“You have a case, I see,” said I, recognising the symptoms.
“Just so, my dear Watson. The matter of the missing Addleton family. You have been following the account in the newspapers?”
“Yes, indeed. I think all England is fascinated by the ‘Fairy Hills Mystery’, as the press are calling it. They make much of the fact that the barrow mounds near the village are called ‘fairy hills’ by some locals.” He snorted and I added, “That a woman and four children should simply vanish in the middle of the day seems utterly bewildering. You have been consulted on the case then?”
“Yes.” He handed me a telegram.
“‘Will call upon you at eleven o’clock Re: the missing Addletons. Lestrade,’” I read. “Well, that’s to the point. It is almost that hour now.”
“Tell me what you know of the case, Watson,” Holmes said. “It will help me clarify the details in my mind.”
Like the entire country, I had been following the matter with great interest. As I sat at the table and poured a cup of coffee, I recounted the facts as they had been reported.
“On Monday last,” I said, “that is to say the 30th of July, Dr. Winston Addleton said goodbye to his wife and four children at their home on the Essex side of the village of Bartlow and took the train to the university where he is a professor of archaeology. When he returned around six o’clock that evening, the breakfast things were still on the table. The house was otherwise in perfect order, but his wife and children had vanished.
“The professor searched the area and sent telegrams to his wife’s family in Bristol, but no one had seen or heard from her. That was a week ago, and as far as I can tell, neither Mrs. Addleton nor her children have been seen since.”
No sooner had I said this than there was a knock at the door below and, moments later, Lestrade entered our chambers.
“A rum business this, Mr. Holmes,” said he. “A family doesn’t simply vanish in the middle of a summer day.”
“You have my full attention, Inspector,” my friend said. He sat in his chair with his eyes closed. Lestrade gave me a long-suffering glance and then read the details from his notebook.
“Precisely a week ago today, that is, Monday, 30th July, Dr. Winston Addleton ate breakfast with his wife of eight years, Jenny, and his four children, Michael aged six, Elizabeth aged five, Rose aged four, and Charles aged two. He kissed them goodbye a little after seven o’clock and walked the two miles to Bartlow Railway Station. The Addletons do not live in the village proper, but about two miles beyond on the Essex side of the border in a cottage called Barrow House.”
“He walked? They do not have transport?” Holmes asked.
“They own a trap, but Dr. Addleton leaves it for his wife. About an hour after the professor left, a neighbour, a retired farmer called Fairchild, saw the missing woman walking near the river - that’s the River Granta.”
“She was some distance from him, according to the newspapers,” I said.
“Not close enough to speak to, but he recognised her all right. Mrs. Addleton waved to him, but continued her walk without stopping.”
“Was she alone or were her children with her?”
“She was alone.”
“Forgive the interruption, Lestrade. Pray continue.”
“Dr. Addleton returned home a little after six o’clock that evening. He was surprised to find Barrow House empty and the breakfast things still on the table.”
“Does the family employ a servant?” Holmes said.
“A woman comes in on Tuesdays and Fridays, so she was not due on that day, it being Monday.”
“Do you know what precisely was on the table?”
Lestrade flicked through his notes. “There were a couple of glasses of milk and a half-empty cup of tea, as well as a full large pot of tea, and a loaf of bread.”
“Butter?”
“It’s not in my notes. I suppose not. Does it matter?”
“If your notes are accurate, Lestrade, it suggests, does it not, that the family had only just sat down to their meal?”
“I suppose the full pot of tea and loaf of bread do seem to indicate it,” Lestrade agreed. “But how does that help us?”
“We cannot say at present, but we would do well to remember it. The information may prove useful when we can add to the picture of that morning. Do we know when Dr. Addleton arrived at the university?”
“His usual hour, which is a little before nine, I believe. He worked in his office for some time and then he began his first class at eleven o’clock.”
Holmes sat up suddenly. “Bah!” he cried. “Why did you wait a week before consulting me? By now all the evidence will be washed away, particularly in light of this wretched summer we have not been enjoying.”
“The husband kept insisting his family would show up. He persuaded himself that his wife and children had gone to visit relatives and forgotten to mention it, or that he himself had forgotten that they had told him. He is a rather scatter-brained gentleman, more interested in his books than in people, so it did seem perfectly possible.”
“And you thought it likely that five people would suddenly rush away from the breakfast table to call upon distant relatives?” Holmes scoffed.
“Is there any suggestion Mrs. Addleton might have a paramour?” I asked, quickly changing the subject.
“There is no evidence of it, Doctor,” Lestrade replied. “Given the isolation of the house, I cannot imagine where she would encounter any gentlemen other than her husband. She was, by all accounts, a devoted wife and mother. Still, I could understand why she would be tempted to look elsewhere. Dr. Addleton is not what you might call an ideal spouse.”
“How so?”
“Well, he is obsessed with his work, by all accounts. One of those academics who assumes everyone must be as fascinated by his subject as he is. He is a professor of archaeology at one of the smaller Cambridge universities. I gather he is respected, if not particularly admired, by his colleagues. I suppose it’s a difficult subject, and not many people share his passion for it, if passion is the word. Frankly, Mr. Holmes, I’m surprised Dr. Addleton even noticed that his wife and children were missing.”
“Is there any indication that he has formed a dalliance with another woman?”
“I think it highly unlikely. This is a very self-absorbed gentleman - small, shabby, and hardly speaks above a whisper. He seems to have no conversation beyond his work. Why do you ask?”
“If a man is a professor, it is reasonable to suppose he is earning a decent salary, is it not? He lives in an area not known for a high cost of living, and yet he cannot afford a servant more than twice a week. Where is his money going?”
“Probably to his archaeology,” Lestrade replied. “He certainly has a lot of books and instruments related to his profession. Still, it’s a good point and I’ll be sure to look into it. I need to go back to Bartlow this afternoon. Will you and the Doctor join me?”
“I think we had better,” Holmes said.
On the train a couple of hours later, I asked Lestrade his own theory. “What do you think happened to the missing Addletons?”
“Now I’ve had a chance to think about it, I believe Mr. Holmes must be right. The woman must have a fancy man and ran off with him.”
“And took the children?” my friend said. “And left the breakfast things on the table? Is the wife a poor housekeeper?”
“I think not,” Lestrade said. “Everything was very neat, if rather plain and poor. Her husband seemed surprised that she would have gone out without putting the breakfast things away. He seemed quite cross about the waste.”
* * *
We were met at Bartlow Station by the local constable, a tow-haired man called Lewis. He shook our hands and greeted Holmes with awe, much to Lestrade’s irritation.
“Enough of that now,” the inspector said. “Let us head to Barrow House.”
“Take us by the river, if you please, Constable,” said my friend. “I should like to speak to Mr. Fairchild first.”
The weather was dry but overcast and unseasonably chilly as the carriage rumbled through the delightful country lanes. In the distance, I beheld the woods that surround the ancient barrows and I hoped we might have an opportunity to visit those strange ancient structures. We passed the so-called River Granta. This was little more than a swift moving stream. The banks on either side were steep, covered with long grasses and brambles. An odd place for a woman to take a stroll, I thought.
Mr. Fairchild’s cottage sat back from the river. Tall beech trees surrounded the building, and it presented an appealing picture. The occupant was, I thought, in his mid-seventies, but still mentally alert. His eyes were intensely blue, and only the clouds in their depths revealed his age.
He welcomed us into his home and offered us tea. We sat in the front parlour which faced the river. It was from this window that Fairchild had seen Mrs. Addleton.
“A charming lady,” he said. “I see her from time to time with the children. Such a devoted mother. They pass by on their way to the village and she always waves. Sometimes she stops and asks if there’s anything I need. A very kind lady.”
“Do you live alone here, Mr. Fairchild?” I asked.
“Hmm? What’s that? Live alone? No, indeed. My son lives with me. He’s a good boy, is Leonard. I think we both enjoy the company.”
“Is he friendly with Mrs. Addleton?”
“He knows her slightly, but he’d be at work most of the day. He tends farm, like. Still, he’d know her by sight. We all know her by her hair.”
“Was your son here that day when you saw her by the river?”
“Nay, he were out yonder in field,” he said, nodding towards the land behind the house.
“Do you often see Mrs. Addleton without the children?” I continued.
“Not as a rule, no. They’re too little to be left on their own, see, though on days when housekeeper is there, Mrs. Addleton goes into the village on her own from time to time. Not much of a life, being stuck in a house all day with four little ones. That husband of hers isn’t my idea of a man. He works in town, you know, and he leaves that woman home for days at a time with no one but children to talk to, not even a servant. Ruddy disgrace.”
I glanced at Holmes. He stirred himself from his reverie and said, “You are a good hundred yards from the river, Mr. Fairchild. I wonder how clearly did you see Mrs. Addleton last Monday?”
“Well, she was a distance away, but I knew it was her right enough.”
“How so? How were you able to see her features from such a distance, and with your glaucoma?”
“Glaucoma’s not so bad, not yet. But, no, I didn’t see her features. I saw her hair, her bright red hair, for it hung loose down her back, as it always did. She wore her pretty yellow bonnet, and her blue dress. She waved at me.”
“What time was this?”
“Around eight, I’d say. Yes, perhaps a minute or two after eight.”
“Well, Mr. Holmes?” the constable said as we climbed back in the carriage. “That confirms it, does it not, that Mrs. Addleton was still in Bartlow on Monday morning?”
“It raises more questions than it answers. Why would a woman known to be tidy in her habits suddenly leave the breakfast table and take a walk? And where did she leave her children?” For a moment Holmes was silent. Then he looked up and said, “Tell me, Constable Lewis, how was the weather here last Monday?”
“It was quite dreadful. It poured rain all day.”
“And yet we are to believe that a woman wore a yellow bonnet and a blue dress - no overcoat, mind - and took a stroll beside the stream. And with her hair loose, too. Does that not strike you as highly improbable?”
“But those are the facts, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade exclaimed. “You cannot argue away the facts.”
“I am sure you are right, Lestrade. Well, let us see what the Addleton house can tell us.”
We were very surprised to find that the professor was not at home. “Where can he have gone?” Lestrade cried in consternation. “Don’t tell me he’s gone missing, too!”
“I am sure there is some reasonable explanation,” I said. “Perhaps he has gone out searching for his missing family.”
“That must be it, of course,” Lestrade conceded.
We looked around the grounds. The area was spacious enough and the view picturesque, but I found the isolation oppressive. If Mrs. Addleton had simply bundled her children up and left, I could hardly blame her.
“Constable Lewis,” Holmes said. “You were the first officer on the scene when Dr. Addleton reported his wife missing, I believe.”
“That’s right, sir. The local minister, Reverend Bullard, called me over from the village of Linton to investigate. I cover both villages, you see. It was dark when I came into the house. Dr. Addleton was sitting by the fire, huddled into himself. I asked the minister to initiate a search, though there was little enough we could do in the dark, and it was still raining.”
“And did the professor participate in the search?”
“He was grievously distressed, Mr. Holmes. I told him to stay put in case the woman and the children should return. I inquired at the railway station, but the missing people had not been seen there.”
“And the trap? I believe Mrs. Addleton had use of it?”
“Yes. She does the family shopping, very difficult with four little ones in tow, I should think, and uses the trap for that and to take the oldest child to school. It was still in the barn out yonder. The mud on the wheels was dry, so I did not think it had been used for at least a couple of days.”
“Well done, Constable. That was an astute observation. Let us take a look at this trap.”
The young policeman led us to an outbuilding. “Barn” was really too elaborate a word for it. A run-down shed seemed a more accurate description. Lestrade, the constable, and I stood in silence as Holmes examined the vehicle. He began by scraping some of the dried earth from the wheel, which he then studied it under a glass. Next, he turned his attention to the trap itself. Something at the footrest made him chuckle.
“What have you found?” Lestrade asked.
“A footprint,” Holmes said. “See here.”
We gathered and looked at the clear outline of a boot.
“A man’s footprint,” Lestrade said, “What of it?”
“We are told that Mrs. Addleton is the only one to use this trap. Why, then, should we find a man’s print here? It suggests, does it not, that a man was the last to drive this vehicle?”
“Holmes...” I said, my mouth dry with fear, “Are you suggesting...?”
“What?” Lestrade demanded. “What are you suggesting, Mr. Holmes?”
“We do not have enough evidence yet,” my friend replied. “All I can say with any certainty at this stage is a man was the last to drive this carriage.”
“Hullo?” a voice called from outside the barn.
We went out into the courtyard and were greeted by a small, shrivelled-looking fellow, aged, I suppose, about forty, but who could easily pass for a man some twenty years older. His coat looked ancient and very well worn. His hair was thinning. He was, as Lestrade said, an exceedingly unlikely candidate for a paramour.
“Dr. Addleton, I presume?” Holmes said.
Lestrade made the introductions. The little man’s eyes burned when he heard Holmes’s name. “Oh, I cannot tell you how glad I am that you are here, Mr. Holmes,” he cried. “I am so worried about my family. If only you can find them, I would be very much in your debt.”
“I will do my best, though you should not raise your hopes too high. So many da
ys have passed since their mysterious disappearance, even Sherlock Holmes may have difficulty reading the traces.”
“Anything you can do, Mr. Holmes. My neighbours and the constable have taken pains to find them. I was out just now, searching the fields and the river. My wife was last seen walking by the Granta, you know.”
“I see you brought your archaeological implements with you.”
“Did I?” He looked in surprise at the kitbag on his shoulder. “Force of habit, I fear. I take them everywhere I go.”
The professor led us into the house and we sat in a cramped and dark parlour.
“Can you tell us what happened the last time you saw your family, Dr. Addleton?” Holmes said.
“I will do my best, but it has been a week, and memory fades.”
“Anything you recall may be of use. I am sure as a man of science you have better powers of observation than most.”
“Thank you. It is a compliment, but I believe it is justified. The difficulty lies in the ordinariness of it all. I have played it in my mind so many times, but it was such a usual day. I was running a little late because I had overslept. The youngest boy had a restless night, and my wife let him come into our bed to try to settle him. My wife was always so indulgent with the children. In any event, my sleep was disturbed and I ended by coming down here to the settee, and so overslept. I was in such a rush to get the train on time that I really wasn’t paying close attention to what was happening in the house.”
“But you had breakfast together?”
“Yes. That is to say, the rest of the family did. I had a mouthful of tea and my wife made me a hard-boiled egg, which I put in my pocket to eat on the train. I left the house and cut through the fields to try to get to the station on time.”
“And were you?” Holmes said. “On time, I mean.”
“Yes. I just made it. The rush made me poorly, however, and I was still feeling exhausted from my broken night’s sleep.”
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part IX Page 38