by June Thomson
‘Did you happen to notice the postmark?’
‘I am afraid I did not, sir. I had no reason to pay it any particular attention.’
‘What was Mr Crosby’s response in receiving it? Was he distressed by it?’
‘No, Mr Holmes. He just glanced at it and then put it to one side while he opened his sister’s letter.’
‘So he appeared not to recognise the handwriting or regard the letter as important?’
‘It seemed so, sir, although about ten minutes later he rang the bell and asked me to fetch the gazetteer from his study.’
‘And that was unusual?’ Holmes asked, his tone casual although his expression was eager.
‘I have never known him to do that before.’
‘Where is the gazetteer now, Mrs Denton?’
‘After I cleared the breakfast things, I found it still lying on the table so I replaced it in the study.’
‘And where are the letters he received this morning?’
‘I haven’t seen them since, sir, although it was Mr Crosby’s habit to place all correspondence which needed answering in the top right-hand drawer of his desk.’
‘May I examine Mr Crosby’s desk?’
‘Well, I suppose it is all right,’ Mrs Denton replied a little reluctantly, ‘although I should prefer you had Mr Crosby’s permission first, sir; not that I am casting any aspersions on you personally, Mr Holmes.’
‘Of course I understand that, my dear Mrs Denton,’ Holmes said suavely, directing at her one of his most charming smiles for, when he chose, he had a winning way with women. ‘However, as Mr Crosby is not here and I am as concerned about his welfare as you are yourself, I am sure he would not object under the circumstances.’
‘Very well, Mr Holmes,’ Mrs Denton agreed. Leading the way back into the front hall, she opened a door on the left and showed us into a square, sunny room furnished as a study with a knee-hole desk under the window, a pair of leather armchairs and two sets of bookcases filling the chimney alcoves.
Opening the right-hand drawer of the desk, Holmes took out two envelopes which he showed her.
‘Are these the letters he received this morning from his sister and the friend in Cambridge?’
‘Yes, Mr Holmes. Are there no others?’
‘No; the third letter appears to be missing.’
‘Then I suppose he must have taken it with him.’
With an apologetic glance in Mrs Denton’s direction, Holmes looked through the other drawers in the desk but apparently found nothing of significance for, having closed the last one, he turned back to address the housekeeper.
‘May I now see the gazetteer which Mr Crosby asked for this morning?’
‘Of course, sir,’ said she, fetching it from one of the bookcases and handing it to him.
It was a red-covered volume which appeared little used although, when Holmes laid it down upon the desk, it fell open at a page which seemed to have been pressed back on to the spine as if someone had recently flattened it in order to examine it more easily. Peering over his shoulder, I saw that it was a map of the county of Surrey. As I looked, Holmes’ index finger came to rest by a place name not far from Guildford which I only then noticed was underlined faintly with pencil.
‘Does the name Steeple Barton mean anything to you, Mrs Denton?’ Holmes inquired.
The housekeeper shook her head.
‘No, Mr Holmes.’
‘So Mr Crosby knows no one who might live there?’
‘Not to my knowledge, sir.’
Closing the gazetteer, Holmes handed it back to her with the words, ‘If Mr Crosby has a Bradshaw, I should be much obliged to borrow it for a few minutes.’*
Having replaced the gazetteer in the bookcase, Mrs Denton returned with a copy of Bradshaw which Holmes consulted quickly before, thanking Mrs Denton for her assistance, he took his farewell and we left the house.
‘We are, I assume, going to Steeple Barton?’ I inquired as we set off to walk to King’s Road.
‘That is certainly my intention, Watson. It would appear that whatever was contained in the third letter Mr Crosby received this morning, it persuaded him to go to Steeple Barton instead of to the bank. The fact that he consulted a map of Surrey and marked that particular place would seem to support such an hypothesis. As he did not also ask for his Bradshaw, it suggests the time of the train he was to catch was provided in the letter. When I looked up the timetable myself, I noticed there was a train from Victoria to Guildford, the nearest station to Steeple Barton, at 9.16 a.m. He would have just had time to catch it which may explain why he failed to send a telegram to the bank or to Mr Wilberforce informing them of his intended absence today.’
He broke off to hail a cab and, once we were inside it on our way to Victoria station, he continued, ‘I think we may also assume that, unlike the others he had received over the past two months, this letter was in no way threatening. As Mrs Denton remarked, he seemed unconcerned at its arrival. By the same token, he would hardly have set off alone for Surrey if he felt his life was in danger. Nevertheless, I feel certain misgivings about his safety.’
‘Why is that, Holmes?’
Instead of replying directly, he chose to approach the question from an entirely different point of view.
‘Let us put ourselves in the position of the anonymous correspondent. He – and like Mr Wilberforce I shall assume for the time being that it is a man, although that is not yet proved – he, I repeat, is evidently intent on taking Mr Crosby’s life in revenge, for some catastrophe in the past for which he, one imagines, regards Mr Crosby as responsible. While his proposed victim remained in London, the opportunity for murder would be severely restricted. Apart from that short walk to and from King’s Road, Mr Crosby spent most of his time in the bank where access to him was limited and where there would also be too many witnesses. If you were in the man’s shoes, how would you set about ensuring Mr Crosby was alone and with no one else present who might testify against you later in court?’
‘I take your point, Holmes. You are suggesting, are you not, that the third letter which arrived this morning was sent by the same man who wrote the threatening letters?’
‘Exactly so, Watson. And what pretext would he use to persuade Mr Crosby, a man of regular habits, to break his usual routine and set off by train for a small village in Surrey with which he apparently had no connection?’
Seeing my hesitation, Holmes continued impatiently, ‘Oh, come, my dear fellow! Is it not perfectly obvious? He would write to Mr Crosby suggesting a meeting at Steeple Barton at which he proposed naming the person who was threatening his life, giving the time of the train he should catch as well as making some excuse for not meeting him in London. He may also have asked his victim to bring the letter with him thereby covering his tracks when inquiries were made into Mr Crosby’s murder.
‘Such a letter would present an irresistible lure. Mr Crosby was evidently much disturbed by the threats against him. The opportunity to discover the man’s identity and the possibility of seeing his tormentor arrested would have seemed too good to miss. My fear is that he may have gone like a lamb to the slaughter.’
Breaking off, he banged with his stick on the roof of the hansom and, when the little flap door in it opened, he called up impatiently, ‘Can the horse go no faster, cabby? We wish to catch the 3.48 train from Victoria.’
As the cab picked up speed, Holmes leaned back against the upholstery and lapsed into a brooding silence so intense that I hesitated to intrude on his thoughts with any further questions for I knew that fear over what might have happened to Mr Crosby was uppermost in his mind, as indeed it was in mine. It was a silence he maintained throughout the train journey to Guildford where we alighted and where, much to my astonishment, Holmes made a dash for the station entrance. It was only when I caught up with him and found him questioning one of the drivers of the cabs drawn up on the forecourt that I understood the purpose behind his sudden haste.
‘I
was anxious to find the same cabby who might have picked up Mr Crosby before someone else claimed the man’s services,’ he explained. ‘I appear to have found him. At least, a gentleman answering Mr Crosby’s description who came off the 9.16 train from London this morning hailed his cab. That is correct, is it not, driver? Where did you take him?’
‘The Rose and Crown public ’ouse in Steeple Barton,’ the man replied.
‘Then we, too, shall be driven to the same destination,’ Holmes said, climbing inside the vehicle.
It was a pleasant twenty-minute drive through the open countryside which lay beyond the outskirts of the town. Although it was September and by now late afternoon, the sun still shone with the warmth and brilliance of high summer, flooding the stubble fields and the woodlands, already beginning to assume the russet and gold tints of autumn, with a rich, mellow light.
Even Holmes’ sombre mood seemed to lift for from time to time he commented on the beauty of the scenery, an appreciation of nature which had begun to manifest itself more and more strongly since he had returned from his apparent death at the Reichenbach Falls.*
However, as we drew nearer to our destination, he again fell silent, averting his head to stare unseeingly at the passing view so that all I could see of him was his profile, his lean jaw as hard as granite with mounting tension at what we might discover there of Mr Crosby’s fate.
The village of Steeple Barton was small, a mere half-dozen or so cottages clustered round its two main features – an ancient, flint-built church with a tall steeple, from which the place had no doubt taken its name, and the Rose and Crown tavern which stood immediately opposite.
It was a low, whitewashed building which, when we entered, we found empty of customers, apart from an elderly man, a former farmworker, I imagined, from his attire and weather-beaten complexion, who was sitting alone in the ingle corner, a pint of ale at his elbow and an old, white-muzzled retriever at his feet. Both dog and man seemed to be fast asleep.
The publican, the only other occupant, was leaning with both elbows on the bar counter in an attitude of utter boredom although his face brightened when Holmes and I entered and, straightening up, he regarded us with considerable interest. He was a thin, spry, shrewd-eyed, little man, the very antithesis of the conventional, rubicund image of the landlord of a country tavern.
‘You be from Lunnon, bain’t ’ee, gen’lemen?’ he asked, before Holmes even had time to open his mouth.
‘Indeed we are,’ Holmes replied, a little taken aback by the man’s perspicacity. ‘We are making inquiries about …’
‘Oh, I knows why you’re ’ere, sir,’ the landlord replied without any hesitation. ‘You be askin’ about the other gen’leman from Lunnon, the one ’oo called in ’ere earlier this mornin’. A grey-haired, stout man ’e were, with a tall ’at. ’E came to collect the letter.’
‘What letter?’ Holmes demanded sharply.
‘Very free, too, with ’is money. Gave me ’alf a crown for my trouble, ’e did,’ the landlord continued, as if Holmes had not spoken, a dreamy expression softening his foxy-looking features at the memory of this largesse.
With a sideways glance at me of mingled amusement and exasperation, Holmes produced a similar coin from his pocket and laid it down on the counter from where it was immediately spirited away into the landlord’s palm with the practised skill of a professional conjuror.
‘What letter?’ Holmes repeated.
‘The letter as was left ’ere earlier this mornin’ by a lady.’ ‘A lady?’ Holmes seemed much astounded by this piece of information for it quite refuted his assumption that Mr Crosby’s unknown correspondent was almost certainly a man. ‘What did she look like?’
‘She was tall and slim and dressed all in black, like widow’s weeds,’ came the prompt reply.
‘And her features?’
‘Ah, I’m afraid I can’t ’elp you there, sir, for she was wearin’ a thick veil which covered the ’ole of her face. Spoke soft, though, almost in a whisper. Gave me the letter, she did, and asked me to ‘and it to a gen’leman ’oo’d be callin’ for it later. Then she vanished.’
‘Vanished?’ Holmes seemed as surprised as I at this dramatic choice of word.
‘I’ll show ’ee,’ the landlord told us, lifting the flap of the counter and proceeding across the bar to the front door, Holmes and I at his heels. Here he stopped on the threshold to point up and down the road.
‘See there, gen’lernen,’ he announced.
Following his pointing finger, we saw that, to the left, the road ran straight past the churchyard gate and a row of cottages to continue on into the surrounding countryside. In the opposite direction, having passed two or three other little houses, their front gardens bright with dahlias and Michaelmas daisies, it took a sharp turn to the right to disappear from sight towards some trees, the tops of which, heavy with early autumn foliage, were visible above a hedgerow.
As we looked, the landlord began to give us his account.
‘I was curious, gentlemen,’ he was saying. ‘It ain’t often as I gets a woman in my tavern, specially at that time of the mornin,’ and a stranger, too. Leastways, I ain’t ever seen ’er afore. And there was summat queer, I thought, about ’er leavin’ a letter like that. So, as soon as I’d propped it up on the shelf be’ind the counter, I came outside to see what way she’d gone.’ With apparent inconsequentiality, he asked, ‘’Ow long do you reckon it took me just now to walk from the bar to ’ere?’
‘Two minutes at most?’ Holmes suggested.
‘Quite right, sir! That’s what I makes it. Well, by the time I’d got to the door, she’d vanished off the face of the earth, phut! Just like that!’ the landlord exclaimed, snapping his fingers to emphasise the suddenness of her disappearance.
‘Curious!’ Holmes murmured. ‘Is that all you can tell us?’
‘Only that when the gen’leman arrived ’alf an hour later to collect the letter, ’e opened it and read it there and then as ’e stood at the bar counter.’
‘Did he ask who had left it?’
‘’E did, sir, and when I said it were a woman, ’e asked what she looked like and I described ’er as best I could, same as I did for you. Anyways, after ’e’d finished reading the letter, ’e put it in ’is pocket and asked me the way to Barton Wood, so I told ’im, down there to the right.’ The landlord jerked his thumb towards the distant trees. ‘Puttin’ two and two together,’ he continued, ‘it don’t take much brain power, do it, gentlemen, to work out where the lady ’ad gone as well? Lovers are they, sir, meetin’ in secret? That’s what I reckon they were. And ’er recently widowed, too! Well, that’s women for you! Off with the old and on with the new!’
‘Yes, quite,’ Holmes said briskly. ‘Thank you for your help, landlord. I am much obliged to you.’
With that, he set off down the road at a fast rate. As I hurried to catch up with him, I glanced briefly back over my shoulder to see the landlord still standing at the door of the Rose and Crown watching our departure with obvious curiosity, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun, until we, too, disappeared round the bend in the road in the direction of Barton Wood.
II
Once we were out of the man’s sight, Holmes slackened his pace to a slower walk and, with head bent, began to scrutinise the left-hand side of the road, now little more than a lane, where it ran alongside a grass verge. The dust which covered the surface was generally dry but here and there, where water had seeped through from the adjoining ditch, patches of mud had collected, still damp despite the heat of that September afternoon.
It was these muddy stretches which roused Holmes’ greatest interest. Crouching down low over one particular area, he examined it at close quarters before, standing upright, he announced, ‘We now know how the lady in black managed to disappear so dramatically, Watson. She was riding a bicycle equipped with worn Dunlop tyres, the pattern of which can be quite clearly seen here in the mud.’*
‘So what are your c
onclusions, Holmes? Do you suppose the lady in black, as you call her, wrote all the letters to Mr Crosby, including those threatening his life as well as the one he received this morning by the first post?’
‘My dear fellow, it is a capital mistake to come to any conclusions so early in a case. Although it would appear that she was the author of the letter left at the public house, whether she sent the others remains to be seen. We may have a conspiracy on our hands between two people, a man and a woman. Or the lady in black may be entirely innocent of the threats made against Mr Crosby and is trying instead to warn or defend him. However, I doubt that. Although Mr Crosby may have been persuaded he had nothing to fear from meeting a woman, this rendezvous arranged to take place in a wood in the middle of the Surrey countryside has about it a most unpleasant whiff of danger. Come! Let us find out if our worst fears have indeed been fulfilled.’
He set off again at a rapid pace, stopping occasionally to inspect other muddy stretches along the side of the road which also bore the marks of tyres until, having reached the edge of the wood and walked about a hundred yards past its perimeter, we came to a green-painted signpost on the verge, bearing the words ‘Footpath to Lower Haybrook’ and pointing to a broad, grassy track leading off between the trees. A large white arrow chalked under these words also pointed in the same direction.
Setting off along the track, we found other arrows similarly drawn on tree trunks, directing us onwards. They reminded me of the game of Hare and Hounds which, as a boy, I had played with a group of friends and in which one of our number, acting as the hare and using a piece of chalk purloined from the schoolroom, had scrawled similar arrows on the trunks of trees or gateposts, although usually less obvious than these, to lead the rest of us, the hounds, to his hiding place. The memories of this innocent pastime contrasted oddly with the mental picture I had of Mr Crosby, formally attired for a day at his City bank in silk hat and frock coat, picking his way, as we were doing, along this leafy path which led deeper and deeper into the wood.