“That’s right. He got rid of most of that property in the past year or so. Told his bank manager that he was turning assets into cash because he had a big deal in mind and would need the currency. He still owned his house and he had one racehorse, which the trainer’s taking in lieu of training fees and stabling owed. The lawyer’s agreed to it. He sold the apartments and the shops last year, sold all but one car—which that woman gets—and the rest is cash. The house can be sold if the main beneficiary prefers; there’s no stipulation that she has to live in it. So she’s going to get near three hundred thousand pounds—more if she doesn’t want the house.”
I gasped. “If she knew that, she’d have a motive.”
“That’s so, Doctor. But as Mr. Holmes said, it looks as if they’ve not been in contact for twenty years. If that’s right, she can have no idea of what she’s been left.”
Holmes looked at him. “She may have known where he was. That he has not been in contact with her does not prove the reverse, Harrison.”
“No, sir, it doesn’t, and I’ll keep it in mind when we find her. I’ll have questions to ask once she proves she’s Irene Jarvis, and she’ll answer them. That is, she will if she wants the money.”
“You may find her answers more enlightening on the subject of Gerald Wimbledon,” Holmes said.
“Yes. She has to know who he originally was. I admit that for myself, I’m eager to discover his true identity,” Harrison said. He picked up his hat and gathered the wills, tucking them carefully away in their different envelopes. “I must be going, gentlemen. Always work to do, as you know.”
We bid him goodbye and were left contemplating the case to date. Who could have killed Gerald Wimbledon, I wondered. He seemed to have had no genuine friends, merely friendly acquaintances, all of who liked him—or said they did—save perhaps those five men, but Harrison was sure they had not realized how they’d been cheated. Wimbledon had left money to two men who swore they didn’t know him personally, two servants, a lady who’d almost certainly been an inamorata, and the remainder to a woman who couldn’t be found. He’d not been altogether bad, for whatever else he’d done he’d treated his dog well, and seen to it that on his death it would find a good home. Many supposedly better men could not say as much.
There was no doubt he’d been murdered, not when the weapon that killed him had been found so far from the body, and it seemed to me most likely he’d been killed by someone who knew him and who had been in the house a number of times. Someone he’d trusted, so that even when they produced a gun he’d made no attempt to flee or attack. I reached for the newspaper. There might be something new about Wimbledon in the latest issue.
3
The newspapers were vociferous on the subject of Gerald Barnes Wimbledon, but it was no more than much speculation and a repetition of the few known facts. I laid my paper down and queried Holmes, who assured me that his was similar.
“So this hide that Johnson may have made. I wonder where it might be.”
“Nowhere the servants are likely to find it,” Holmes said thoughtfully. “And it is possible that whatever else he may have within this hide, he will have a weapon.”
It struck me forcibly. “Holmes! Could it be that this is where the gun that killed him was kept? That is, could he have kept one weapon in the hide, and the other with him, and sometimes they were exchanged?”
He considered that. “A good idea, Watson. It is possible. Harrison needs to discover the antecedents of the gun they found. I’ll send him a note at once.”
He did so and it brought Harrison to our door late that afternoon. He came in looking as wilted as any lettuce from the heat and was happy to accept a long, cool drink after doffing his hat and jacket.
“Phew, that’s better.” He drained half the glass of iced lemonade and sighed. I smiled and refilled his glass as we waited for him to speak. He groaned. “This heat! It’s the hottest summer I recall, and this case doesn’t help. I tell you, gentlemen, it’s a black mystery. I made enquiries as you suggested, Mr. Holmes, and yes, the gun did belong to the victim. The one we found near him, by your own tests, is the one that killed him. His servants say they never saw but the one at a time. However, we found where it had been purchased and the gunsmith says that he bought three identical weapons, in fact.” Harrison gazed mournfully at us. “Three guns, and one yet missing.”
“I venture that it may be found in this hide,” Holmes said.
“Likely, sir, most likely, but we can’t find that either. I’ve had half a dozen constables searching all over the house, but have found no sign.”
“Johnson is no help?”
“Johnson,” Harrison said bitterly, “is no aid to us whatsoever and has no desire to be. He’s an old man—he says.” Here the inspector imitated an elderly man of a certain type and class who disliked the police and enjoyed being uncooperative. “He puts in many hides for a large number of folk—he says. He can’t be expected to remember them all—he says. And no, ’e don’t keep no records, that’s the whole idea of a secret hide—he says.” He slumped despondently in his chair. “I’d like to shake the old villain until his teeth rattle, but all I’d get for that will be more lies and a dressing-down from my superiors over ill-treating a civilian.”
I laughed. “Yet Mr. Holmes did have a thought on where the hide might be.”
Harrison sat up. “Anything, Mr. Holmes. Any idea you can offer would be much appreciated.”
My friend rose to his feet. “Then let us go at once to the house. It will be of more use to you if I make my deductions there so that you can test at once if they be valid.”
Harrison snatched up his hat and leapt to his feet, seizing and donning his jacket. “By heavens, I shall be eternally in your debt if you can solve this, sir. By all means, let us go now.”
He plunged into the hall and made for the door, with us at his heels. I was amused at his enthusiasm, but then he was an excellent thief-taker, was Harrison. He loved his work and hated for there to be any mystery left unraveled.
We arrived at the house and halted outside to look at the building. I noticed that a chimney had come down recently. I wasn’t surprised, for the wind a few days earlier had been ferocious and I’d heard that a number of buildings had been damaged. I pointed at where the bricks had been tidied into a neat stack.
“Did that injure anyone?”
Harrison looked where I indicated. “No. It didn’t even damage the house beyond what you see. I’m told it shook the place, but Mr. Merrin had a word with the lawyer and he had someone around to make sure no rain would get in where the roof was damaged. Now, let me show you the inside.”
Once within the house Holmes halted at the foot of the stairs before walking partway up, commenting as he did so. “Hear that, Harrison. I am walking normally, albeit quietly, yet my footsteps echo. Go ahead of me if you will, and stand in the suite’s bedroom with the door shut.”
Harrison obeyed and Holmes completed the assent, beckoning me, “Quietly, Watson. Walk normally, but try to place your feet on the stairs without stamping.”
I obeyed and once I reached him we walked together to the suite and I opened the door. Holmes looked at Harrison, who was standing in the center of the room. “What did you hear of our ascent?”
“I heard you both,” Harrison said promptly. “You were the more quiet, Mr. Holmes, but I still heard your steps, and the doctor’s were quite clear. I could also hear you walk together down the passage to the door.”
“In other words, you could hear every movement we made, you knew there to be two of us, and you could tell at all times where either of us was.”
“I could, and I understand your meaning, Mr. Holmes. No innocent man would wish to hear his servants coming and going from his door. Only a man who wanted to know any time someone approached his rooms, so that he might have warning. But it is strange. I would not have thought that even with uncarpeted stairs footsteps would echo in such a way.”
“If you in
vestigate the underside of the stairs, I think you may find that certain adjustments have been made there,” he was informed. Harrison rushed past us and down the stairs. We heard a thumping before his voice floated back to us.
“Yes, yes, there seems to have been extra layer of some material placed under the steps. To amplify the sound, I presume. Clever, but not something a man would do who had an easy conscience.” He came running back up the stairs, grinning. “That settles it for me. The man was some sort of villain, and this hide must be found.” He looked at Holmes with the air of a dog hoping for a walk. “Any suggestions you would care to make as to that, sir?”
Holmes moved to stand at the bedroom door and fell briefly silent. At last he straightened from the contemplative stance and nodded to himself.
“Consider, Harrison. The house is not large. Wimbledon would not place a hide where he must reach it under the eyes of anyone within, which is likely to rule out any room in which the servants are often found. His suite of rooms is upstairs and there he spent much of his time.”
Harrison agreed. “Yes, sir. When Wimbledon purchased the house he reversed a portion of the interior. All the ground floor was originally intended for the owner, with the floor above being rooms for live-in servants and storage. I’d guess that the family who built it could have had as many as a dozen servants, and must house them. The old box-room is still there, but he changed the servants’ rooms around, so that the downstairs rooms intended for the owner became a guest suite, while the servants’ quarters and one storage room were turned into a fair-sized suite of rooms for him. It seems odd to me, and I don’t know why he would do such.”
“Privacy,” Holmes pointed out. “Anyone wanting to find him must climb these stairs, and that would give him time to cover up anything he did not wish to be seen. Of what sort are the stairs?”
“Sort?” Harrison was clearly puzzled. “Er, they are the usual wooden stairs, as you can see, sir.” He frowned and added, “Odd thing though. They are uncarpeted and merely polished.”
“Yes, and being without covering and with the underside covered as it is, the footsteps of anyone walking up them would be clearly audible within the suite.”
I saw it strike Harrison. “You mean they were a kind of alarm, sir?”
“So I think.”
“But why?”
Holmes looked at him. “You yourself said that you entertained suspicions about the man. An elderly man who received a large sum of money from him vanished, and Wimbledon seemed to have more money soon after. The running of his racehorses shows an odd pattern. You believe that he has a secret hide built in his home. He buys three identical guns, one of which cannot be found. Even to achieve marriage to the woman he wanted desperately he would not—or could not—give an acceptable account of himself to her father. Do you not think that he had secrets, a number of them, secrets he would prefer that no one discover?”
Harrison had an air of resolution. “Yes, sir. I do. And that hide, if I can find it, may tell me what they were. I’ll find it if I have to tear down walls.”
“That may not be necessary.”
Holmes walked a circuit about the three rooms that had been Wimbledon’s private domain, gazing closely at each wall and the fitments. Originally, I thought, there had been a number of cubicles for servants as Harrison surmised, but the new owner had had all the interior walls removed. The partitions had probably been matchboard and may not have even reached to the ceiling.
The suite now consisted of three rooms, the commodious bedroom flanked by two others. One was a good-sized dressing room with a long, narrow space marked off. This space ran the length of the dressing-room’s far wall and contained a number of suits, with shoes placed neatly beneath. At the far end was a massive and high chest of drawers containing shirts, underclothing, and accessories such as belts and ties. While my friend watched me with amusement, I opened a small set of drawers at the top of this chest to find that it contained nothing more than a supply of gentleman’s jewelry.
The flanking room nearest the head of the stairs was a bathroom with all modern conveniences, including a large bath, wash-stand, and a cabinet holding an impressive number of toiletries including a set of seven razors each etched with the name of a different day, with a positive mountain of expensive soaps stacked beside them. A number of opulent towels of various sizes were stacked in open shelving by the head of the bath, so as to be immediately accessible to a groping hand.
One corner held a water closet with a tall bamboo screen set before it. Neither bathroom nor dressing room had an actual door, rather another attractive bamboo screen was secured on one side and could be folded out to hide an occupant, while still allowing easy conversation as he washed or chose his clothing for the day. I thought it likely from what Harrison had said that the bathroom had previously been one of the two storage rooms.
The bedroom was luxurious in both space and accessories, with a bed in which four might have slept, had they been close friends, while a bedspread of dark-brown-dyed rabbit furs covered it. The sheets were of silk. A Queen Anne bedside cabinet stood to either side. I opened one to find it empty, and Harrison commented quietly.
“Yes, doctor, the gun that we found up here was in that one.” I examined the cabinet more closely but could see nothing unusual about it.
I observed that there were large and tall wood and glass bookcases of the locked variety to either side of the bed. The cases extended from the room’s corner almost to the bedside cabinets and several feet forward into the room. They held books in faded bindings, and on reading the titles I was left with no good opinion of the victim’s literary tastes. There were two comfortable leather-covered armchairs matching the bedspread in hue, and a fireplace with a narrow mantelpiece that displayed two spill vases, a bronze horse and rider, and an ormolu clock, with an expensive set of fire irons below. A brass coal-scuttle, still filled with coal, completed the picture.
There was a sash window with wooden shutters. When used, the shutters would cover both upper and lower panes, but they were currently flung back and latched. Below them there was a carved wooden chest. On investigation, it proved to contain a well-made rope ladder with hooks at one end, no doubt for use in case of fire.
I ran my fingers lightly over the paneling to either side of the bed head. I could feel no indication that the paneling had been modified. I moved to circle the room, pressing more heavily here and there against the wood, without results.
Holmes, meantime, was now standing in the center of the bedroom sunk deep in thought. At last he raised his head and addressed Harrison. “What is on the other side of the dressing room?”
“The remaining box-room, sir. Filled with luggage and items that have been discarded but which were likely saved to be repaired at need. It is locked, but I have the key.”
“I should like to see it.”
In response, Harrison stepped back into the passage, walked several paces to his right and unlocked a door. I peered eagerly past his shoulder. Nothing of interest met my gaze; there were ancient chairs lacking an arm or leg, a table that canted to one side, a dressing table with a broken mirror, several wooden stands, two of which were pot plant stands, as well as an elephant’s foot umbrella-stand, along with a number of rolled up mats or small carpets, and a heap of old traveling trunks, along with other still less recognizable items. It was surprisingly clean.
Harrison surveyed this miscellany glumly. “We had all that lot out,” he groaned. “Checked everything, just in case. All we got was a lot of dust up our noses and a couple of ancient hotel receipts that we ascertained belonged to the previous owner. In fact, pretty much all this was his. I can’t understand why Wimbledon kept it.”
“I can,” said Holmes dryly. “Camouflage.”
Harrison made a protesting sound. “We checked it all, every last thing, I promise you. What could that lot be camouflaging?”
Holmes led us silently back into the bedroom and produced a tape measure. He mea
sured the wall of the dressing room where it ran alongside the box-room wall, having to stretch high to get the last length where the bookcases stood out from the back wall. He announced the result, which I wrote down. Holmes then handed the measure to Harrison.
“Measure the box-room wall that sides this one. In that way, should any ask, this was something that you discovered.”
Harrison seized the measure and leapt for the door. Sounds of cascading items rent the welkin and I smiled. “That was kind, Holmes. I suppose the box-room wall is shorter.”
“Yes. All three rooms are long and the bedroom is wide, as well. As a result, the difference is hidden to a casual gaze by those large bookcases. I noticed they are unnecessarily deep, so that they make the bedroom appear shallower, and within the dressing room that chest of drawers at the far end serves a similar purpose. Since it fills the end of the room and is so high, that it is standing forward and away from the back wall is not immediately obvious.”
“No,” I said thoughtfully. “A guest does not stand within his host’s wardrobe wondering about the placement of a chest of drawers.”
Amusement glimmered in my friend’s eyes. “As always, Watson, you state the truth.”
In the box-room, Harrison let out a yell of delight. “Three feet! There’s a good three feet of difference.” He reappeared in the bedroom doorway. “But how do we get into it? I can’t find anything in there that might be a door.”
“Because,” Holmes said, “there isn’t one there.”
“Then where?”
“If you were Wimbledon, if you had a number of secrets you were desperate to keep hidden and you’d had a hide built to hold them, would you want to leave your bedroom should an alarm be given, walk some feet down an exposed passage and re-enter another room?”
Harrison spoke slowly. “No, no, I wouldn’t. If I had something like that I’d want to be able to get to it quickly and without someone seeing me.” He went to look out the bedroom door. “And if someone was coming up the stairs, once they were near to the top they’d be able to see a man leaving the suite. Leastways, standing at this door I could see someone on the stairs from here, so they should be able to see me. No, I’d want to get at my secrets without being seen.”
Sherlock Holmes Page 18