“It sounds like what I generally prescribe for a sore throat!” I said, laughing.
“No doubt; but it’s a tasty recipe, as you will see, Watson. If either of you finds it a bit on the strong side, you can let it down with a little more hot water. Come along, gentlemen! Let’s re-kindle the kitchen fire and get the kettle on the hob, and then you’ll see what a good nightcap it is!”
We had left the drawing-room and were making our way to the kitchen, at the back of the house, when Blake abruptly stopped. “What was that?” he said.
“It sounded a bit like a footstep,” I said, “but it was probably just the rain dripping onto something. The rain sounds very loud here in the hall.”
“No, no,” said Blake with a frown and a shake of the head. “That wasn’t just the rain, Watson. I’m sure it was a footstep.”
“It certainly sounded like one,” said Whitemoor, “outside, in the yard.”
We hurried forward, and into “the long gallery” at the back of the house. It was very dark, but I could see at once that one of the casement windows was wide open and swinging in the wind, which explained why the noise of the rain had seemed so loud in the hall.
Blake struck a match and lit a sconce on the wall, and it was evident that the rain had been coming in through the open window for some time, for the rush matting immediately below the window was sodden.
“It’s very odd that this window should have been left open,” said Blake.
“This rain seems to have come with quite a wind,” I said. “Perhaps the window wasn’t properly fastened, or just slightly ajar, and the wind blew it wide open.”
“We’ll get it shut now, anyhow,” said Blake, then he stopped again. “What was that?” he said sharply.
“It sounded like someone moving about upstairs,” I said.
“I agree,” said Blake. “Let us take a look.” With a bound, he set off up the narrow back stairs, Whitemoor and I following closely behind him.
We reached the first landing in a few seconds, where Blake struck another match and lit a lamp on the wall. There was no-one there. For a moment we stood perfectly still, our ears straining to catch any sound, but the whole house was in utter silence.
“Let’s have a quick look in all the rooms,” said Blake, lifting the lamp from its hook. This we did, but found no-one there.
“I think the sound of the footstep - if that is what it was - may have come from higher up,” I said.
Blake nodded his agreement, and we set off up the next flight of stairs. The upper landing, which was much smaller, was as silent and deserted as the lower landing had been, and though we prowled around for a few minutes, looked in the rooms and followed a long corridor along to a box-room at the other end, we found nothing.
“That is Ann’s bedroom straight ahead,” said Blake, as we returned to the landing. “She can’t be long in bed. Let’s see if she’s still awake. If she is, she may have heard something.”
“And if she’s asleep,” I said, “someone might have slipped into the room without her knowing.”
Blake tapped on the door and pushed it open. It was a small room, right under the roof of the house, with a steeply sloping ceiling. Immediately ahead of us, illuminated by the lamp Blake was carrying, was a bed, whose occupant sat up abruptly as we entered, the sheets pulled up to her chin and a startled expression on her face. I had a quick glance round the room, as Blake addressed her.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Ann,” said he. “We thought we heard a noise up here. Were you asleep?”
“Not quite, sir.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“No, sir. Only the creaking of the floor.”
“How long have you been in bed?”
“About ten minutes, sir.”
Blake glanced to the side. The little bedroom window that overlooked the back of the house was open, and rattling in the wind. “This rain has made the night a chilly one,” he remarked. “Would you like me to close your window?”
“Yes, sir,” said the girl. “It seems to be rattling more now than when I got into bed. Perhaps it’s because the door’s open.”
“Here, I’ll do it,” I said, stepping to the window. It was certainly a dark and tempestuous night outside, and for a second, as I had my hand on the window-latch, I gazed out into the darkness. As I did so, I had the impression, just for an instant, that there was some movement, down in the yard behind the house. I pulled the window shut without saying anything about this. I didn’t want to frighten the girl unnecessarily, and, besides, I could not be certain that I had really seen anything.
As the three of us descended the stair, Blake shook his head. “I don’t know what to make of it,” said he. “Perhaps, after all, the noises we heard were just the old floorboards creaking. It’s been so hot and dry lately that the wood will have shrunk, I suppose, and this heavy rain and the cold air it’s brought with it might have been just enough to cause the wood to expand again slightly. It certainly doesn’t take much to get these old timbers creaking and groaning, as I know from past experience. Perhaps, if we’re being strictly scientific in our approach, we should move this incident out of the column containing the stone-throwing and other things, and into the column headed ‘natural occurrences’.”
“And yet,” I said, “we cannot be sure.” I told Blake and Whitemoor then that I thought I had seen something, or somebody, moving about in the yard, as I was shutting the maid’s bedroom window. “Of course,” I said, “I cannot say for certain that I saw anything at all. When one is in a state of heightened awareness, it is well known that one’s own imagination can make something out of nothing.”
“That is true,” said Blake. “But if there really was an intruder in the house, he could have hidden in a dark corner somewhere downstairs, and then when we went up the staircase, made his escape into the back yard. I don’t think we examined the door in the long gallery, to see if it was locked.”
“I’ll soon remedy that omission,” I said as we reached the ground floor. “It’s locked,” I continued as I tried the door-handle.
“It’s bolted on the inside, too,” observed Whitemoor. “So no-one has left that way.”
“But look,” I said. “This window that was wide open is still not fully closed. You set off at such a lick up the stairs, Blake, that you put it on the peg, but never finished closing it properly. It’s certainly big enough for anybody to climb out of it easily.”
Blake nodded and appeared to be about to make some remark about the window, when he abruptly stopped. “What’s that by your foot, Watson?” said he. “I didn’t notice that before.”
I followed his gaze and saw that just by my boot, near the edge of the rush matting, where there were a few old leaves and other small bits of clutter that had probably blown in at some time when the door was open, there was a tiny slip of paper, about two inches long by an inch wide. I picked it up and examined it.
“It might just be something of ours,” said Whitemoor to Blake. “I sometimes use slips of paper like that to keep my place in a book, or to remind me of something I need to look up. Is there anything written on it, Dr Watson?”
I nodded. “All it says is ‘shrub’,” I said, as I showed it to the others.
“That doesn’t mean anything to me,” Blake remarked after a moment. “And it’s not my writing, nor yours, Whitemoor, is it?”
The young man shook his head. “Perhaps it’s something Mr Caxton wrote to remind himself to do something in the garden,” he suggested.
Blake nodded. “I suppose that seems most likely,” he said, but his features expressed doubt. “The trouble is,” he continued, “that it’s not Caxton’s handwriting, either. In any case, I can’t really see Caxton bothering to write ‘shrub’ on a piece of paper - it’s not the way he does things! What do you think, Watson?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “It could have blown in here from anywhere and is probably of no importance whatsoever; but I’ll hang on to it for the moment, anyway.”
I slipped the scrap of paper between the pages of my note-book, as we followed Blake into the kitchen. There, he threw a few sticks onto the glowing embers of the fire, put the kettle on the hob and began to mix up the ingredients for the hot toddy. When all was ready, we carried our drinks back to the drawing-room, filled our pipes, played a few more hands of cards and scarcely mentioned again the strange interlude that had disturbed our evening.
Later, however, as I lay in bed, listening to the rain pattering against the window, I went over the matter again in my mind. Had we really heard footsteps, either downstairs or upstairs? If we had not, and the sounds we had heard were simply the rain and the creaking timbers of the old house, why, then, had the window in the “long gallery” been unfastened and standing wide open? What, if anything, was the significance of that little slip of paper with the word “shrub” written upon it? There had been something about that paper which had been nagging away at the back of my mind ever since we had found it. Now, all at once, an idea came to me.
I struck a match and lit the candle on my bedside table, then leaned over to where my jacket hung on a nearby chair and extracted my note-book from the inside pocket. I took out the little slip of paper and examined it again, by the light of the candle. Yes, I was surely right! I still had no idea what it might mean, but I was convinced I now at least knew who had written it. The style of writing was identical to the style in which Matthias Needham had written his name on the book-plate in the book of local history he had showed us earlier that day. Why he had written “shrub”, I could not imagine; how the paper had ended up at Foxwood Grange, I could not imagine; but that Needham had written it, I now had no doubt.
12: Encounter in the Woods
WHEN I DESCENDED TO BREAKFAST the following morning, it was to find a scene of hustle and bustle. Blake had already finished his own breakfast and was preparing to leave for the railway station.
“Caxton is bringing the trap round now,” said he to me. “I have to leave in the next few minutes if I’m to catch the train. I’m sorry to leave you at a loose end, Watson, but it can’t be helped. I’ll conclude my business in London as quickly as I can, and if I can get an early afternoon train I should be back by tea-time. Perhaps Mr Holmes will have returned by then. Who knows?” he added with a smile.
“Indeed,” I responded. “Who knows?”
I had heard the rattle of the trap outside the front door as Blake was speaking, and a moment later he was gone. I finished my breakfast in the company of young Whitemoor, and we discussed the subjects that Blake would be tackling next.
“We’re staying on the subject of railways for the moment,” said Whitemoor. “The next thing Mr Blake wishes to do is a survey of the history and development of railway signalling, for The Popular Railway Magazine. Originally, it wasn’t going to be needed for another couple of months, but as he has had to write the article on braking systems earlier than expected, he thought he had best get on with the signalling article as well, in case that, too, is required earlier than planned. It’s not particularly technical or scientific, simply a broad survey, but it means I’ve got to look up every reference to signalling that I can find in books and journals. As you may know, Mr Blake is very thorough, and would not wish to omit any interesting thread in the complicated tangle of the subject, however slight its contribution to the general development of signalling may have been.”
“Best of luck with that, then,” I remarked with a chuckle, thinking of the mountainous piles of technical journals on the floor in Blake’s study.
After breakfast, I took a stroll in the garden. The rain had passed on, but had left the garden looking drenched and sodden. The sky was still a cloudy one, but there was a brisk breeze in the air which seemed likely to blow the clouds away in an hour or two, and the day was already beginning to warm up. For no particular reason, I ambled through the side-gate into the large field belonging to Ashton which lay next to the garden, and from which someone had hurled stones at us on Monday evening. As I stood there, surveying the view, I saw that there was someone standing at the very bottom end of the field. As far as I could make out at that distance, it did not appear to be Ashton himself, but I thought it might be his son, Giles, so I gave a little wave. He did not appear to have seen me, however, as at the very moment I raised my arm he turned away, passed through a gate into a little wood and vanished from my sight.
I returned to my bedroom to look again through my note-book and the sheaves of papers lying upon the writing-table, to try to bring my reports for Sherlock Holmes up to date. So much seemed to have happened in the two days since that sunny morning I had watched my friend walk off briskly down the drive to the railway station. Much of what had happened may have been trivial and unimportant, but as I did not understand the nature of the mystery which surrounded Farringdon Blake, I could not judge with any confidence what was important and what was not. All I could do was ensure that my records were as thorough and detailed as possible, and hope that Holmes would find something in them to assist him in forming his view of the matter.
As I opened my note-book, the little slip of paper bearing the single word “shrub” fell out onto the floor. I bent down and picked it up, thinking as I did so that I had had no opportunity before Blake left that morning to give him my opinion, that the hand that wrote it was that of Matthias Needham. For some time I sat, pondering the matter. Before I had formed the conviction that Needham had written it, I had been inclined to dismiss the paper as probably of no consequence; now I felt rather differently about it. Now I was sure it must have some significance, although what, I could not begin to imagine. Still, I would make a record of where we had found it, and the circumstances which had surrounded our finding it, and see if Holmes could make anything of it.
My mind ran on from the slip of paper to the footsteps we thought we had heard the previous evening. It is always difficult to be certain what it is you are hearing when rain is falling heavily and is at the same time dripping from the gutters, but, as I tried to recreate the sounds in my mind, I remained convinced that I had indeed heard footsteps in the yard behind the house. As to the other footsteps - the ones I thought I had heard within the house itself - I was not so sure. Perhaps, after all, they were simply the old house’s timbers creaking with the sudden change in the weather. Perhaps after I had heard footsteps outside - or, thought I had, at any rate - I had been predisposed to interpret subsequent sounds in the same way.
There was a lot for me to record, and it took me until lunchtime to get it all down in a way that satisfied me. As Whitemoor and I took lunch together in the dining-room, there came a ring at the front-door bell. A moment later, the maid entered with a telegram for me. I tore it open and read the following message:
RETURNING TOMORROW.
BELIEVE MAY HAVE
SOLVED HARLEY PUZZLE. S. H.
“Can it really be true?” said Whitemoor, an expression of astonishment on his features. “Can Mr Holmes really have solved the puzzle that has baffled generations?”
“He only says he ‘may’ have solved it,” I pointed out, “although knowing Holmes as I do, I don’t think he would have made even so cautious a claim as that unless he were pretty confident about the matter. His caution may be simply because he has a theory about the puzzle which he wishes to put to the test when he returns. He is every bit as scientific in his outlook as Mr Blake, and would not wish to claim success before he had subjected his theory to the most stringent of practical tests. I must say I am looking forward to hearing his thoughts on the matter!”
“Yes,” said Whitemoor. “It is an exciting prospect! I am rather sorry I shall be away when Mr Holmes returns.”
“You are going to visit your mother?”<
br />
“Yes. I shall have to leave tomorrow morning - I always go on a Friday - but I should be back on Sunday, all being well. I, too, am certainly very keen to hear Mr Holmes’s conclusions.”
“Then I shall make sure that he repeats his explanation for your benefit when you return,” I said with a chuckle. “Whether his theory turns out to be right or wrong, his reasoning is bound to be instructive!”
After lunch, I decided to take another walk over the nearby fields and woods. The sky had almost cleared, the wind had dropped and the sun was shining, and as I set off I was struck anew by the beauty of the countryside, refreshed as it was by the recent rains. What I had in mind was to explore the woods over by Black Bank House, the residence of Professor Crook. The last time I had been over that way, earlier in the week, I had run across the professor’s secretary, Dr Taylor, near the house, and, to avoid seeming to intrude upon their privacy, I had abandoned my explorations and left the wood. What I now hoped to do was to follow the path right through the wood and take a look at the countryside beyond. That, at least, would have been my stated aim had anyone asked me, but, if I am honest, I must admit I also hoped to get a good look at Black Bank House itself, something which had been denied to me on the previous occasion.
As had become my habit, I made my way up Ashton’s field, through the end of the ash spinney and down through Pearson’s field on the other side of the hill. There was no-one about, and it seemed, as on the previous occasion I had come this way, that I had the whole of the countryside to myself. At the foot of Pearson’s field I crossed the Thuxton road and entered the woods beyond. The trees were very tall and growing closely together, and their foliage was so dense, that even on what was now a sunny day the wood was a very shady one. As I made my way deeper into the wood, however, I found that there were some places where the sun managed to penetrate the canopy of the trees, and in these brighter spots the undergrowth was luxuriant, although it seemed to consist largely of stinging nettles and brambles. I followed a winding, slightly rising track between the trees, making a random choice each time I came to a fork in the path. There did not seem to be much bird-life in these woods, I noted, and, save only my own footsteps on the soft woodland floor, a deathly blanket of silence and stillness seemed to hang over everything.
The Riddle of Foxwood Grange Page 16