The Riddle of Foxwood Grange

by Denis O. Smith

  “That’s true. This Westinghouse fellow sounds like a modern-day genius!”

  “Of a sort, certainly. But however you regard him, his approach to life has a lesson for all of us: meet problems head on, solve them and then move on to the next one. In that way you are always advancing, always looking to the future, rather than the past. That’s the exact opposite of how some people live their lives, dwelling on the past all the time, and also, in some ways, the exact opposite of Samuel Harley, one-time owner of this old pile. Harley seems to have been a very clever young man, but when he came into all that wealth, it seems to have knocked all the drive out of him. Instead of looking to the future, meeting problems and solving them, he spent most of his time finding ways to waste all the money that had been accumulated by previous generations. He was thus, essentially, backward-looking and never advanced at all. I remember reading somewhere that he had a habit of referring to his own unhappy childhood, and people said of him that even when not specifically speaking of it, it never seemed to be very far from his thoughts.”

  “An unhappy childhood can sometimes stay with a man throughout his life,” I remarked.

  “Yes, of course, but one should strive not to dwell upon it unnecessarily. After all, what’s past is past, and there’s nothing anyone can do about that.”

  “That’s true. Some people certainly expend a lot of energy in raking over the past, as if hoping to change that which cannot be changed. Most people, I suppose, just drift along through life, and a few - like this Westinghouse man you mentioned - change things as they go along, generally to the benefit not only of themselves but of everyone else, too. Holmes is of this latter type. He spends his entire life solving puzzles and problems for other people. He hardly ever refers to what one might call his own personal life - apart from declaring how bored he is when he has no problem to challenge him - and has almost never, in all the time I have known him, referred to his own early life or childhood. It is almost as if, however good, bad or indifferent his past was, he has quite closed the door on it, and now looks only to the future. It is a cast of mind I have sometimes wished I could emulate, but so far without complete success!”

  Blake laughed. “I know what you mean, Watson. It is an odd thing,” he added in a reflective tone, “how many different and very diverse characters the human race can display. Take my neighbours here, for instance: I can scarcely imagine there could be half a dozen such different people, and all in this one small parish!”

  “They certainly seem a varied collection,” I agreed with a chuckle.

  “Yes, and you haven’t yet met Needham, whom we’ll go and see as soon as you have finished your tea. He is perhaps the oddest of the lot. I was reflecting last night on Mr Stannard’s suspicions that Needham had stolen a book from him. Although I had been surprised and shocked at that, I realized last night that I was somewhat less surprised than I would have been if he had levelled the accusation at any other of my neighbours. It was as if - without ever putting the thought into words, even in my own head - I had already instinctively marked Needham down as sly, or dishonest.”

  “I can scarcely wait to meet him!” I cried, laughing as I put my tea-cup down.

  A few minutes later we had left the house, and were making our way up the field towards the ash spinney. The rain had quite stopped now and a weak sunlight was struggling to penetrate the clouds, but the countryside was very wet and the trees dripped upon us as we passed beneath them. When we reached the place at which I had encountered Pearson the previous day, I asked Blake if he had ever had the misfortune to run across one of Pearson’s dogs, at which he shook his head.

  “From your description, I’m glad I haven’t,” he replied. “I did once hear a couple of them fighting with each other, though, when I was over at Lower Cropley, taking tea with the Pearsons. They were in the yard behind the house, and the fighting sounded so loud and violent that I thought one of them must surely kill the other. In the end, Pearson had to go out and lay into them with a large stick, all the while bellowing just as loudly and violently as the dogs. Anyway, it did the trick. They shut up their racket and Pearson returned to the parlour to finish his tea as if nothing had happened!”

  As we passed out of the further end of the ash spinney, we followed the path across the top of the field until we came to the farm track, where we turned right. A little further on, we came to the garden of Abbeyfield House, which was surrounded by a tall, thickly-growing evergreen hedge. The house itself was a substantial, square brick structure, built in the last forty-odd years, I judged, and more solid than attractive.

  Our knock at the front door was answered after a moment by a gaunt, grim-looking middle-aged woman in the uniform of a housekeeper. Upon Blake’s enquiring if Mr Needham was at home, she showed us into a reception room on the right of the hall, closing the door firmly but noiselessly upon us. As we sat there in silence, I looked about the room. A large table in the centre was covered with a thick, heavy cloth. The other items of furniture - the chairs around the table, a sideboard and a tallboy - were all of some dark wood and highly polished. In the centre of the table was a large glass fruit-bowl which was empty, and in the alcoves either side of the fireplace hung a couple of old dark prints of some kind. Other than that, the room was perfectly devoid of any decoration, and presented an austere, cold appearance. It did not appear that the room was ever used, and I found myself wondering if the rest of the house was as sombre and unwelcoming in appearance as this room.

  My thoughts were interrupted by the silent opening of the door. A small, dark-haired and sallow-faced man entered the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Needham,” said Blake, rising to his feet.

  “Good afternoon, Mr Blake,” returned the other. His oddly hooded eyes flickered momentarily in my direction.

  “This is Dr Watson, a fellow-journalist, who is staying with me for a few days,” said Blake by way of explanation. I stood up, leaned across the table and offered Needham my hand, which he shook in a very brief and perfunctory manner, almost as if the touch of another’s hand was distasteful to him. I had the impression that this mild distaste was not a consequence of any manifest shortcomings on my part, but was his customary manner towards anyone he did not know.

  “Please be seated,” he said, although he himself remained standing, as if to indicate that we should not stay long. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  “A couple of things,” returned Blake. “First, as we were out for a walk - I was showing Dr Watson round the local countryside - I thought we might just call by and I could introduce the two of you.”

  A wan smile appeared briefly on Needham’s face, but was gone almost as soon as it had appeared. He nodded his head slightly. “And the second thing?” he asked after a moment.

  “I happened to be talking to Mr Stannard recently,” replied Blake. “When I mentioned to him that there was a book I believed to be in the library at the Grange, but which I could not find there, he remembered that he had lent it to you some time ago, and he thought that you might still have it.”

  “What was the book?” asked Needham.

  “A volume of local history, which included a lot of information about previous owners of the Grange and so on.”

  “Ah, yes,” murmured Needham. “I did borrow that book from your cousin several years ago, but I also returned it to him. I had no need to borrow it again, as I subsequently acquired a copy of my own. One moment,” he added, then he turned and left the room without further remark.

  I had turned to my companion and was about to express surprise at Needham’s odd manner, when my thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a sudden flash of recognition. For as I had, in a state of bemusement, watched Needham turn his back on us and leave the room, I had realized all at once that this was the same person as I had seen walking quickly away in the ash spinney, the ma
n who had begun to climb up the rungs in the tree before being disturbed by the imminent arrival of Pearson and his dog. The surprise I felt at this realization must have shown on my face, for Blake raised his eyebrow, an expression of curiosity on his features.

  “What is it, Watson?” he asked in a low tone.

  “Never mind,” I replied. “I’ll tell you later.”

  A few moments later, Needham returned with a slim book in his hand, which he passed to Blake.

  “I imagine this is the volume your cousin was thinking of,” he remarked, “but, as you can see, this copy is mine.”

  Blake showed me the front of the book, then opened it at the first page. On the right-hand side was a book-plate, printed with an elaborate border of curving, twining lines and little flowers, and the words “Ex Libris”, under which, written in a neat and precise hand, was the name ‘Matthias Needham’.

  “I have tried to get hold of a copy of this little volume for myself,” said Blake, addressing Needham, “but no-one seems to have one. Can you remember where you got this one from?”

  “I forget the name of the dealer,” replied Needham. “It is some years ago, now. It was one of those who advertise occasionally in The Times, offering to search for any book you name.”

  “Would you mind if I borrowed it for a few days?” asked Blake.

  There was a look of hesitation on Needham’s face. “Not at all,” he replied, “under normal circumstances. However, I am, as it happens, using the book at the moment in connection with some historical research I am engaged in, so I would rather hang on to it just for the moment, if you don’t mind.”

  “I understand perfectly,” said Blake. “Perhaps another time, then,”

  “Certainly.”

  “That reminds me,” continued Blake: “you don’t know anything about Mr Stannard’s grandfather’s note-book, do you? That’s something else I can’t find, and Mr Stannard thought you might have borrowed that, too, but he can’t quite remember.”

  Needham shook his head. “I don’t know anything about that,” he said. “Perhaps Mr Stannard has simply forgotten where he put it. I believe he is a little absent-minded sometimes. What is in this note-book, anyway?”

  “Some ideas about Samuel Harley’s puzzles, I believe, among other things. Never mind. It’s probably in the Grange somewhere. I only asked you on the off-chance that you might know where it was.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you,” said Needham with another shake of the head.

  “We’ll leave you to your historical research, then,” said Blake in an amiable tone, rising to his feet.

  A minute later, Blake and I had left Abbeyfield House and were crossing the top of the large sloping field towards the ash spinney.

  “You appeared surprised about something when we were in the house,” said Blake as we walked along. “What was that?”

  I glanced back to make sure that we could not be observed from Needham’s house, and that there was no-one behind us. “You remember I told you I saw a man in the spinney yesterday - not Pearson, the other one?”

  “What, the man who started to climb the tree, but then hurried off when he saw Pearson approaching?”

  “Precisely. I now know who that man was. It was Needham.”

  Blake stopped. “What!” he cried. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m certain of it. It was when Needham turned away from us to go and fetch that book. I realized as I saw his back that it was he: the figure and the gait were precisely the same as those of the man I had seen walking away in the spinney.”

  “So,” said Blake, “he obviously knows all about the platform up the tree. I don’t suppose he was carrying a telescope by any chance?”

  “I don’t think so. he didn’t appear to be carrying anything, as far as I could see. He might have had a pair of field-glasses slung round his neck, I suppose - I couldn’t tell, as he was walking away from me when I saw him.”

  “Where does that leave us, I wonder,” said Blake, stroking his chin.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but I’ll tell you something else.”

  “What is that?”

  “That local history-book he showed us: I’m convinced that he was lying, and it really was your cousin’s copy.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “The book-plate. Didn’t you notice anything odd about it?”

  “Not that I can recall.”

  “It was not placed centrally on the page. In fact, it was not symmetrical at all. It was rather high up the page, and offset to the right. To judge from that room in which we were sitting as we waited for him, I surmise that Needham is a man who has a strong, almost fussy inclination with regard to neatness, order and symmetry. I cannot imagine he would have gummed in the book-plate in such an unsatisfactorily asymmetrical manner unless he had a good reason for doing so.”

  “Such as?”

  “I suspect he placed it where he did in order to cover up something that was already written on the page - the owner’s name, for instance.”

  “That certainly sounds plausible,” said Blake. “How very observant of you!”

  “Of course,” I continued, “even if I’m right as to his motive in placing the book-plate where he did, the inscription he has deliberately covered up might not necessarily be that of Mr Stannard’s father or grandfather. Needham claims to have acquired the book from a second-hand book-dealer. If that were true, the name beneath the book-plate might be that of a total stranger. But he did seem oddly reluctant to let you borrow the book - almost as if he feared we might take the opportunity to steam his book-plate off and find the name of Stannard beneath it.”

  Blake nodded. “Yes, I agree. He certainly seemed strangely mean about it. What the significance of that might be, though, I don’t know.” He shook his head in a gesture of puzzlement. “Anyway, Watson, now I’ll tell you something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Needham told us a bare-faced lie when he pretended to know nothing about Mr Stannard’s grandfather’s note-book. He asked what was in it, as if he had no idea of its content, but - if you recall - Mr Stannard specifically mentioned that he had shown the note-book to Needham, and said he had been very interested in it. They cannot both be right; one of them is not speaking the truth, and I know which of the two I am more inclined to believe.”

  “I quite agree, I shall have to make a note of all this to tell Holmes when he returns.”

  “I wonder what he will make of it,” said Blake, as we resumed our progress through the ash spinney.

  “I can’t imagine,” I said. “I just hope he returns soon, to perhaps impose a little light and order on things that I confess seem only dark and chaotic to me at present.”

  On our return to the Grange, we found that a telegram had been delivered for me while we were out. I opened it eagerly, and scanned the brief message, which ran as follows:

  INQUEST ADJOURNED AS EXPECTED.

  RETURN DELAYED.

  WILL WRITE AGAIN SOON - S. H.

  “That is disappointing,” said Blake. “I had hoped he might get back this evening. I wonder what has delayed him, and whether it is anything to do with my case, or something completely different.”

  “We can only guess,” I returned, “and, having had some experience of Holmes’s mysterious ways, I can tell you that our guesses are unlikely to be anywhere near the truth!”

  That evening, the Caxtons had left us a meal of cold meats and salads, as they had been given the evening off. A challenge match had been arranged between the skittles team of the Royal Oak and a team from another village. I could see from Caxton’s manner as they set off that he was still affected by the death of his old crony, Brookfield, but Blake informed me that nothing short of a foreign invasion would have prevented Caxton from turning out for
the team.

  “Does he always take his wife with him?” I asked.

  Blake shook his head with a chuckle. “Not usually,” he replied; “but these occasional challenge matches between the villages are a different matter. The men generally do all the playing, but it’s a great social occasion for the ladies, too, who spend their time exchanging local gossip and cheering on their menfolk!”

  As we ate our supper, I heard the rain begin to fall heavily again outside. Afterwards, Blake, Whitemoor and I repaired to the drawing-room, where the maid brought us a pot of coffee, and we sat smoking our pipes and discussing and debating the most significant scientific inventions of the previous two centuries. Later, we had several hands of cards. This was entertaining enough, but I found it difficult to keep my mind on the game. Time after time, when it was my turn to play, I would find that my thoughts had wandered off from this trivial pastime to the more substantial question of the vague and nebulous mysteries that seemed to surround us there at Foxwood Grange.

  Some time after nine, when the light had quite gone, we all felt that we could do with a little refreshment, but could not at first think what to have.

  “I certainly don’t want any more coffee,” I said. “That last lot was rather strong. If I have any more, I’ll never get to sleep tonight.”

  Blake nodded. “It scarcely seems worth opening a fresh bottle of wine,” he remarked. “I know,” he cried, with a sudden rush of enthusiasm: “I’ll make us all a hot toddy!”

  “That sounds a somewhat wintry suggestion!” said Whitemoor.

  “Perhaps so,” said Blake, “but I think it’s justified by this very heavy rain!” He glanced at the clock. “Ann will be in bed by now - I told her to take herself off when she’d put the plates away - and, if past experience is anything to go by, Mr and Mrs Caxton will not be back for another forty or fifty minutes. Fortunately, however, I know a good recipe, involving Scotch Whisky, hot water, half a lemon and a spoonful of honey.”