became ill a few weeks ago, Ethan came down to help, although he was never put in any kind of permanent position, as he implied to your client. I should have known better.’
“Old Mr. Stoddard called to his servant, asking for his coat and for the carriage to be made ready. I was careful to note that at no time did he have a chance to write or pass a message, verbal or otherwise, to anyone that might be relayed to Ethan Stoddard in London. This did much to build my trust of him. Outside, he was helped into the carriage, and I joined him, surreptitiously signaling to Thad that he should follow, in case there was still some move to be made against me.
“My fears were groundless. We arrived at the Stoddard office and made a systematic search. All of the papers relating to Clark Helverton’s estate were easily found on Ethan Stoddard’s desk, and his uncle’s examination of them revealed something both surprising and obvious.” His gaze focused specifically upon our client. “Mr. Hayden, the details of the Helverton estate, and the amount apportioned to you as the only designated heir, was very much misrepresented by Ethan Stoddard. You did in fact inherit the remote house and grounds located along the River Teign, as described. But additionally, you are the sole recipient, upon providing proof of your identity in person to the Helverton legal representatives in New York, of a fortune totaling nearly a million pounds.”
This startling statement was followed by silence from all parties, with only the steady thrum of our westward train, or the occasional London-bound roaring past on the adjacent track, providing any intrusive noise. Hayden opened and closed his mouth, swallowing several times, and once his eyes widened as a thought occurred to him. He started to speak, but Youghal interrupted
with a prosaic summary.
“And so this Ethan Stoddard has some plan to steal the inheritance.”
“It would seem so,” agreed Holmes. “Fenton Stoddard removed my last doubts of his own character and possible personal interest when he unhesitatingly summoned a local policeman of his acquaintance, making the matter official. He also sent some wires to the attorneys in New York, who could provide confirmatory information, even if it was early Sunday morning.
“Leaving the old man and the policeman to await responses to Stoddard’s wires, Thad Flatcher and I, using the address listed in the Helverton papers found in the file on Ethan Stoddard’s desk, found our way to the abandoned house on the river. It was as described, and the door was unlocked, although I was prepared to use the key that you had provided to me, Mr. Hayden, if we found it otherwise. The food basket provided for you was still there, as the stranded Ethan Stoddard had apparently been unwilling to carry it with him as he made his way back to town without benefit of his dog-cart. I retrieved the unopened wine bottle, as well as some of the food stuffs, and was able to obtain access to a local laboratory, using Fenton Stoddard’s influence. I easily verified that the food was perfectly fine, but the wine bottle contained a possibly toxic amount of chloral hydrate. Close examination revealed the mark of a hypodermic needle through the wax and the bottle’s cork where it had been added.”
“So he did mean to kill me,” muttered Hayden, finding his voice.
“Undoubtedly,” replied Holmes. “To sneak in and shoot you if you were still conscious, or to simply dispose of you if you were fully unconscious or perhaps already dead. The dosage of chloral hydrate added to the wine was quite strong, and would have been undetectable if you had imbibed. The fact that he carried a hatchet lends further terror and grim possibilities to the speculations. Your body might never have been found, as the house and grounds are as lonely and abandoned as you described.”
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX Page 12