“Holmes, you have just proved that the message that claims to have been written in blood was done so. How can you say it was fraudulent?”
“Elementary chemistry, my good man. This test will detect the presence of blood freshly left at the scene of a crime, or on the clothes of a criminal. It is valid with fresh blood, for blood discovered a day or two later, and reasonably reliable for up to a fortnight. Some traces may still be evident for even a month. But nothing, nothing whatsoever will be evident after two hundred years. Two hundred years, Watson. Utterly impossible, but here it is.”
“So, this note,” said I, “was written recently. Is that it?”
“Within the past two weeks, three at the most. Now then, use the glass and look carefully at the page after the title page, where our publishers today place their copyright notice. What do you see?”
I looked.
“There is no notice of copyright page.”
“Correct. Such pages were not used during the 1600s and so would not be present in a much older volume. Now look carefully at the very inside edge of the pages. What do you observe?”
Using the glass, I carefully examined the line where the page of the title page joined the spine.
“There is just the trace of a page of paper, as if it has been cut very closely with a fine razor.”
“Thank you, doctor. This book is no more than fifty years old. Some water damage has been inflicted on it and them most likely it was set to dry out in an oven so that the pages would be uneven and mottled. But I would wager that it was purchased from an antiquarian book dealer on Cecil Street within the past month, adulterated as required and placed on the shelf in the Musgrave library exactly where our client was bound to find it.”
“Your case,” I observed, “is becoming curiouser and curiouser.”
He had begun to rub his hands together in eager anticipation.
“It has indeed. And so, my friend, tomorrow and Wednesday, whilst you are at your medical practice, I shall gather such data as I can and then on Wednesday afternoon I shall make my way down to Sussex. I do hope you will be able to accompany me.”
“Headless ghosts could not keep me back.”
“Splendid, and kindly bring your service revolver with you.”
Chapter Three
The Data of the Case
AT THREE O’CLOCK on the Wednesday afternoon, I met Holmes on the platform of Victoria Station. The ride down to Sussex was a pleasant one, through small farms, grand estates, and the stretch of forest south of Crawley. Holmes was carrying a valise that I assumed was stuffed with his ‘data’ and I brought along a copy of Dickens’s collected ghost stories, which I considered quite condign for this adventure.
For the first hour, while daylight permitted, both of us read in silence. It being the final days of November, the sun set early and soon we were compelled to lay down our reading materials. I took advantage of the situation to engage my friend in conversation.
“Very well, Holmes. Yet another penny for your thoughts. What were you able to discover?”
He offered a quick, forced smiled and leaned back in his chair.
“I made quite successful visits to both Scotland Yard and The Times to inspect their files, to the Doctors’ Commons to review past wills of the Musgrave family, and to the West End theater district.”
The first three made sense; the last one not at all.
“The theaters?” I asked. “What was their possible connection?”
“You may recall, my friend, that in the first story you wrote concerning my investigations, the long and overly dramatic one you called A Study in Scarlet, that in your generous but exaggerated way you told your readers that the stage lost a fine actor when I became a specialist in crime.”
“I do indeed recall that.”
“That was very kind of you even if well beyond the bounds of accuracy but there was a short period of time when, as a young man, I turned my mind to strutting and fretting my hour upon the stage. Doing so bequeathed to me a very valuable knowledge of theatrical makeup and disguises as well as a few friendly acquaintances with whom I keep in contact from time to time. Like all actors, these chaps are excessively dramatic in their behavior and interests both on and off the stage and are quite thrilled when I ask them to assist in what appears to be a nefarious and juicy criminal case, as our present one most certainly is. They are all the more eager when I swear them to secrecy, knowing full well that they will not allow an hour to pass after our conversation before rushing to discuss the matter, in strictest confidence, of course, with the first colleague they encounter. And so, since our Uncle Rochester claimed to have spent the past three decades working in the theater, I sought to verify his account and get that item off my list of matters to be confirmed.”
“Really, Holmes. I would have thought you considered him rather trustworthy, given our Dickensian tests for proof of character.”
“He did indeed, but I have learned to follow the advice given recently by an American chap in Chicago who succinctly reminded us to “Trust, but cut the cards.” And so I asked my acquaintances if they knew of this fellow and if his account was factual.”
“Yes, and what did they say?”
“They confirmed that his claims were entirely truthful. He never made it as far as the leading theaters of the West End but played many roles in some of the better theaters in the Midlands and the North.”
I was tempted to remind Holmes that he would, under usual circumstances, deem the phrase ‘better theatres in the Midlands and the North’ to be a contradiction of terms given that he was convinced that all evidence of intelligent life vanished once an Englishman travelled north of Cambridge; however I held my tongue and continued to listen.
“Mr. Rochester Musgrave has played many leading and principal roles of characters young and old, rich and poor, hero and villain in Shakespeare, Marlowe, the rare Ben Jonson, Congreve, Sheridan, adaptations of your friend Charles Dickens, and most recently that Bulwer-Lytton chap whose stories are even more sensational than yours, if that were possible.”
I ignored the barb and let Holmes carry on.
“They made some passing comments about the way he lived. He had rich tastes, as they say, and always treated himself to excellent food and wine, a good night’s sleep in a select hotel or at least what passes for select in the Midlands and the North. His attire was always stylish and of good quality, as were his shoes. He never boarded a train without booking a first-class cabin. His personal expenses always exceeded his modest income from the theater, but he appeared to have other sources of money from rather high-risk investments in tea gardens in the colonies.”
“And his connection to your client?” I asked.
“As claimed. He is the scion of another line of the family, descending from his grandfather, who was the younger brother of the eldest son. Comfortably provided for, but the bulk of the Musgrave fortune came down through the older brother who was older by a matter of mere seconds.”
“Ah, they were twins?”
“Precisely, Watson. And like Jacob and Esau of old, the second emerged grasping the heel of the first, or the metaphorical equivalent.”
“And is the fortune as vast as reputed?”
“As much as or more so. Upon the death of his father, young Shaw Musgrave became one of the dozen or so wealthiest men in England. It is not without reason that Scotland Yard is highly suspicious and that the press have accused him without a shred of evidence; not that such a problem has ever impeded either of those two parties.”
“And the father? Billy the rich socialist? What do we know of him?”
“He had been a stalwart land-owner, father of two young boys, a respected Tory, and minor lord. That ended seven years ago when his wife up and left him claiming that one cannot help whom one falls in love with and that she had fallen for another man. The divorce was acrimonious, and she took the younger of the two boys with her, and there has been no communication at all between them since t
hat time other than through their barristers and solicitors. I did not bother to secure any more information about her since she appears to have been totally removed from the family, the estate, and all for Sussex for that matter, since then.”
“And what of his death? What did the police reports have to say?”
“Officially the cause was given as heart failure. Lord Billy had neglected his health for several years, had added considerably to his weight, placed no tax at all on his legs, arms, heart or lungs, and consumed copious amounts of gin. That he could have fallen over dead at any place and at any time was considered a distinct possibility.”
“Did you speak to Lestrade?”
“No, but I suspect he is feeling quite smug having tossed me a bone, that being a very rich client who needs to have his name cleared by a thorough investigation, which Lestrade is either too lazy, or too busy to do himself.”
“And where do we start?”
“Tomorrow we visit the estate and do a full inspection of the premises, including the library, the graveyard, and the crypt. I expect that it will be quite fascinating.”
We descended the train at Polegate, just north of Eastbourne, and hired a driver to take us to the village of Herstmonceux. He let us off an hour later just east of the village at the Horseshoe Inn, a small local inn, attempting a Tudor atmosphere, with a reputation for excellent breast of duck. As it was well into the evening by the time we arrived, we enjoyed our supper, chatted more about the case and all the questions Holmes needed to ask our clients, and then went off to sleep.
The next morning, we reassembled in the dining room and waited for the arrival of our full English breakfast. The large plates loaded with ‘fry-up’ had just been placed in front of us when Holmes glanced toward the doorway of the dining room.
“Uh oh, what have we here?” he said.
I turned and saw, entering the room, the familiar weak-chinned face of Inspector Lestrade, accompanied by a local constable. Lestrade’s eyes darted around the room and settled on Sherlock Holmes. As he made his way toward our table, I stuffed as much of my breakfast into my mouth as possible, fearing that it was likely all that I might get to eat of it.
“Well, well, well,” said Lestrade as he arrived at our table. “If it isn’t our beloved detective-for-hire, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I trust you are grateful, Holmes, for my sending you such a rich client. Wouldn’t want an amateur detective to go hungry, would we? Now, being a professional detective, I could guess why I am finding you in this forgotten corner of Sussex on a Thursday morning in November, but why don’t you spare me the mental effort and tell me.”
He sat down as he spoke and indicated to the constable to do likewise.
“Of course, Inspector Lestrade,” said Holmes with a forced smile, and then he proceeded to slowly load up his fork with a mixture of black pudding and egg and lift it to his mouth. He chewed it thoroughly before swallowing and followed it up with a sip of coffee.
“I am visiting my client,” he said and turned his attention back to his plate. Before ingesting another forkful, he smiled again at Lestrade and returned the question.
“And for what reason, my dear Inspector, do I find you here, given that you had elected not to investigate this case yourself but had directed Master Shaw Musgrave to seek my services instead?”
“I am here on account of one of my staff having come hammering on the door of my house at four o’clock this morning and telling me I had to get down to Sussex. Yet another strange death has taken place in the graveyard of Herstmonceux. That’s what brings me here, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes swallowed quickly and laid down his fork. “And who, might I bother you to ask, had died?”
“Some young lad named Master Shaw Musgrave. I believe that was the name of your client, was it not, Holmes? So terribly sorry that your fee now appears to be uncollectible. Seeing as I get paid by Her Majesty no matter what, I will not think any the less of you if you take the next train back to London and wait for a better case to show up at your door.”
Holmes retained his cool demeanor, but I could tell just looking at him that he was inwardly in turmoil. Nevertheless, he politely posed a question to Lestrade.
“Would you mind telling me what happened?”
“Not at all, seeing as how I do not know very much yet. Haven’t been over to look at him. Just got in here off the train myself, found the constable and came looking for breakfast and a place to stay the night. So, very well, Holmes, all games between us aside, this looks very suspicious, and I would invite your participation as you do seem to have a bent for these types of cases.”
He pulled his chair into the table and again motioned for the constable to do likewise and then he called over to the serving staff for two breakfasts. Relieved, I relaxed my pace and began to enjoy my bacon and fried bread.
“What little I know,” Lestrade went on, “is that he was seen in the early hours of the morning, hanging by a rope from a limb of an oak tree in the cemetery. One of the grounds staff, on his way home from the pub, spotted him and came running for Constable Duncan here. Now it’s a mile from the estate back into the village, and the chap is no great runner but he finds the constable, and they hitch up a dogcart and return. The constable takes a look and sets the groundskeeper as a watchman and hurries back to the village and sends a wire off to Scotland Yard. Then he returns to the place and looks around, careful not to disturb anything. On the ground, held down by a stone, just underneath the swaying feet is a note. What we all call a ‘suicide note’ of course. And here it is.”
He handed over a dirty piece of paper to Holmes, who read it and handed it on to me. It was written in a masculine hand and ran:
“My beloved father is gone. My fiancée has thrown me over. I am falsely accused of murder. My name will be shamed for the rest of my life. Death is my only choice.”
It was signed by Shavington Wentworth Brewster Musgrave.
“Eat up,” commanded Lestrade. “We will get down to the estate before the crowd of onlookers grows too large.”
Chapter Four
A Body of Evidence
LESTRADE SPOKE TOO SOON. By the time we reached the small graveyard at All Saints Church, adjacent to the manor house, there must have been sixty people standing along the low stone wall. Several of the estate staff, on instructions from Constable Duncan, had kept the crowd back and tried to preserve the site as untrammeled as possible. As we entered the gate, Holmes asked if we would wait for several minutes whilst he did an inspection of the grounds.
“All right, Holmes, but be quick about it,” said Lestrade. “We need to get him down and out of here before we have the whole village looking on.”
Holmes moved much more quickly than he usually did and looked over the ground in the immediate vicinity of the oak tree. Ten minutes later he gestured to us to join him.
“You may undo the rope and let him down. Perhaps we can take him into the church hall if the rector does not object.”
“If we give him a choice,” said Lestrade, “between his sanctuary and his hall, I am sure he will not object to the hall.”
The rope with which Shaw Musgrave had hung himself had been tied by one end to the trunk of the large, old tree. A small ladder was leaning against the trunk, permitting him to climb onto one of the lower, spreading branches and, carrying the rope, walk out until he was several yards away from the trunk and a good twenty feet above the ground. From there it was merely a matter of slipping the rope around his neck and stepping off. The fall and the immediate snap would likely have broken the neck and made the death relatively quick and painless.
The constable and a groundskeeper carefully untied the rope from the tree and, letting it out, lowered the body to the ground. Two more of the staff, who had apparently been organized by the diligent constable, brought out a stretcher and a sheet, lifted the body, covered it, and bore it to the door of the church hall. We followed and the crowd, seeing as they had witnessed as much as they were going to, b
egan to disperse, chatting amongst themselves as they did so. As the only medical man present, it fell to me to examine the body and determine, for official purposes, the cause of death.
During my service in the Afghan Campaign, I had examined countless bodies of young men. I was used to it, but it did not make the tragedy any the less when called upon to discern what events had been the immediate cause of the ending of a young life. Shaw Musgrave had only recently turned twenty years of age. Three days ago, he had sat in front of me, arrogant and under duress perhaps, but with an entire life ahead of him without a single worry for money or life’s necessities. Now, as the sheet was removed from his body, I was again looking at him but this time with a contorted and discolored face and a body that had soiled itself whilst hanging for several hours.
Over the next twenty minutes, I examined the deceased and scribbled in my notebook whilst doing so. When I had completed the sad task, I handed my notes to Sherlock Holmes. He read them over quickly and turned to Inspector Lestrade.
“Inspector,” he said, “this man was murdered.”
Lestrade slowly folded his arms across his chest and sighed. “I was afraid that is what you would say, Holmes. Very well, then, present your argument.”
“It is rather elementary, Inspector. I shall begin with the scene of the death and ask that my colleague convey the evidence from the body. The hanging was staged for dramatic effect. Now, there are from time to time suicides who have a flair for the dramatic, but not many. The deceased lived in a country manor house in which there are, no doubt, numerous hunting rifles and pistols. Blowing his brains out would have been infinitely easier. On the path leading to the oak tree, I could readily discern the footprints of Constable Duncan’s standard policeman’s boots and well as the softer soles of the grounds keeper who first found Master Shaw. There was another set of prints that led from the gate of the cemetery to the tree, except that they were facing the gate and sharply indented at the back of the heel. On either side of those prints were two small furrows about shoulder width apart. The story they told was of one man walking backward whilst dragging another man. Although the ground around the base of the tree was bare and soft, the steps of the ladder were spotless, not a trace of dirt, as you would expect had a maid wiped it down and put it back in the closet after its last use. The rope was half an inch thick, and a fully constructed hangman’s noose was fashioned at the end of it. Now, knowing how to tie a hangman’s noose it no secret, but neither is it common knowledge, and it is not taught in the public schools to sons of wealthy landowners. I will now yield the floor to my colleague, Dr. Watson.”
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies - Collection Five: New Sherlock Holmes Mysteries - Second Edition Page 19