The Secret Documents of Sherlock Holmes

by June Thomson

  As the path narrowed and the trees grew more closely together, I was aware of a mounting sense of impending peril, engendered not only by anxiety over Mr Crosby’s fate but also by the very atmosphere of the place. It was no longer possible to see the sky. The heavy canopy of leaves had grown more dense, casting deeper shadows occasionally lit by intermittent gleams of sunlight which flickered ominously about the scene like will o’ the wisps leading us to heaven alone knew what destination. Even the birds had ceased to sing and the only sound to break the silence was the dry rustlings of unseen creatures in the undergrowth.

  We came at last to a beech on the trunk of which was chalked a larger arrow pointing this time not straight ahead but to the right. Following its direction, we set off between the trees, ducking under low branches or forcing a path through thick brushwood. Here and there, other arrows directed us onwards. There were signs, too, that someone else had been this way before us for in places the bracken was already trampled under feet other than ours or a trailing bramble, bearing hard reddish-black berries, not yet softened to full autumnal ripeness, had been bent to one side for easier passage.

  The grassy glade took us both by surprise. Because of the difficulty of the terrain, we had been concentrating on the hazards beneath our feet and not on what might lie ahead of us. Our arrival at the edge of the clearing was therefore quite unexpected. One moment we were wading through a particularly dense clump of waist-high bracken, the next we had emerged into the open.

  Even now, writing about it several years later, I can still recall in vivid detail the scene which confronted us and the sense of shocked disbelief it aroused even though we were half expecting some tragic outcome. For my part, it was the terrible contrast between the serene beauty of the place and the horror it contained which struck me most forcibly and which remains with me to this day.

  The glade was circular in shape, like a natural amphitheatre, ringed about with trees and, like a stage-setting, illuminated with shafts of bright sunshine which fell between the branches giving everything, the leaves, the grass, the soft cushions of moss, a peculiar dappled brilliance as if they were generating their own shifting green light.

  In contrast to this natural beauty, the body of a well-built, grey-haired man which lay in the centre of the clearing was shockingly incongruous. It was spread out on its back, its legs together and its feet in their polished black boots pointing towards us, its arms outstretched at its sides as if it had been crucified. There was, however, nothing reverential in its careful positioning for, in a dreadful parody which was intentional, its black silk hat had been deliberately placed, brim uppermost, by its right hand and the starched white shirt front was torn open to expose the bare chest beneath.

  For a few seconds we both stood aghast and then Holmes sprinted forward with me close behind him.

  I knew even before I felt for the carotid artery in his throat that the man was dead. The rope pulled tight about his neck and the distorted features, darkened with the effects of strangulation, were enough to convince me that he was past reviving. Rigor mortis was already beginning to set in and the blood from a cut above his left eyebrow had congealed.

  I was about to make this comment to Holmes when, for the first time, I was aware of the objects which were set out upon the man’s chest, as if on a table, and which Holmes, kneeling at my side, was carefully scrutinising although he made no attempt to touch them. They were an extraordinary collection and, like the positioning of the silk hat, had been deliberately placed there in that particular pattern.

  On the left-hand side, just below the breast, was a gold pocket watch, still ticking although the heart which lay beneath it had long since ceased to beat. Over the right breast lay a single white feather while a little lower down in the centre of the torso a number of sixpenny pieces had been set out in the shape of a cross. But the most extraordinary object and one which had a gruesome life of its own was a creature about three inches long which, like a large reddish-brown slug, was slowly crawling across the expanse of the dead man’s chest, leaving behind it a moist, glutinous trail.

  As I stared at it horrified, Holmes, who had risen to his feet, was scribbling something down on a page of his notebook which he tore out and handed to me.

  ‘Give this to the landlord of the Rose and Crown, Watson, and ask him to find someone to take it to the police station in Guildford, preferably by a fast vehicle,’ said he briskly. ‘Meanwhile, I shall remain here and examine the scene for any clues to the perpetrator of this terrible crime.’

  I set off at once to return the way we had come, in my haste leaping over brambles and crashing through bracken, until at last I came to the track and finally to the road where I was able to make better time.

  Since our departure, nothing appeared to have changed in the public bar of the Rose and Crown. The old man and his dog were still asleep in the inglenook by the fireplace and the landlord was propped up again on his elbows behind the counter in exactly the same attitude in which we had first found him.

  As I burst through the door and gasped out my message, I was relieved to see that my urgency had communicated itself to him for, levering himself upright and going to an inner door which led into the back premises, he shouted for someone called Dick who came ambling into the bar. He was a tall, gangling youth, probably the potboy, to whom I handed Holmes’ note with some misgivings for he seemed disinclined to hurry himself.

  ‘And tell the Inspector in charge that it is a case of murder!’ I added in the hope of galvanising him into action.

  It appeared to have some effect for, having regarded me for a few seconds, his mouth fallen foolishly open, he disappeared through the door with admirable speed, the landlord roaring out after him to take the gig.

  ‘Murder?’ he repeated, turning back to me, his sharp, foxy features lively with curiosity. ‘I might ’ave guessed no good would come from the pair of ’em meetin’ all secret like in Barton Wood. Killed her, did ’e, the man in the tall ’at? Bashed ’er over the ’ead in a lovers’ tiff, I wouldn’t wonder. You mark my words, there’s another man mixed up in all this!’

  This last remark was shouted after me as I made for the door and set off again up the road at a run, anxious to return to Holmes as quickly as possible although, despite the dreadful nature of the circumstances, I could not repress a smile at the quite erroneous interpretation the landlord had managed to weave round the few facts known to him. I had no doubt that, even before the police arrived from Guildford, every inhabitant in the village of Steeple Barton would know about the lovers’ secret tryst in Barton Wood and its tragic consequences.

  III

  Holmes greeted my return eagerly, impatient to show me the evidence he had found during my absence. Hardly giving me time to catch my breath, he hurried me to the far side of the glade where he indicated a patch of ground immediately behind a large oak tree.

  ‘Look, Watson!’ cried he. ‘This is where the murderer and his accomplice waited. You can see how the bracken and grass have been trampled underfoot. And over here,’ he continued, pointing to the left, ’is the route by which they left after the murder was committed. While you were away, I traced it back to the footpath which leads to Lower Haybrook.’

  ‘They?’ I repeated. ‘Then you believe two of them were involved?’

  ‘Having seen the evidence, I am more than ever convinced that this is a conspiracy between a man and a woman, the lady in black who enticed Crosby to this isolated place, and a man who committed the actual murder. See here!’ he exclaimed, seizing me by the sleeve once more and dragging me a few feet into the glade where he again pointed to the ground. ‘Observe how the grass here is also flattened and even the moss has been torn up in places. It was here that Crosby was strangled after a struggle. You recall the cut over his eyebrow? Well, here and again here you may see where the cut has bled.’

  Now that he had pointed them out to me, I could indeed see a few drops of blood staining the grass.

  �
��What else do you notice about this particular location?’ Holmes continued.

  ‘Apart from the bloodstains? Why, nothing Holmes,’ I confessed.

  ‘Oh, Watson, Watson!’ Holmes chided me testily. ‘There are times when I despair of you! Do you never use your eyes? Bend down, man, and look again!’

  Feeling harassed by his overbearing manner and these orders rapped out in a peremptory voice, but knowing that it was useless to protest, I obediently squatted down while Holmes stood over me, urging me to bend even lower until my head was almost touching the ground.

  ‘Now what do you see?’ he demanded.

  From this uncomfortable position, I could now make out, faintly marked out across the sward, two parallel lines which led to the body but which were invisible when seen from above.

  When I remarked on this, Holmes asked, ‘And what does that signify?’ But it was merely a rhetorical question for, without giving me time to reply, he hastened on, ‘It means the body was dragged into the centre of the clearing, its heels making those tracks in the grass. Like the struggle between Crosby and his murderer, they also suggest it was the work of a man. We have seen for ourselves that Crosby must have weighed at least thirteen or fourteen stones. No woman would have had the strength to drag him that far. And now for the body itself.’

  Before I had time to rise, Holmes was off again, striding forward to stand over the corpse where, having regained my feet, I joined him.

  His first question seemed utterly inconsequential.

  ‘Do you ever read poetry, Watson?’

  ‘Not since I left school,’ I admitted, wondering what possible connection this could have with Crosby’s murder.

  ‘But you are familiar with the term “symbol” when used in a poetic sense?’

  ‘You mean the use of a word to convey other meanings, such as “lion” representing the concept of “courage”?’

  ‘Exactly so. Now look at the objects laid out with such precision on the corpse, objects which I believe were deliberately chosen for their symbolic meaning. The pocket watch placed over the heart represents what?’

  ‘Time?’ I suggested. This idea had already occurred to me but now, grasping the purpose behind Holmes’ question and beginning almost to enjoy this macabre game, I expanded on the theme. ‘The heart is stopped but the watch is still going, meaning, I suppose, that it is time for him to die.’

  ‘The white feather?’

  ‘That usually represents a coward.’

  ‘Excellent, Watson! And the money laid out in the form of a cross?’

  ‘I must confess I can see no immediate symbol there.’

  ‘Count it, Watson! How many sixpences are there?’

  ‘Why, thirty,’ I replied, hurriedly computing their number.

  ‘Thirty sixpences! Thirty pieces of silver! What does that remind you of?’

  ‘Of course!’ I cried, making the connection at last. ‘Judas Iscariot was paid thirty pieces of silver for betraying Jesus! The cross must therefore represent the crucifixion as does the way in which the body has been laid out with the arms outstretched.’

  ‘Well done, my dear fellow! You are in scintillating form! According to St Matthew’s Gospel, what happened to Judas after the betrayal?’

  ‘He hanged himself, did he not?’

  ‘Indeed he did.* Hence the rope which was used to strangle Crosby and which, I believe, represents Judas’s suicide. It may have been the murderer’s intention to hang Crosby from one of the trees but he chose instead to lay the body out on the ground so that he could display these objects symbolising a timely death, cowardice and betrayal on the corpse itself. And what of this?’

  Holmes continued, pointing with a long, fastidious finger at the slug-like creature which was still crawling across the corpse’s bare chest.

  ‘It is a leech, is it not?’ I asked, bending down to examine it more closely.

  ‘Quite so, Watson. You remember, of course, our conversation with Mr Wilberforce earlier this afternoon about the threatening letter sent to Mr Crosby in which he was referred to as a leech? We discussed then the relevance of the word to a blood-sucker. This particular leech is not, however, a Hirudo medicinalis, the medicinal leech which was used to draw blood from a patient.* It belongs to the genus Trocheta subviridis,† an amphibious leech which lives on earth worms and can often be found in damp soil. It also has a liking for drains and sewers in which it breeds. I made a small study of the subject when I was attending lectures at St Bartholomew’s where I saw specimens of leeches in the pathological museum.‡

  ‘We come now to the setting for the murder, which I believe was as deliberately chosen as the objects laid out upon the victim. What may we deduce from that?’

  ‘Well, it is secluded,’ I ventured, not quite so sure of my ground in this particular aspect of the case.

  ‘So are many other locations in the vicinity. Had the murderer wished, he could have committed the crime within the depths of the wood itself where there would have been even less chance of the body being discovered. And yet he has chosen this clearing. Why? Have you no opinion on the matter?’

  ‘Not really, Holmes.’

  ‘Then allow me to give you mine. The whole scene of the open glade as well as the disposition of the body in the centre of it suggests a ritual killing, almost like a pagan sacrifice, which in turn tells us something significant about the killer himself. I imagine him as an intelligent man but with an idée fixe* who has harboured a deep-seated grudge against Algernon Crosby, almost certainly because at some time in the past Crosby, in his capacity as a banker, refused to lend him money or called in a loan already made, thereby ruining him financially and perhaps also causing him acute social humiliation. The killer saw it as an act of betrayal over which he may have brooded for some time but which he has decided only now to avenge. From these deductions, we may picture him as a middle-class man who was once wealthy but is now impoverished and who has recently suffered some further catastrophe, a bereavement perhaps, which is linked in some way with his financial ruin and which, like a match applied to a fire, has kindled an overwhelming desire for immediate vengeance.

  ‘Furthermore, I see him as an educated man with an interest in natural science; his familiarity with the bible and his knowledge of where to find a specimen of Trocheta subviridis tell us that. He is also imaginative, as can be seen in his choice of the symbolic objects left on the corpse, and is probably a man with few friends who, had it not been for the presence of the lady in black, I would have suggested was unmarried and lived alone. However, her connection with him is obviously close. She could be his wife or possibly a sister.

  ‘I also suggest that he lives not far away. His knowledge of Barton Wood, and in particular, this clearing in it, supports such a theory as does the fact that the lady in black cycled to the Rose and Crown, which also implies they live at no great distance from Steeple Barton. As for the murder itself, that, too, indicates both the man’s intelligence and his need for revenge. It was no spur of the moment decision but the result of careful planning.’

  ‘You astonish me, Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘How is it possible to deduce so much information about a murderer you have never laid eyes on?’

  ‘By interpreting the evidence, my dear fellow. From a few footprints one may estimate the size of a man’s boots and also his height from the length of his stride.* By much the same method, one may also determine many factors about a man – or a woman, come to that – by close observation of the scene of the crime. It is simply a matter of using one’s eyes and not concentrating all one’s attention on the corpus delicti although that, too, can furnish the investigator with useful information not only about the victim but also about the perpetrator of the crime. It is an aspect of the science of detection to which I have recently given much thought. I may one day write a monograph on it.* Ah!’ he concluded, breaking off his disquisition. ‘From the sounds of crashings in the undergrowth, I think we may safely conclude that the police from Gui
ldford have at last arrived, having followed the chalked arrows as I directed them in my note. Let us go forward and meet them.’

  IV

  Hardly had he finished speaking than two uniformed officers, an inspector and a constable, emerged from the trees, both looking dishevelled and moist about the brow from their exertions in making their way to the clearing.

  The senior of the two, a tall man wearing a thick, heavy moustache which contrasted oddly with his balding head, as if his hair had migrated downwards to his upper lip, introduced himself as Inspector Mumford and his companion, a young, fresh-faced junior officer, as Constable Huggins. Once these formalities were over, Holmes gave a brief explanation of the background to the case and his own involvement in it before leading the two men forward to examine the body and those other areas of the scene which he had already shown to me; he then proceeded to give them a rapid summary of his deductions about the murderer to which I have already referred.

  ‘I therefore suggest, Inspector,’ he concluded, ‘that you leave Constable Huggins here to keep guard on the body while the rest of us follow the murderer’s trail to the footpath which leads to Lower Haybrook, for, as I have explained, the man may very well live in the vicinity.’

  Inspector Mumford, who had listened to Holmes’ account with an air of intelligent appreciation, agreed with my old friend’s suggestion and, leaving Huggins on duty in the glade, the three of us set off once again through the woods.

  Although there were no arrows on this occasion to direct us, the route the murderer and his accomplice, the lady in black, had taken was easily discernible by the broken twigs and crushed bracken which marked their progress. Having reached the footpath, we turned right towards Lower Haybrook and, after a distance of about a quarter of a mile, reached the edge of Barton Wood at a stile over which we climbed.