Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 11

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Very smart and hitting the bull’s eye. What about the dog?”

  “There is a blue rubber ball in the hearth. It is pitted with teeth marks, probably made by a small dog in play. Adhering to both your trouser legs are some stray hairs which I would surmise are of the canine variety. They are white, which suggests an old dog. There is no sign of a creature now so it seems appropriate to surmise that he has only recently died.”

  Cuff nodded. “Sammy, my little Jack Russell. I had to have him put down last week. Liver disease.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “But that was a master class.”

  “I’m afraid it’s second nature to me. I see, observe and reach conclusions. I suspect it is the same with you.”

  “Not quite. I have a natural facility for taking notice but I had to train myself to interpret what I see.”

  “Not many unsolved crimes here though.”

  “Maybe. But if the truth be known I’m puzzling on a little matter at the moment.”

  “An investigation?”

  “Not exactly. It may just be my fancy . . .”

  “Do tell me about it.”

  Cuff shook his head. “No. As I say it may be something and nothing.”

  Holmes leaned forward over the table, coming perilously close to knocking his mug of tea over. “But if it’s not . . . Wouldn’t it be useful to explain your thoughts out loud? It might help you to reach some conclusions.”

  “Explain my thoughts . . . to you?”

  “Yes. Who better? A relative stranger. Besides I am intelligent and . . . I believe I have the makings of a great detective.”

  Cuff burst out laughing.

  “I’m only fifteen but in ten years’ time I expect to have established myself as an important detective in London.”

  Cuff retained his amusement. “King of Scotland Yard, eh?”

  “Oh, no. I intend to be a private consulting detective.”

  “Ah, solving the problems of the rich.”

  “No, my fees will be reasonable. The crimes will be what will determine whether I take the case or not. So try me out. Tell me about your little matter.”

  Cuff paused for a moment and scrutinized this odd youth once more. “Why not? If nothing else it’ll teach you that sorting the wheat from the chaff in crime is no easy matter. Right then. There was a death in the village last week.”

  “A murder?”

  “If you are going to interrupt me at every verse end, I’ll clam up, Master Sherlock.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It was regarded as an accident. Old Annie Lincoln was found drowned in the village pond. It was assumed that she was making her way home after dark, missed her footing and fell in.”

  “But you’re not sure.”

  Cuff shook his head.

  “Evidence to the contrary?”

  “Very little. Annie has lived in the village all her life. It seems strange to me to believe she’d be foolish enough to fall in the pond. I reckon she could have walked around the place blindfold without putting a step wrong. I saw her in the afternoon of the day she died. She was in a hurry but she stopped briefly to talk to me. She said she’d call in at my cottage the next day because there was something that was troubling her and as I was ‘an old policeman’ she wanted to see what I thought.”

  “She gave no clue as to this thing that was troubling her?”

  “Not really. She was in such a hurry, I didn’t have the chance to question her. She was off like the wind. Her last words to me were, ‘See you in the morning.’”

  “But by the morning she was dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you think that . . . perhaps her death wasn’t exactly . . . natural. That perhaps she was . . . murdered.”

  “It sounds so brutal, so ridiculous when you say it out loud.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind.”

  Holmes wriggled in his chair, his dark hair falling across his brow. “Oh, this is most interesting. Have you any idea what she was going to tell you?”

  “Not a clue.”

  Holmes was not convinced by this response. Cuff’s wrinkled features were immobile but the slight furtive movement of those still bright light grey eyes suggested to the youth that the old man was not being completely honest.

  “What was Annie like as person?”

  “She was a busybody and a gossip. Nothing happened in this village that she didn’t know about. If Mrs Matthews’s cat had kittens Annie would know. When Parson Phillips received a small inheritance from a distant aunt, it seemed that Annie was cognisant of the fact almost as soon as the cleric himself. She had a keen nose for finding things out.”

  “So she may very well have discovered something of significance that put her in danger.”

  “If that is the case, she didn’t quite know how dangerous it was.”

  “Were you the usual audience for her tales?”

  “No, not really. That’s another thing that makes me suspicious. I reckon she wanted to tell me because of my history – because I’d been a detective, a solver of crimes. She always referred to me as ‘Sergeant C’.”

  “When you saw her, did you notice where she was going?”

  Cuff thought for a moment. “I really didn’t take much notice at the time. To be honest, I saw no real importance in what she told me. I expected that she wanted to be the first to reveal who was expecting a child or whose marriage was in difficulties.” He closed his eyes as though bringing the moment to mind. “She could have been going to the village shop . . . or maybe to see Doctor Randle—” Cuff suddenly let out a short exhalation of breath. “Yes, it would be to see the medic.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “She walked oddly. I’ll bet her old rheumatism was playing up. When you get into the sear and yellow like me, you recognize such symptoms in others.”

  Holmes thought for a moment, assimilating all the information he’d learned from Cuff. “If this lady was an inveterate busybody who, it would seem, had some very interesting gossip to pass on to you—”

  Cuff finished Holmes’s thought. “Might she not tell the doctor as he was doling out his pills?”

  Holmes beamed. “Exactly.”

  “I think you may be right. Anyway, a quick chat with Randle will clear that matter up. Would you like to come along with me?”

  “I certainly would,” cried Holmes rising from his chair. “But first, I think there is something that you haven’t told me. Something that makes you think that Annie had dangerous information and that her death may not be an accident.”

  Cuff stroked his chin. “You’re a canny lad. Maybe you will be king of Scotland Yard or some other famous detective after all.”

  Holmes tried to restrain his smile but failed. “Well . . . ?” he said gently.

  “Annie’s was the second death in the village within the month. Andrew Barrett also met with an unexpected accident. Well, perhaps not quite unexpected in one sense. He fell headlong down his staircase when in drink and broke his neck. He was frequently in drink so there were only a few raised eyebrows, including mine, on hearing the news. But now one begins to wonder. Two accidental deaths in one small village in a matter of weeks. Is it a dark coincidence or is there human treachery afoot?”

  Cuff locked his front door and he and Holmes made their way to the village green. “Andrew Barrett was a retired judge. He lived in that imposing Georgian house on the outskirts of the village, Botham Lodge. You’ll have seen the large stone gateposts to the long drive as you came into the village. He lived there with his daughter Emilia. Apparently she has formed a romantic attachment to Albert Dawson, a newcomer to the village. Quite the whirlwind affair.”

  “Can you think of any circumstances in which there might have been foul play?”

  “I’m an old policeman, Master Sherlock, of course I can think of several but they’d all be fancy without some hint of tangible evidence or some clue.”

&n
bsp; “Well, perhaps Doctor Randle can provide it.”

  If Sherlock Holmes were in the theatre business and he wished to cast an actor as a village doctor in one of his plays, he would have chosen someone who looked exactly like Doctor Joshua Randle. He was a gentleman of middle height, plump around the middle, with rosy cheeks, and a pair of twinkling grey eyes which peered nonchalantly from behind a pair of golden pince-nez. His hair, sandy in colour but going grey, gave the impression of exploding from his scalp. It stood wildly on end as though it had not seen a brush or a comb in many a day. He appeared kindly but astute, amenable but no fool.

  The doctor seemed bemused to find both Cuff and a young stranger entering his surgery.

  “Good day to you,” he said, rising from his chair and offering his hand to Cuff. “What can I do for you? You’re not both ill?”

  Cuff shook his head. “This is a young friend of mine, Sherlock Holmes. We are both in the pink, Doctor. We come for a rather different purpose than our health. Together we’re a little puzzled over the death of Annie Lincoln.”

  “Really? Well, she drowned, you know. In the village pond. A very sad occurrence.”

  “Indeed,” said Cuff. “Did she visit you on the day she died?”

  Randle narrowed his eyes and looked a little wary. “She did.”

  “Rheumatism?”

  “Up to your old detective tricks, eh, Cuff? Yes, she had bad attacks quite often. She was a regular customer of mine. I gave her some powders to alleviate the pain. It’s a condition that cannot be cured, you know.”

  “I do know. Annie was a real teller of tales.”

  “Aye, she was.”

  “Did she confide any gossip when she visited you?”

  “Oh yes, often. She had all kinds of silly theories about people.”

  “What about on her last visit to you?”

  Randle frowned. “What is this all about?”

  Holmes, frustrated at this circumlocution, took a step forward. “We think perhaps Annie was pushed into the pond. Drowned deliberately because she knew something. We think she may have told you what she knew.”

  It was clear to Cuff from Randle’s expressions that he didn’t know whether to smile or grow angry. “Is this some kind of jest?” he asked.

  “No”, said Cuff. “My rather impetuous young friend is right. Did Annie have some juicy gossip to relate when you saw her? Believe me, Doctor, this is not an idle enquiry.”

  Randle scratched his head. “This is all very strange. The truth is, Cuff, that I often do not listen to my patients when they ramble on about things not connected with their ailments.”

  “It may have been something about old Judge Barrett,” said Holmes.

  Randle narrowed his eyes and scrutinized the strange youth who seemed to have an unnatural confidence and maturity.

  “She said nothing directly about Judge Barrett as I recall. She did however . . . No, no. I do not see it my place to repeat such things.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to if it wasn’t important. You have my word on that,” said Cuff, lowering his tone to emphasize the seriousness of the matter. Holmes thought it a most impressive ploy.

  Randle stroked his chin pensively for a moment. “Oh, very well. It is something and nothing after all. Annie asked if Emilia, the judge’s daughter, had been to see me about her bruises. Apparently Annie had observed that the girl had some nasty marks on her wrists. I think that she was suggesting that Emilia had received some rough treatment from that young man of hers.”

  “Albert Dawson.”

  Randle nodded.

  “Had Annie seen this ‘rough treatment’?”

  “She implied that she had and that she believed there was something not right about Judge Barrett’s death. I believe that she’d done a bit of spying.”

  “What gave you that idea?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s not what she said but how she said it. I got the impression that she’d been seen by Miss Barrett and Dawson. But as I say I let all this tittle-tattle wash over my head.”

  “Regarding Judge Barrett’s death, I gather you attended to the body,” said Cuff.

  Randle’s face adopted a more sober mien. “Yes, I did. A sad business. The fellow drank too much, I know, but he didn’t deserve such a fate.”

  “Can you tell us about it?”

  “For what purpose, Cuff? Are you manufacturing mysteries out of people’s accidental deaths?”

  “Just trying to get at the truth. Please indulge us.”

  Randle sighed resignedly. “Very well. What do you want to know?”

  “Exactly how he died,” piped up Holmes.

  “Late one evening Emilia sent me a message saying that her father had had an accident and could I go up to the Lodge immediately. I did so and found the judge lying at the bottom of the stairs with his neck broken. Emilia said that he’d been drinking heavily and had tripped and fallen the full length of the staircase.”

  “Was Albert Dawson present?”

  Randle shook his head. “I’m not sure. I only saw Emilia and Buckley the butler. It was he who brought me the message.”

  “How was the judge dressed?” asked Holmes. “Was he in his night attire?”

  “No. He was dressed for dinner and he did smell heavily of alcohol. Now gentlemen, if you don’t mind, I have real patients waiting to see me . . .”

  “What do you know of this Albert Dawson?” asked Sherlock Holmes as he nursed a glass of lemonade between his hands. He and Cuff were sitting on a bench outside the Shoulder of Mutton in the warm sunshine.

  Cuff wiped a thin moustache of beer froth from his upper lip before answering. “Not much. I believe he is a solicitor with a firm in York, Gammidge and Brown if my memory serves me right. I’ve never met him personally. Just seen him in the distance. He’s only been in the village six months or so. It certainly seemed as though he made a beeline for young Emilia. Well, not so young. She must be approaching thirty now. A sturdy lass but rather plain, if you catch my meaning. Since her father’s death, Dawson seems to have spent most of his time at Botham Lodge. It’s raised the eyebrows of some of the ladies of the village.”

  “If he is courting her, why would he ill-treat her?”

  “That, my dear Holmes, is the key question.”

  The next day found Sherlock Holmes on an investigative mission on his own. He had travelled to York to seek out the firm of Gammidge and Brown where Albert Dawson was employed. After some fruitless perambulations around the old city, he discovered their offices down a side street near the Minster.

  On entering the gloomy building he found himself in an outer office where a young clerk – not much older than himself – sat perched on a high stool at a wooden desk scratching away at a large ledger.

  The youth’s face folded into a superior sarcastic sneer as he observed Holmes.

  “Yes?” he asked in an imperious manner.

  Rather than being intimidated, Holmes was rather amused by the air of self-importance that the young man had wrapped around himself.

  “I wish to see Albert Dawson,” he said simply.

  “Do you now? Are you a friend of his?”

  “I wish to see him on business.”

  “And what kind of business is that then? Embezzling business?”

  “I’m sorry,” replied Holmes, appearing more confused than he actually was. His quick brain responding instantly to the clerk’s brusque intimation, which prompted a series of potential scenarios to flash into Holmes’s mind.

  “Embezzling business,” repeated the sneering clerk. “He’s good at that is Dawson. Well, actually not all that good. You see he got caught. Fiddling the funds. He was damned lucky he didn’t get choky for it but we didn’t want that kind of stink associated with the firm. He just got sacked instead. He was a spineless, cowardly mouse. Good riddance, I say. So, I’m afraid you can’t see Albert Dawson ’cause he ain’t here.”

  Holmes smiled. “Thanks for your help,” he said smartly, turning on hi
s heel and leaving.

  * * *

  While Holmes was on his mission in York, Cuff was carrying out an investigation of his own. He had decided to visit Botham Lodge to see Emilia Barrett. As he walked down the tree-lined drive with his stiff arthritic gait, he wondered what he would say when he rapped upon the door. He had only the vaguest of ideas of how he would provide a reason to secure an interview with the girl.

  As he neared the house, he paused by an iron gate to peruse the walled garden beyond. It was a riot of roses, his favourite bloom. As he breathed in the warm scent on the summer air, he relaxed and for a brief time all troubled thoughts left his mind. With some difficulty he pulled himself back to the task in hand.

  Moments later he rang the bell at Botham Lodge. The door was opened by the old butler, Buckley.

  “I’ve called upon Miss Emilia concerning a matter of the greatest import,” Cuff said sotto voce.

  “I am afraid the mistress is resting,” came the response.

  Cuff smiled and leaning forward touched the old retainer’s arm. “Come on Buckley, it’s me, Cuff, not some stranger calling out of the blue. Did you hear what I said? ‘A matter of the greatest import.’ Private and serious. In those circumstances, you shouldn’t be preventing me from seeing your mistress, should you?”

  Buckley failed to hide his discomfiture, his features clearly mirroring his indecision. Cuff stared past the butler into the gloom of the house and caught sight of a dark figure skulking at the far end of the hallway. It was Albert Dawson who, aware that he had been observed, disappeared quickly into the shadows.

  “You place me in a difficult situation, Mr Cuff,” said Buckley, at length. “Stand in the hall, please, and I will relay your sentiments to my mistress.”

  Cuff gave the old retainer a warm nod of thanks and did as he was requested, closing the door behind him.

  The butler returned some minutes later with the announcement that, “Miss Barrett has agreed to see you.”