We took our leave, roused our sleeping driver, and the ramshackle vehicle rattled its way along a quiet country lane, to turn in past the massive iron gates of an extensive and well-ordered estate. Miss Dimberly’s card received immediate attention and we were placed in a small anteroom off the great hall. Almost at once we heard approaching footsteps and a tall man entered the room to stand considering us.
“I am Ralph Finlay, and I am told you have a message for me.” Holmes handed him the envelope while I looked over our host. I thought it likely that this was the man who had been Barker’s friend since they would have been of an age had the boy lived.
Ralph Finlay looked at us. “Miss Dimberly writes that you, too, are convinced my friend did not commit suicide. She says that you are making inquiries to see if that can be proven, and if that is your purpose then I will aid you in any way that you ask. Come with me.” He led us into a pleasant study, opened a window to allow a cool breeze to waft about the room, and waved us to comfortable leather armchairs. “Now, tell me how I may help you.”
Holmes sat back and began with what we had learned of Wimbledon. As the tale progressed, Finlay’s jaw tightened until the muscles stood out, while his eyes almost glowed, such was his fury. Still he said nothing, listening to Holmes and waiting until he was done.
“Thus,” my friend concluded, “we are convinced that Wimbledon had ample motive to seek James Barker’s death. I have heard from a number of those who knew the boy, and they are both unanimous and adamant that he was not of a disposition to slay himself. However, opinions are not proof. I need something I can take to the authorities, something that casts real doubt on the original verdict.”
Finlay scowled in thought. “I see the problem,” he agreed. “I can think of nothing that would provide such proof.”
“Would you answer questions? It may be that some minor thing you did not realize at the time could be the precise fact that would give me a trail to follow.”
Finlay indicated that he was willing and, getting up, he shut the door. “That is a signal to the servants and my family that I am not to be interrupted—unless for a serious reason,” he said. He resumed his seat and fixed his attention on us both.
Holmes nodded. “Thank you. Now, cast your mind back to Barker’s last visit. I want you to begin at the beginning and go on to the end, leave nothing out, tell me anything that you recall, no matter how unimportant it seems to you.”
Finlay nodded and began. “My family has known James’s family for five generations. His great-great-grandfather won the estate by gambling, and fearing lest it go the same way, he gave it by deed of gift to his only daughter. In turn and as soon as she was of age, and before she wed, she made over both the money she had and the gifted estate as an entail, descending in the female line and reverting to the male line only when no female was in direct descent. It reverted to a female again as soon as the male heir died. Nor could it be inherited by anyone not of their blood.”
“That is unusual,” I offered.
“It is, but it was legal,” he smiled. “She had excellent lawyers. Over her lifetime she added money to the trust, having been married initially to an elderly man who left her what he had. By many standards the income is not large, but it is sufficient for any woman to live comfortably and support an inside servant, and if she is economical, a gardener/chauffeur. I happen to know that Miss Dimberly, having had some other income of her own, lets the shooting rights in her coppice and adds those monies to the trust.
“James’s father, being in somewhat straitened circumstances, spent most of his time living there, and so James and I grew up together as neighbors and friends. Together with my sister, Emma, we three played on both estates, and we were utterly familiar with every foot of ground. That is the background. On that fatal visit I had no premonition of the coming tragedy. James had come down to his home and met me at the station where I was seeing off a mutual friend.”
Here he digressed. “That friend was a man both James and I esteemed highly and who subsequently wed Emma, my sister. She and her family are staying here this week after spending time in London and before returning to their home near Folkestone. However, that is by the by. James, as he was stepping off the train, saw us and came over to talk, saying that he was down for a few days before returning to London, where he must undertake an important but distasteful task.” He frowned. “I said that at the inquest, and the coroner seemed to take it as reason for my friend’s death.”
“You did not think so at the time?” Holmes’s voice was quiet.
Finlay sank his chin onto one hand as he stared out the window. “No, I thought when he said that, that the task was distasteful to him but more because he must move against someone, rather than for something he may have done himself.”
“What made you think so?” Finlay could not recall and Holmes moved on. “How did it come about that Barker visited your estate?”
“That was my doing. I said that I planned to shoot rabbits all weekend; they were getting out of hand and the estate manager complained. I suggested that James might like to come and shoot with me, and he agreed. I remember he said something at the time about it taking his mind off… and there I could not hear whatever he said for the sound of the train. Also he was nearer to my brother-in-law, since they had just exchanged a few words through the window.”
I closed my mouth on what I would like to have said. If that word missed had been “Wimbledon,” we might have had the solution placed in our hands.
“James agreed that he would come over early on the Saturday, and we planned an entire day’s shooting. He arrived at seven and we went out immediately, both of us having had breakfast already. We shot a large number of rabbits. My sister, also a fine shot, joined us for an hour, and when she departed in the pony trap she took with her all the dead rabbits, to leave with several of our tenants as some recompense for the brutes’ depredations. James and I continued to shoot, and around midday I said that as I needed to speak to one of the men about coppicing the west boundary hedge, I would take the rabbits now accrued and drop them off, after which I would make my way home. James said that he would join me before we were due to sit down to our meal around one, and I left him.”
He groaned. “If only I had stayed. But who could think my friend to be in danger on our own land? We were shooting a good distance from the house, so we had come on a couple of ponies. I loaded the rabbits onto James’s beast, James having said that he would walk back. I met our hedger, gave him my orders, dropped the rabbits off with old Jackson, and went home. We expected James to join us before one, he having told me that he would continue to shoot while moving in my direction, but by the time it was ten minutes after that hour there was yet no sign of him. I blame myself for what then transpired. After we had waited another half hour without his return, Emma said she would find him.”
Emotion twisted his face. “I swear I had no idea what she would find. How could I know? She came stumbling back to the house, the poor girl shaking so hard she could not speak. Her face was white as bone, so I knew at once something dreadful had occurred. For a brief time I could get nothing from her, but Emma is strong. She drank the brandy I thrust on her and regained her wits. She told me that James lay dead on the oak tree track just off the main ride; his shotgun had discharged both barrels and that she was in no doubt that he was dead. She could say no more then—at the recollection of what she had seen, I thought. I called my mother, left Emma in her hands, and raced for the site. James lay there, half his head blown off, shotgun yet in his hands, and I tell you, gentlemen, it was the most piteous sight, one I shall never forget.”
“What then?” was all Holmes asked.
“I called four of our men to bring a hurdle and we carried him to the house. The doctor came and said that life was completely extinct and that the police should be informed. This was done, and sometime later there was an inquest. That is all.”
“So,” Holmes said. “You say that the gun was s
till in his hands. Show me, if you will, in what position he lay and where the shotgun was in relation to the body.”
Wordlessly Finlay opened a gun cabinet, removed a shotgun, checked it was unloaded, and lay down on the carpet, the gun in his hands. He reflected a moment then moved so that he lay almost on his face, the gun half under him, his right hand lying over the stock.
Holmes studied the position. “Interesting. You are certain that he lay in that position, and that his hand was on the stock that way?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Because he is not holding the gun as you said. His hand was rather lying on it.”
“Is that not the same?”
“No. Supposing he fell as he appears to have done, partly upon his face, then the gun could easily have been carried down with him, and a hand then moved by someone to lie upon the gun. Nor do I think that position in which he fell to be as natural as I would expect had he shot himself either by accident or design.”
Finlay started to his feet. “You mean, you do think it could have been murder?”
“I do.”
“By this Wimbledon?”
“I think it possible, but to think so is not proof. Yet there is the position of his body.”
“What of it?”
Holmes pondered before reaching for the gun, which Finlay yielded to him. “See?” My friend took the gun, placing the muzzles beneath his chin. “If both barrels discharge at once, how would you expect me to fall?”
“Upon your back from the force of the shot. That should throw you off balance. Oh, but he did not!”
“No. And what if I discharge both barrels and am still holding the gun as I fall, so that it comes down with me in such a way, butt striking the ground and the muzzles striking me perhaps in the chest?” He demonstrated slowly and we both saw his meaning. I spoke more quickly than Finlay.
“The gun would bring additional force to bear so that you would be still less likely to fall forward. But might you not roll over as you fell?”
“In which case the gun would not be in that position,” Holmes assured us.
Finlay stared. “Why did I not see that? Why did I not question?”
“Because you were too caught up in grief and distress,” I said gently. “You had lost a friend, there were everywhere rumors he had taken his own life, and your sister, who had also been his friend, was distraught. You had no time to think, and who would wish to recall such a scene in any case? No, you are not at fault here; it is the man who murdered your friend who is to blame.”
Holmes stood. “I have some influence with authority. I shall discuss this with the coroner, and it may be that he will be prepared to issue an altered verdict. However, if you will allow me, I would like to speak to your brother-in-law. You said that he was closer to Barker when he spoke of his task in London, and it may be that he heard more. Did he give evidence at the inquest?”
“No, MacKenzie had gone abroad and knew nothing of our friend’s death for some days. It was not until I got a message to him that he returned, and he was of great assistance to me in comforting Emma. The coroner deemed him not to be required, since events had occurred after his departure. One moment and I will call him.”
He went to the door and shouted, an answering cry came ringing back and we heard footsteps. Their maker arrived in the doorway. His manly bearing and the kind expression in his brown eyes impressed me. Here, I thought, was a man who would be both strong and good, and it was no wonder the distressed girl had turned to him.
“You wanted me, Finny?”
Finlay smiled. “Yes, Mac.” He gave a swift explanation as to why we were here. “Mr. Holmes would like to know what James said to you through the carriage window when you spoke with him, if you can recall his words.”
MacKenzie thought. “It was the last time I saw our friend; I have never forgotten. We were talking of shooting. He said he was here for only two or three days, and there was some talk of a task he must do that would be unpleasant. He did not particularize, but I thought it to involve someone else’s trouble from the way that he spoke of it. You asked him to come early the next morning to shoot rabbits, and he agreed. I asked about his new rooms in London, and he said that he had only the one but it was commodious and served well enough for the times when he was not down here.
“He said that he would enjoy shooting with you, and then he laughed and said that knowing her, he’d be shooting with Emma as well, and again he said that it would take his mind off a problem. He spoke then almost to himself, for his tone became reflective. He muttered that he had no choice but to act… and as he spoke the last word the train released steam. While I thought him to have said that he must act over Wimbledon, I could not be sure, since that made no sense. What had some middle-class suburb to do with James so that he must act on it in some way?”
Finlay gasped, and Holmes spoke quickly. “Neither of you belonged to your friend’s club in London?”
“No,” MacKenzie said absentmindedly. “No, I am not so often in London, and my family have always belonged to the D––—.”
“And you?” Holmes asked our host.
“No. But that name! That is the man of whom you spoke when you arrived.”
“Yes.”
“Then it was he who murdered James?” Laurence MacKenzie spun to stare at us, but Holmes spoke before he could begin his questions.
“I think it probable, and so I shall advise the authorities. We may not be able to get a coronial verdict to say that much, but I believe a new inquest can be convened to give a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown. That, at least, will clear your friend’s name.”
9
However, while we had cleared up a number of mysteries thus far—and discovered two more, hitherto unknown—we still had Wimbledon’s murder to solve. Purdon’s superiors had been pressing him to approach those listed in Wimbledon’s diaries, and in the last year of that final diary the writer had commented on the activities of several men he had not mentioned earlier. Harrison had cleared several of these men, showing either that they were not in London at the time, or that if they were, they were with others who could vouch for them.
Over breakfast a day later I made a suggestion. “Holmes, why do I not approach the members of Barker’s club? You have more important things to do, but it may be that he spoke to someone and hinted of his worries. The more information we can bring to the coroner, the more likely it is that he will agree to your wish that the first verdict be altered.”
“I do not think you will discover anything of use, Watson. If the lad did not take his troubles either to Finlay or to his godfather, I think it unlikely he would have spoken more freely to any with whom he was not as close.” He glanced at my downcast countenance and said kindly, “However, one never knows. It could be that he said or did something that may be useful. By all means, my dear Watson, inquire of the members.”
So it was with eager step that I went forth. Nanton allowed me access to the club and provided me, on the most confidential terms, with a list of the members as they had been twenty years ago. He placed a mark against several names.
“These men were all club members at the time, were around my godson’s age, and are in England. These,” he marked another three names on his list, “are out of the country but expected to return shortly. I would suggest that you approach those available first, and if you discover nothing of use, by that time these three may have returned.”
I took his advice, and a long and fruitless time I had of it. While I thus busied myself, Holmes was making further investigations of certain women whose names had been linked with Wimbledon, some being specified in his diaries. One of them was a lady—whose husband being now dead—was prepared to be franker than perhaps would have been the case had he been yet amongst the living. Holmes told me of her one night as we shared a snug little dinner.
“It was the old story, Watson. Her husband was constantly caught up in business; she wanted to go out in the evening,
while he wished only to go early to bed. She says that Wimbledon was an amusing companion and—or so I understood from her discourse—that his amusement of her extended to the bedroom. She says that he was solicitous of her reputation, but he once remarked to her that he made a habit of keeping his amours to himself these days. He had then, she said, smiled a smile that was remarkably unpleasant and said he found that secrecy paid. What was not known did not leave one open to trouble or to contempt from others.”
My mind flashed back to the story of Wimbledon’s attempt to seduce Mrs. Goodwinne, Alice Leighton as was. “Holmes, do you think he meant Mrs. Goodwinne?”
“Yes, for upon my questioning her further she recalled that he had said something similar to her towards the end of their relationship. He had indicated that since they had gained all they wished from each other, it was time they parted. He then said that she would be wise to see to it that her husband remained ignorant of their affair. She assured him that her husband knew nothing and that she did not intend he should, as he might act precipitately. Wimbledon said that was good and safer for all concerned. He then said…” Here Holmes spoke as if quoting. “‘Those who exposed me to ridicule or difficulties, have, I am happy to say, paid a price, or if they have not, they will do so in due time. I have seen to it.’ What do you think of that, Watson?”
“That he was speaking of Barker,” I said at once. “And perhaps others of whom we do not yet know.” Holmes said nothing. “Do you not think so?” I asked.
“I think that the man was more vindictive than most,” was my friend’s reply, so that I saw he agreed with me.
I continued with my own search the following day, but it was not until one of the club members who had been abroad returned to England that I found a trail worth following. Henry Daverton was a man of some forty years, stout of figure, short of breath, but quite willing to discuss Barker with me, he having known the lad quite well and being happy to recall old days.
Sherlock Holmes Page 25