Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 11

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Cuff was shown into the sitting room where Emilia Barrett was reclining on a chaise longue by the window. He was once again reminded how plain a girl she was. Her features, tending towards the plump, were bland in the extreme with small eyes and a nose that seemed too small for her face. She made a movement as though to rise but seemed to think better of it.

  “Mr Cuff or rather Sergeant Cuff as we all think of you, how nice to see you.”

  “The feeling is mutual, Miss Barrett. I hope I don’t disturb you.”

  “Of course not. Do take a seat.”

  Rather than sit on the large sofa facing the girl, Cuff dragged a chair up towards the chaise longue.

  “I know this is a sad time for you. Losing your father . . .”

  Emilia Barrett put her hand to her mouth and stifled a little sob. Cuff noticed the dark blemishes – bruises, indeed – that mottled her wrist. “Yes,” she said, tearily. “Sad and strange. To be honest I have a mixture of emotions coursing through me at present. To lose my beloved father and yet gain the love of my life in the same period . . .”

  Cuff’s apparent lack of comprehension prompted the girl to explain further.

  “Mr Dawson and I are to be married in a few days’ time. He was a dear friend before my father’s unfortunate accident, but he has been such a great support to me since and we have grown very close.”

  Cuff tried hard to conceal his surprise at this news. “I . . . I am most happy for you, my dear.”

  “Thank you. This house needs a master as well as a mistress and Mr Dawson will make an excellent job of managing our domestic affairs. Fortunately my father has left me comfortably off.”

  Cuff nodded, but made no comment.

  Miss Barrett turned her gaze on her visitor. It was sharp and piercing. “And so what is the purpose of your visit, Sergeant Cuff?”

  “Just to enquire after your health, my dear. What with your father’s passing and . . .”

  “And?” The voice rose in tone and hardened.

  “Well, poor Annie Lincoln told me that she had seen you in the village and you . . . you looked far from well.”

  “Oh, that old busybody. I am as well as can be expected. I am in mourning of course and that certainly affects one’s pallor and demeanour.”

  “Of course. I called only out of neighbourly concern. Just to be sure that you are . . . safe.”

  Miss Barrett looked at Cuff for a moment. “Safe,” she murmured and then forced a smile. “Of course. I assure you there is no need for concern.” She rearranged her dress awkwardly and then turned her attention to the window through which she could glimpse the garden. It was an act of dismissal. Cuff acted upon it. He rose, replaced the chair and backed towards the door.

  “I’ll take up no more of your time,” he said. “I am pleased to see you are bearing up nicely. And . . . er . . . congratulations on the forthcoming nuptials.”

  “Thank you,” she replied softly, still viewing the garden.

  Cuff made his way down the hall but stopped outside one of the rooms where the door was slightly ajar. He heard a movement within. He knew he had to enter. Such instincts always guided him.

  The room was a small library and he discovered a young man sitting in a leather armchair holding a large glass of whisky to his lips. It was Albert Dawson.

  “Oh, I am sorry to disturb you. I thought I would find Buckley in here.”

  Dawson peered at him. The watery, bleary eyes clearly indicated that the man was drunk.

  “He’s not here. Who are you?”

  “Just one of the villagers paying a visit on Miss Barrett.”

  “Good for you.”

  “I believe congratulations are in order.”

  Dawson’s brow puckered. “What?”

  “Your forthcoming marriage.”

  “Oh, that. Yes. Hooray for the nuptials, what?”

  “I am sure you will be very happy.”

  Dawson gave a strange laugh which was tinged with bitterness. “Do you? Well, cheers then.” He took a drink before turning away.

  Cuff left him and made his way home, his mind awhirl with conflicting thoughts.

  That evening, Cuff and Holmes dined at the old policeman’s cottage on rabbit pie and cider while they each related their adventures of the day, piecing together what evidence they had gleaned.

  “Well,” said Cuff after the plates had been scraped clean and he sat back by the fire with his old clay pipe, “I am more convinced than ever that there is some strange game afoot.”

  “Indeed, no doubt about that,” flashed Holmes eagerly, consulting his notebook in which he had jotted down all the relevant details concerning the case. “As I see it, we have two mysterious deaths: Annie Lincoln and Judge Barrett. The strange behaviour of Barrett’s daughter and her fiancé help to suggest that his death is as suspect as the old woman’s. We know that Dawson is a thief and now has no income. It would be very fortuitous for him to marry the heiress to Barrett’s fortune.”

  Cuff nodded in agreement. “Once the judge was out of the way.”

  “A gentle push.”

  “Indeed. Dawson obviously found it easy to woo such a plain girl as Emilia. Probably done so he can get his hand on her inheritance.”

  “That theory fits the facts, certainly,” said Holmes thoughtfully. “But you’ve stated that Emilia is far from being a shrinking violet. Could she be coerced into agreeing such a plan?”

  “Not coerced, Master Sherlock, but threatened. Remember the bruises.”

  Holmes pursed his lips and nodded. Cuff could see that the youth was not quite convinced by this theory. “Whatever happened, Annie Lincoln may have suspected the truth and paid with her life.”

  Cuff puffed on his pipe and nodded.

  “We need to know more about Judge Barrett’s death,” said Holmes at length.

  “You are right. We require more data. We cannot make bricks without clay. Let’s ponder on this further and make plans on the morrow. And now,” he scooped his pocket watch from out of his waistcoat pocket and scrutinized the face, “you’d best be off or your aunt will wonder what on earth has happened to you. Call round at nine in the morning.”

  Reluctantly Sherlock Holmes took his leave of his new friend.

  It was a warm moonlit night and as Holmes reached the crossroads at the far end of the village, instead of turning right on to the road home, on impulse he turned left and made his way towards Botham Lodge. All the disparate facts of this mystery were floating about in his brain and he focused on both the practical sides of the investigation, while allowing his imagination to provide bridges between them. Gradually he built up a very convincing picture of what he believed had actually happened, one that did not quite tie in with Cuff’s theory. Dawson’s character was the key and this bothered him. Cuff’s encounter with the fellow at the Lodge and that clerk’s assessment of Dawson as “a spineless cowardly mouse” failed to fit Cuff’s assessment of this case. Holmes now believed that he saw the matter more clearly. His face grew taut with excitement and he quickened his pace. All he needed was some further clear evidence to support his assumptions. “No,” he murmured, correcting himself. “They are not assumptions; they are deductions.” He grinned broadly at his use of the word.

  He made his way up the driveway of the Lodge, taking care to keep close to the foliage at the side and in the shadows in case he was seen. He passed the gate to the walled rose garden, and as he rounded the bend, the great house loomed up, a dark silhouette against the starlit sky. There were several lighted rooms downstairs, including one with a large bow window that overlooked the lawned garden. He crept closer to this, crouching down as he did so. Cautiously he peered over the lip of the windowsill into the room. It was occupied by two people whom Holmes judged to be Emilia Barrett and Arthur Dawson. What he witnessed made his heart beat faster and his eyes sparkle with excitement. It confirmed that he had been right.

  He turned to go but froze as he heard a noise in the shrubbery nearby. Was it
a nocturnal animal? he wondered. The answer to his question came in the form of a blow to the head. Darkness flooded his senses and he collapsed to the ground.

  When Sherlock Holmes woke, with a thundering headache, he found himself lying on the floor of a small attic room where the glimmer of dawn could be observed faintly through a small dusty window high above him. As his mind shook off the torpor of unconsciousness, he realized that his hands were tied behind him by a thin, coarse rope. With some effort he managed to pull himself to his feet, his head spinning slightly with the effort. Unfortunately, the window was too high for him to peer out of and even if he could have tried to open the door, he was certain that it would be locked.

  He was a prisoner.

  What on earth was going to happen next, he asked himself.

  The answer came quickly. He heard footsteps outside the room and the key turning in the lock. The door opened slowly to reveal Albert Dawson.

  “Hello, old chap,” he said softly. “I’m glad to see you’re awake. I’ve brought you some water.” He held out a glass.

  “I am afraid I am somewhat encumbered,” said Holmes, turning round and raising his bound hands.

  “Of course. So sorry.” Placing the glass of water on the floor, Dawson proceeded to untie Holmes. He had just managed to loosen the bonds when Emilia Barrett appeared in the doorway behind them. She was carrying a pistol.

  “What on earth do you think you are doing, Albert?”

  “Letting the boy free. This thing has gone too far, Emilia. You cannot go on harming people to satisfy your desires.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “I can do whatever I want,” she snapped, her face flushing with anger. “As well you know it. Don’t think you can start taking the law into your own hands now.” She turned her attention to Holmes, with an expression of malice. “It seems we have another busybody like old Annie Lincoln here. Poking and prying into other people’s affairs. He will have to learn her lesson that snooping is bad for the health.”

  “He’s only a young boy.”

  “But a dangerous one, eh, Miss Barrett?” said Holmes, dropping the ropes that bound his wrists to the floor. “One who knows the truth.”

  She sneered and gave a little laugh. “And what is the truth?”

  “That you murdered your father to get your hands on his fortune, and then Annie Lincoln when you realized she suspected the truth. You bullied Mr Dawson here into going along with your plans, promising him half the fortune that would become yours on your father’s death as long as he married you. You were desperate for a husband. You saw your youth slipping away and there were no respectable suitors on the horizon. Dawson was desperate for money and so he complied.”

  “A very nice fairy story. I don’t know where you get your ideas from.”

  “Annie saw your bruises and thought at first it was Mr Dawson who was ill-treating you. But then she must have observed your treatment of him and put two and two together.”

  “To what end?”

  “You are the violent one, not Mr Dawson here. You gained those bruises as you fought with your father at the top of the staircase when you managed to push him all the way down, breaking his neck.”

  “Clever little fellow, aren’t you?”

  “You learned that Annie had worked this out, too, so she had to be silenced.”

  Emilia nodded. “Just like I’m going to silence you.” There was madness in her features now as she raised the pistol and aimed it at Holmes.

  “No, no. You cannot do this, Emilia,” Dawson cried, stepping forward to shield Holmes.

  “You fool, stand aside.”

  Dawson shook his head. “Not this time. All too often I’ve bowed to your demands and let you have your cruel way. I will not let you kill this young boy.”

  He rushed forward and made a grab for the pistol. His hand fell on Emilia Barrett’s wrist and the gun went off, the bullet embedding itself into the wooden floorboard with a dull thud.

  “Get away from me, you fool,” cried Emilia as Dawson struggled with her. The pistol went off again and both figures froze. They remained immobile for a few seconds and then with a groan, Emilia Barrett fell to the floor, a bright crimson mark staining the front of her dress. While Dawson gaped in horror, Holmes knelt down and cradled the girl’s head with one hand and felt for her pulse with another. He could not find one.

  “Oh, my God!” cried Dawson. “Is she dead?”

  “Yes, I fear so,” said Holmes.

  Dawson dropped to his knees and began sobbing. “What have I done? What have I done?”

  Holmes observed another figure standing on the threshold of the room. It was Buckley the butler. His eyes wide with horror on seeing the grim tableau inside.

  “I think you’d better let me go now and inform the police,” said Holmes firmly, approaching the butler.

  Buckley opened his mouth to speak but for some time shock robbed him of speech. Eventually, he was able to nod his head. It was clear to the young sleuth that Buckley was another fragile pawn in Emilia Barrett’s game. It must have been Buckley who had hit him over the head last night.

  Holmes hurried from the room and within minutes he was flying down the drive of Botham Lodge. As he reached the gateway, he almost collided with Cuff.

  “Ah, there you are,” cried the old policeman. “I’ve had your aunt on my doorstep early this morning wondering where the heavens you were after not getting back last night. She’s been terribly worried about you. I might have known you’d be snooping up at the Lodge.”

  “There’s been a tragedy,” cried Holmes, almost out of breath. “We need to get the police.”

  “I think after all your efforts, you deserve a taste of real ale rather than tame lemonade,” chuckled Cuff as he placed a pint pot on the kitchen table in his old cottage. It was late afternoon and the sun was streaming through the tiny windows of the cottage. Dust motes danced merrily in the fierce beams.

  Sherlock Holmes smiled but then looked apprehensively at the foaming beer.

  “Come on lad, get some down you. You’ve a tale to tell.”

  Holmes took a drink and smiled.

  “You saw more than I did,” confessed Cuff. “I want to know how you reached your conclusions.

  “Well,” said Holmes, after a brief pause, as he assembled his thoughts, “we both believed that there was dark mischief afoot and that Annie Lincoln had been drowned because she had discovered that Judge Barrett had been murdered. It certainly looked like handsome Albert Dawson had agreed to marry plain Emilia, the judge’s daughter, on the proviso that he could share the judge’s fortune.”

  Cuff nodded. “Agreed. And that fortune would only be available once the judge was dead.”

  “And so he was killed. And it would seem obvious that Dawson would be the perpetrator of that deed. But certain things troubled me about that conclusion. I remembered what the clerk at Gammidge and Brown called him: “a spineless, cowardly mouse”. A mouse, note you. He wasn’t even elevated to status of a rat. Just a feeble, skulking timid creature. You also related how Dawson seemed an ineffectual drunk. Certainly he needed money and saw an easy way to get it through marriage to Emilia, but had he the brains to plan such a deed and the courage to carry it out? I thought not. When I went up to Botham Lodge last night and looked through the window, I had the proof I needed.”

  Cuff leaned forward eagerly in anticipation but said nothing.

  “I saw Emilia standing over Dawson berating him about something, and at one point in her tirade she hit him across the face. He cowered under her attack. The man was obviously dominated by her.”

  “He was her puppet.”

  “Exactly. She was the strong one. The one who pushed old Annie Lincoln into the village pond. After all, Emilia, a long-time resident, would know all about Annie’s prying ways. Probably the wily old bird had seen Emilia bossing Dawson or even ill-treating him and put two and two together.”

  “And the bruises on Emilia’s wrists?”

&nb
sp; “No doubt they were the result of her frantic struggle when she grappled with her father on the top of the stairs before she managed to push him to his death.”

  “The heartless creature.”

  “Indeed, she was. She ruled that household, make no mistake about it. Even Buckley was in her thrall. When he knocked me out – thinking I was an intruder – she decided that I must die also.”

  “The woman was mad.”

  Holmes nodded. “I think she was. How she hoped to explain my death . . . It was my imprisonment that was the last straw for Dawson. I think he was about to allow me to escape.”

  “Well, Emilia Barrett met her just desserts in the same violent manner as she dealt it out to others. And the law will deal with Albert Dawson and Buckley. They may have been reluctant associates but they were in effect accomplices to murder and they must pay the penalty.”

  Holmes took another gulp of ale. He found he rather liked it. “Five lives ruined because of one woman’s desire for a husband and wealth.”

  Cuff flashed his young companion a bitter smile. “You’ve learned a valuable lesson, Master Sherlock: human nature can be cruel, dark and corrupt. You’ll find that more and more as you pursue your detective career.”

  Holmes beamed. “So you think I have the makings of a good sleuth.”

  “I do indeed. You were able discover why poor old Annie Lincoln was murdered, to discover the secret of the dead and solve the case with a flourish. I raise my pot in a toast to you. Here’s to Sherlock Holmes, master detective.”

  They both laughed before draining their drinks.

  Cuff walked his new young friend to the garden gate as dusk was falling.

  “You love your garden, don’t you?” said Holmes softly.

  “I do. I shall be glad to get back to it. I reckon this will be my last investigation. I’m happy to turn my thoughts and attention to my beloved roses. They are special, y’know. Our highest assurance of the goodness of Providence seems to rest in the flowers. All other things, our powers, our desires, our food, are really necessary for our existence. But a rose, a beautiful rose, is an extra. Its smell, its colour are an embellishment of life, not a condition of it. It is only goodness that gives extras, and so I say we have much to hope from the flowers. Remember that.”