“The victim was my London publisher, Oscar Rhinebeck. He was one of six houseguests we’d invited for the week. I was planning to write a book about my recent African travels and we were discussing it Sunday evening, after the others had arrived. I left him alone in the library for a time, and when I returned, I found him dead. He’d been savagely beaten with a fireplace poker.”
Elizabeth, who’d remained at his side through all this, broke in to add, “This time, we called the police at once.”
“This time?” asked Holmes sharply.
Sir Patrick seemed annoyed by his wife’s interruption.
“There’d been a previous incident shortly after Rhinebeck’s arrival. I’d just shown him my zoo and we were walking back to the main house when a cornice fell from the roof and nearly hit him. When we mentioned it to Elizabeth, she was quite concerned and wanted the local police summoned at once. I told her that was nonsense and even went up to the roof to inspect it. The cornice had simply broken away, probably weakened by the wind.”
“There was no wind last Sunday,” his wife insisted.
“But there had been the previous evening.”
I suspected they were two who might argue as to whether the sun was shining.
“Who else was in the house at the time the cornice fell?” Holmes asked.
“All of our guests had arrived by that time. Madeline Oaks, the actress, came with her manager, my long-time friend Maxwell Park. Dr. Prouty, our family physician, arrived with his wife Dorothy and her sister Agnes.”
“Dorothy and Agnes lived near here in their youth,” Elizabeth explained, “and sometimes visited at Stacy Manor.”
Holmes nodded. “Stacy is your middle name, Sir Patrick.”
“Quite correct. The house was my mother’s ancestral home, which I inherited upon her death eight years ago.”
“Let us return to the murder of Oscar Rhinebeck. Were there no clues at the scene?”
“Only one. My publisher was clutching a playing card in his hand—the ten of spades. It appeared to be a dying message.”
“How quaint,” Holmes remarked. “Does the ten of spades have any meaning to you or your guests?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Perhaps its presence was only a coincidence.”
Sir Patrick shook his head. “It seems like more than that. There was a bloody trail on the carpet indicating that the dying man dragged himself to the card table and managed to select the ten from a deck of cards.”
Elizabeth glanced at the room’s big grandfather clock as Holmes asked, “Do the police have no suspects in mind?”
“Not really,” our host told us. “They mentioned a convict recently escaped from Reading Gaol and believed he could have entered the house undetected, perhaps bent on robbery.”
“What is this convict’s name?”
“James Adams, serving a long term for assault and robbery. He escaped about ten days ago and has not been recaptured.”
Elizabeth was nervously watching the clock.
“I’m sorry you missed dinner, but our guests will be assembling in the library for brandy at nine. Perhaps you’d want to freshen up and join us.”
It seemed like a good idea, and Holmes and I allowed the butler to show us to our room.
When we were alone, and I was unpacking my overnight bag, I asked Holmes, “What do you make of it? Is there a killer under our roof?”
“It would seem so, Watson. It is obvious that Sir Patrick’s wife is greatly concerned, and she is probably the one who urged him to appeal for help. As for Sir Patrick, I am struck by the fact that his left boot has a thicker sole than the right one. If one leg is longer than the other, it would make walking great distances on a safari painful, if not impossible.”
“Perhaps he was carried in a sedan chair,” I suggested.
“We shall see, Watson. I am most interested in meeting our other guests, all of whom chose to remain for their visit even after a murder was committed in the house.”
We went downstairs promptly at nine o’clock and found the others gathered in the library. The men held brandy snifters, though the women were indulging in something lighter. My attention was immediately focused on the actress, Madeline Oaks, whom I’d seen recently in a London production of Ibsen’s “A Doll’s House.” She was even more striking at close quarters, a rare beauty of the sort to take one’s breath away.
It was her agent, Maxwell Park, who immediately recognized the name of Sherlock Holmes. He was a slender man, with glasses and mutton chop whiskers, and he shook my friend’s hand vigorously when introduced.
“The popular press has been filled with your exploits, Mr. Holmes. This is indeed a pleasure!”
I was interested in meeting Dr. Prouty, a small, quiet country doctor who sipped his brandy with a bit of uncertainty.
“Do you have a practice in London, Dr. Watson?” he asked.
“A small one, very limited. I assist my friend Holmes in his work, and I do a bit of writing.”
His wife Dorothy was a plain-looking woman with large bones and an athletic appearance. She sat on a red plush sofa with her sister, who was introduced as Agnes Baxter. Miss Baxter, more comely in appearance than her older sister, was probably still in her mid-twenties.
“I understand you lived near here when you were growing up,” I said to Agnes.
“Indeed we did. Dorothy and I played here as children, though, of course, there was no zoo at the time. The Stacy family was very nice and this is a wonderful house. We moved into the city when I was ten and I so missed it!”
“Will you be riding with us in the morning?” her sister Dorothy asked.
The thought appalled me. “I doubt it. I believe Sir Patrick wants to show us his animals.”
“And that I do!” our host said, coming over to join us.
“It’s quite an animal collection,” Dorothy Prouty admitted. “The best I’ve seen outside of London.”
Later, trying to fall asleep in a strange bed, I was reminded of her words when I heard the chilling laugh of a hyena.
I awakened to find Holmes’ hand upon my shoulder, and I was surprised to find him fully dressed.
“What time is it?” I asked sleepily.
“Seven-thirty. Sir Patrick’s wife is assembling her guests to go riding. Perhaps we should dress and go down to breakfast.”
I grumbled something and strode over to the window. On the gravel drive below, I could see Elizabeth White in riding costume, just mounting a grey mare, while their man Haskin held the reins for her. Madeline Oaks and her manager were already mounted, as were Dr. and Mrs. Prouty. There was no sign of Mrs. Prouty’s younger sister. As the five of them prepared to ride off, I washed and dressed quickly.
Sir Patrick was awaiting us in the dining room, lingering over a cup of morning tea.
“Ah, there you are! I was beginning to fear that our country air had lulled you into a bit of extra slumber.”
“No, no,” Holmes assured him. “Both Watson and I are anxious to see your collection.”
We ate sparingly and then followed our host through the large kitchen to the rear of the house.
“I’m pleased you could come,” he said, “though this whole matter has upset Elizabeth more than myself. Naturally I am disturbed by the death of my publisher, but the idea that one of our house guests could be a murderer seems preposterous to me. I am perfectly willing to accept the police theory of an escaped convict.”
Haskin was waiting for us at the backdoor, wearing the same dark pants and work shirt he’d had on the previous day.
“They were a bit restless during the night,” he said. “Could have been a prowler, though I saw no one.”
Our host made no comment until we reached the first of a dozen cages set within the grove of trees at the side and rear of the house. Inside were two small lion cubs, rolling over and playing with each other like a pair of kittens.
“These came from my latest trip,” he said. “You’ll see a ful
ly grown one a bit later.”
Our next stop was the large and ugly hyena that had kept me awake. It had a massive head and red coat covered with brown oval spots.
“This is the fellow I heard in the night,” I remarked.
“He was restless,” Haskin remarked again.
We went on down the line to some monkeys and a glass cage that held a pair of small pythons that seemed to be asleep. Then there was a large pen with a fully-grown zebra, an animal that always fascinated me. It was followed by more monkeys and finally another large cage, where an adult lion paced back and forth.
“This one needs more space,” Sir Patrick told us.
While we were studying the lion, I noticed that Dorothy Prouty had returned alone on her horse. She dismounted and strode toward the front of the manor.
“All of these animals need more space,” Holmes was saying. “But, on my rare visits to the London Zoo, I have found conditions to be little better than this. Our large elephant, Jumbo, was sold to an American circus partly because of space problems.”
Sir Patrick nodded. “Before his untimely death, my publisher expressed much the same view. He wanted me to set aside several acres of land for the zoo, to enlarge it, hire a professional staff and actually charge admission. He felt my reputation as a big game hunter and collector would attract the public.”
“Is this lion contented?” Holmes asked Haskin.
“Hardly, sir. He’s a dangerous…”
The words were interrupted by a sudden scream from the house. Sir Patrick stood frozen in his tracks, but Holmes broke into a run. I followed as fast as I could. When we reached the rear door, we saw that the butler and the cook had heard the scream too and headed up the back stairs. We found Dorothy Prouty passed out on the floor of the upper hallway. She was by an open bedroom door and, when I looked in, I saw the terrible sight that had confronted her. Agnes Baxter, her younger sister, was sprawled across the bloody bed, a kitchen knife buried in her chest. In her hand, she held a playing card, the jack of spades.
While I determined that the young woman had died instantly, Holmes was busy loosening Mrs. Prouty’s riding habit and trying to revive her. When Sir Patrick arrived and found him thus, Holmes was rubbing her hands and cheeks.
“Do not concern yourself, Sir Patrick. I am trying to help her breathe. I fear the shock of finding her sister’s body was too much for the woman.”
“Another killing!” our host gasped, clinging to the door frame. For an instant, I feared he might pass out, too.
“And another playing card,” Sherlock Holmes remarked. “I suggest you dispatch a servant to summon the local authorities.”
When Dorothy Prouty was at last revived, she told her story in a tearful, breaking voice.
“I…she was going to ride out and catch up with us. Sh…she had her riding costume on. When she didn’t turn up, I came back to the house, worried she might be ill. I found her like this. Who could have done such a terrible thing?”
The local constable, when he arrived, asked the same question. Scotland Yard men came out from London later in the day and suggested a search of the entire manor. There was always the possibility that the missing convict was concealed somewhere on the premises. While the search went on, Holmes took no part in it.
“It’s a waste of time, Watson. If this convict was the killer, why would he leave playing cards in his victims’ hands? No. We are dealing with something much more sinister here.”
“In this peaceful country setting?”
“I have said before that the vilest alleys in London are nothing compared to the beautiful countryside. In the city, the machinery of justice is swift to act. Out here, deeds of hellish cruelty can go unpunished.”
He was right about the convict, of course. There was no trace of him in the manor house or anywhere on the grounds. It was established that the knife had come from the kitchen, but anyone could have taken it. And Agnes Baxter might well have been killed before the other guests set out on their ride. Sir Patrick’s wife Elizabeth was especially upset as the summer house party seemed to collapse about her. Dr. Prouty and his wife had departed with Agnes’ body, to complete the necessary funeral arrangements. I had thought the others might leave too, but, at Elizabeth’s urging, the actress and her agent stayed on.
Dinner that night was a somber affair. The six of us tried to speak of other things, but it was Madeline Oaks who brought the subject back to the killings.
“That’s two of them in six days,” she said. “Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson can be ruled out, because they were not present when Rhinebeck died. But the other four of us are all suspects.”
“That’s nonsense!” Sir Patrick burst out. “Why would I kill my own book publisher and that poor young woman? Why would any of us, for that matter?”
“What could be the meaning of those playing cards?” Maxwell Park asked. “The ten and jack of spades!”
The events at Stacy Manor were indeed baffling, and I could see that Holmes was greatly troubled.
“I fear the killings are not over,” he confided to me, as we went up to our room later. “There is a pattern here which has yet to reveal itself.”
“Then none of us is safe.”
“Have you brought your revolver, Watson?”
“It is in my bag.”
“Good! We may have need of it before the night is over.”
I took it out and made certain it was loaded, then laid it on the table between our beds. Neither of us donned our nightclothes, though I, for one, quickly drifted into a deep sleep. I gather Holmes was sleeping, too, when we were both awakened toward dawn by human screams and a lion’s deep-throated growl.
“Quick, Watson, your revolver! I never thought of the animals!”
We hurried downstairs and already some of the others had appeared in their doorways, awakened by the sounds. Holmes was first out the door, heading toward the cages we’d inspected the previous day.
When we reached the large lion’s cage and heard again the savage growls of the beast, Holmes grabbed the revolver from my hands and thrust it between the bars. The lion turned from its grisly task and, by now, there was enough morning twilight for us to recognize Haskin’s limp and bloody figure. Holmes fired three shots, carefully aimed at the beast’s head, and the lion went down in a heap.
He pulled on the door of the cage, but it was padlocked from the outside. By this time, Sir Patrick and his wife had joined us, with the actress, her agent and the servants bringing up the rear.
“Where is the key to this?” Holmes demanded.
“There’s an extra in the kitchen,” Sir Patrick said, sending the butler for it. They were all in their nightclothes and robes, with Sir Patrick limping badly without his special shoes.
In a moment, we had the key and Holmes entered first, holding the revolver ready. I was right behind him, reaching the body to turn it over and reveal a face so torn and bloody as to be unrecognizable. It was Holmes who found the playing card—a queen of spades—beneath the body.
The local police and Scotland Yard were back on the scene within hours. What might have been a tranquil Sunday morning had been shattered by a third murder, and even our host was deeply shaken as he spoke to authorities. Elizabeth sat by his side, clasping his hand.
The officer in charge had his notebook open.
“I understand the deceased was an employee of yours. Could you give me his full name and position?”
Sir Patrick moistened his lips, his face ashen. “His name was Haskin Zehn. He was a German gypsy with a great affinity for wild animals. He accompanied me on my African journeys and, because of my bad leg, he did much of the actual capturing. He was a fine worker, unmarried, about thirty-five years of age. He lived here at the house.”
“Could this have been an accident? He seems to have been dressed in his normal work clothes.”
Holmes spoke up then. “The cage had been padlocked from the outside. It appears he was knocked unconscious and then locked insid
e with the lion.”
“He wouldn’t have gone into the cage before dawn,” Sir Patrick agreed. “This was murder.”
Holmes nodded. “When we turned over the body, hoping he was still alive, there was another playing card beneath the body.”
The officer, whose name was Wegand, nodded. “The ten, jack and queen of spades, Mr. Holmes. What does that tell us?”
“That there will be more murders unless we put a stop to this.”
Elizabeth White seemed confused. “But what could it mean? Why was the jack of spades left with a female victim and the queen with a male? Is the next to be the king?”
“The king of beasts,” Sir Patrick speculated. “But my lion is dead.”
Finally, when things had calmed down a bit, the cook served a light breakfast. When he’d finished, I noticed Holmes checking the schedule of trains back to London. A closed wagon had arrived for the removal of the latest victim and, when he saw it, he hurried outside. Curious, I followed him.
“What is it, Holmes?”
He was bent over Haskin’s body, examining the man’s belt and shoes.
“Interesting,” he said. “All right, you can take him away now.”
He straightened up and smiled at me. “I believe we must return to London, Watson, on the first available train.”
“You are abandoning the investigation?”
“Merely trying a new course to the truth.”
We went back inside while he explained to Sir Patrick that he must continue the investigation in London.
He turned to the officer who had questioned us. “Sergeant Wegand, we have only forty-five minutes to catch the next train. If you are going back, could you give us a ride to the station?”
Sir Patrick protested. “My butler could take you.”
“No, no. The sergeant is going our way.”
Wegand grumbled a bit, but Holmes spoke to him in a soft voice and he agreed. We quickly packed our bags and said goodbye to all. The actress, Madeline Oaks, seemed sorry to see me go, and I promised to attend her next London opening.
On our journey to Reading Station, a thought occurred to me.
“Dr. Prouty and his wife departed yesterday. Is it possible one of them might have returned to kill Haskin?”
Sherlock Holmes Stories of Edward D. Hoch Page 5