At length, the way ahead grew a little lighter, the trees thinned, and I emerged from the wood into bright sunlight. In the field ahead of me, a healthy-looking cereal crop was growing and beginning to change its colour from the fresh green of the spring to the mature yellowish-brown of the summer. A little way along the edge of the field was a fallen tree which made a convenient seat, and there I sat, filled my pipe and let my mind wander over all that had happened recently.
Sherlock Holmes had considered it a distinct possibility, at the outset of the case, that one of Farringdon Blake’s neighbours was involved in the mysterious events that had surrounded him, chiefly because only someone who had lived in the district for some time could know of the rungs up the ash-tree and the opportunity the viewing-platform presented for spying on the Grange. But I had now met, if only briefly, all of Blake’s immediate neighbours, and most of them, whatever their other good and bad points might be, seemed unlikely to have had anything to do with the mystery. The one possible exception, of course, was Mr Needham of Abbeyfield House. I was convinced that it was Needham I had seen in the ash spinney when I had been sitting on the platform up the tree, and who had made himself scarce very quickly as Pearson and his dog approached. I also suspected that Needham had indeed stolen the book of local history from the Grange, as Mr Stannard had suspected. But what did any of this mean? After all, having met him, I could not really believe that it was Needham who had been trying to climb into the Grange through a window in the “long gallery” the previous evening. Nor could I believe that it was he who had thrown a large stone at us as we sat out in the garden on Monday evening, for what possible reason could he have had? Of course, Holmes had speculated that the stone-thrower had been Mrs Booth’s husband, but he seemed to me scarcely more likely to be the culprit than Needham. After all, there was no evidence that he had even been in the area on the night in question. I sighed. There must, I thought, be a solution to all these mysteries - after all, in scientific terms, there was an explanation of some sort for everything that ever occurred - but what it might be, I really could not imagine.
After perhaps fifteen minutes, I put my pipe away, rose to my feet and re-entered the wood. I did not follow the same path back, however, but at every fork in the way, took the opportunity to make my way leftwards, to the eastern end of the wood, which is where Black Bank House was situated. At one point, the path I was on came to a dead end, or, at least, was effectively blocked by enormous banks of stinging nettles, about four feet tall, on either side, which had leaned over the path so much as to unite in one impenetrable mass. I was just retracing my steps, to try to find a way round this obstruction, when I heard voices, as of a number of people approaching.
I stopped and listened, as the voices grew louder. Then, off to the right, through the trees, I saw two men and a woman coming my way, whom I recognized at once as Professor Crook and his two companions. They had evidently been for one of their customary walks and were making their way back home.
“Yes, of course it is!” I heard Professor Crook cry in a loud, irritable tone of voice. “It is perfectly obvious; I have explained it all already!” Dr Taylor made some reply, but in a lower tone, which I could not catch.
As they spoke, they reached a point on a path parallel to my own which was close to where I was standing. It was clear they had not seen me, and I felt a little uncomfortable to be standing there in silence, as if I were eavesdropping upon their conversation. I therefore made a move to return the way I had come. At once, Professor Crook turned my way and stared at me. Then he turned back to Dr Taylor and cried out.
“See!” he cried, in a loud, belligerent tone. “It is as I say! There is your proof! This is what I have to put up with!” Then, without further warning, he left the path and at a great rate plunged through the shallow undergrowth towards me. So startled was I by this sudden rapid approach that, for a moment, I could neither move nor speak. “Hargreaves!” he cried out. “You devil!” Next moment, with tremendous force, he ran into me so violently that he knocked me to the ground. An instant later, his hands were around my neck with a grip like a vice and his thumbs were pressing into my throat.
Quite what happened then remains something of a blur in my memory. In vain I struggled to pull his hands from my throat. In vain I aimed a blow at his face which he easily avoided. As we struggled on the ground, I saw the figure of Dr Taylor loom up behind my assailant, then the woman I took to be Crook’s wife pushed her way past him. As she did so, she produced some kind of wooden baton from a pocket in her skirts. A second later she had brought it down with great force on the back of Crook’s head. The grip upon my throat abruptly slackened as his hands went limp, and he collapsed, insensible, on the path beside me.
For a moment I lay there, breathing heavily and scarcely understanding what was happening. Then Dr Taylor was bending over me and asking me if I was all right, in a voice full of contrition and sympathy. I murmured something, then he held out his hand to help me to my feet.
“I am terribly sorry about this,” he said. “Are you sure you are all right?”
“I will be in a moment,” I replied, dusting myself down. “What on earth got into Professor Crook? Why should he attack me? I have never even met him before.”
Dr Taylor glanced down at the senseless figure stretched out upon the path. “I hesitate to ask,” he began after a moment, “but I wonder if you would do me a favour? If you would help us get the professor back to the house,” he continued, as I looked at him in surprise, “I will explain everything to you, and you will realize that what has happened does not reflect on you personally in any way.”
“Very well,” I said, somewhat reluctantly.
Between the three of us we lifted Professor Crook and carried him by winding pathways back to Black Bank House. As we passed through the gateway between the high hedges which surrounded the garden, I saw that the house was similar to Needham’s, solid-looking and square but not especially attractive.
We deposited Professor Crook on a sofa in one of the downstairs rooms, and Dr Taylor bent over and examined him closely, removing the professor’s jacket and rolling up his shirt sleeve. Then, taking a slim box from his pocket, and extracting from it a hypodermic syringe, he injected half the contents into the professor’s arm.
“He will sleep now for about two hours,” Taylor remarked, turning to me. “When he awakes he will remember nothing of what happened in the wood.”
“You are a medical man?” I asked in surprise. “I had rather assumed you had a doctorate in astronomy or some related subject.”
Dr Taylor nodded his head. “I am aware that people in these parts have taken me to be a scientific colleague of Professor Crook’s. I have made no effort to correct that impression for reasons that I will explain in a moment.”
“I am a little concerned for the professor even if he did attack me,” I remarked. “The blow he sustained appeared quite a severe one.”
“I think he will be all right,” returned Taylor. “It may have appeared to you to be very violent treatment, but Miss Dawes really had little choice. He would not have stopped until he had throttled the life out of you. Come, let us go to the other room, and I will tell you all about it.”
We left Professor Crook in the care of the woman, and Dr Taylor led the way to a room across the hall.
“Do you know anything of Professor Crook’s academic career?” he asked me as he closed the door. “No?” he continued as I shook my head. “I will tell you then that it was a brilliant one. In his field, his name is known and honoured throughout the world. His publications are practically countless, and almost every one of them is regarded as the last word on the topic it addresses.
“In his latter years at Cambridge, however, and quite unknown to the wider world, his character underwent an odd transformation and he became secretive in his manner and suspicious of others. At first, this altera
tion in his previously open and generous manner was slight, and passed unnoticed. As time went by, however, these tendencies became more marked and he became convinced that others were spying upon him, trying to steal his ideas and take for themselves the recognition that he considered should be his. Eventually, the situation deteriorated so much that his relatives became seriously concerned, not least because a tinge of violence had now entered the behaviour of this previously mild-mannered man. He had taken to carrying a sharp knife about with him in his jacket pocket. This he showed to some of his academic colleagues, and to his relatives - who were all, of course, horrified - declaring that he was ‘more than ready’ to deal with his enemies should they attack him or attempt to steal his research.”
“He appeared to address me as ‘Hargreaves’, when we were in the wood,” I interjected. “Is that the name of some academic rival of his whom he distrusted?”
“Such a mistake would be bad enough,” replied Taylor with a shake of the head, “but in fact it is even worse than that. The truth is, there is no such person as ‘Hargreaves’. He does not exist except in Professor Crook’s own head. Where he plucked the name from, I have no idea. Perhaps he chanced to see it on a shop-front one day and it stuck in his memory for some reason. Who can say? Whatever the origin of the name, this non-existent ‘Hargreaves’ soon became the focus of all the professor’s suspicion and hatred. By this time, it was clear that he was suffering from what might be termed a persecution mania, as was now recognized by his relatives and by his doctor in Cambridge.
“At length it was decided that both for his own good and for that of others, the best thing would be to remove him from the hustle and bustle of the university to somewhere peaceful and quiet, where he could perhaps continue his scientific work without interruption, and under the watchful eye of an experienced medical man. As someone who has had great experience of such mental diseases, I was honoured to be appointed by Professor Crook’s family to that position. Miss Dawes - the woman you saw with us in the woods - is a nurse who has also had great experience in such cases.”
“Did the professor’s sequestration have the desired effect?” I asked.
“At first, certainly. He adapted to his new surroundings very quickly and spent long hours at his desk, preparing a great work which would sum up all his opinions and all his theories in one large volume. At the same time, I encouraged him to take frequent walks in the countryside, as I have found physical exercise and fresh air to be beneficial in such cases. After a time, however, the occasions when the suspicious and sometimes violent side of the professor’s character were manifest began to occur more frequently. I had learnt to predict such episodes from a certain increased agitation in his manner, but occasionally they took me quite by surprise. One day, for instance, without warning, and for no apparent reason, he attacked me with a carving-knife he had taken from the kitchen. As it turned out, I was not badly hurt, but I easily could have been. This is my souvenir of the occasion,” he continued, showing me the back of his right hand, across which ran an ugly scar. “As a result of that, we have had to hide all the knives, and watch carefully to see that the professor does not take any cutlery from the dining-table.
“Now,” Dr Taylor continued after a moment with a shake of the head, “I am really not sure how much longer we can continue in this fashion. The professor’s attacks of mania are becoming more frequent with each week that passes. Several times I have found him standing on a stool, looking in some high cupboard, in the kitchen or elsewhere, and have suspected he was looking for a knife or something else he could use as a weapon. On top of these problems, he isn’t really managing to write very much any more, even in his most calm and lucid periods.”
“What is it you discuss when you are out on your walks together?” I asked. “I have heard that the conversations always appear very intense ones, and Mr Blake has assumed you were discussing the professor’s theories on astronomical matters.”
Dr Taylor shook his head. “If only it were so,” said he. “What we discuss most of the time these days are the professor’s theories about ‘Hargreaves’ or his supposed agents: what, according to his theories, they are plotting to do next, and so on. Sometimes it is utter gibberish. I used to try to dismiss his anxieties and tell him he was worrying about nothing, but now I generally tend to go along with them, for I have found that if I disagree with him too bluntly he becomes very angry and is likely to launch a physical attack upon me.”
“I understand,” I said. “Does the professor ever go out alone?”
“He used to, occasionally. I would sometimes leave him working in his study, only to find later that he had climbed out of the window and gone off somewhere. He always came back eventually, but, of course, I never knew where he had been or what he had been doing in the meantime. Eventually, I felt obliged to secure the window, which I did by banging a large nail through the bottom of it, into the frame. But when Professor Crook discovered this, he showed it to me as evidence that Hargreaves’s agents were getting closer and plotting to trap him in the study while they robbed the house. He claimed he had heard them running past the house in the night-time and had wondered what they were up to, but now, he said, he knew. The other day, when you and I met in the woods, the professor had tricked me, and while I was looking for a pencil he said he had lost, he ran off, out of the front door. I found him a few minutes later, wandering aimlessly in the woods. He told me he had got lost, and accompanied me peacefully back to the house.”
I nodded, and expressed sympathy for the difficulty in which Dr Taylor found himself. “Incidentally,” I said, as if I had just remembered something, “does Professor Crook have a telescope?”
“What an odd question!” returned Taylor in surprise. “As a matter of fact, he does, although I don’t know what he has done with it, as I haven’t seen it for a while. Why do you ask?”
“It was just something that crossed my mind,” I replied, not very honestly. “Mr Blake was wishing the other day that he had one, to look at something in the night sky. It might have been the moons of Jupiter, although I can’t quite remember. Anyway, it doesn’t matter; it’s not important.”
I thanked Dr Taylor for sharing his confidences with me and wished him well in his thankless task of watching over Professor Crook. He in turn apologized profusely for what had happened.
“If I could beg a favour,” he said, as we shook hands on the doorstep.
“Certainly,” I returned. “What is it?”
“You will of course wish to inform your friends at the Grange of what has happened. But I should be very obliged if you did not pass on the information to anyone else in the district, at least for the present.”
“You have my word,” I said.
As I walked back to the Grange, I reflected on the afternoon’s events. My visit to north Oxfordshire was certainly proving a surprising one, but whether Professor Crook’s mental illness had any bearing on Farringdon Blake’s mystery, I had no idea. I had established that Crook had sometimes left the house by himself and stayed out for some time. I had also established that he had a telescope. Were these facts of any significance or not? I had no way of telling.
By the time I reached the Grange, I realized that I was quite exhausted. My brow was wet with sweat, and it was clear that my body had succumbed to that physical weakness which had afflicted me intermittently ever since my return from the war in Afghanistan. I therefore retired to my bedroom, where I lay on the bed, closed my eyes, and slipped swiftly into the deepest of sleeps.
When I awoke, much refreshed, Farringdon Blake had returned. I told him of the telegram I had received from Holmes, and asked him how he had fared in London. Then he, Whitemoor and I sat for some time in general light-hearted conversation. I had wondered whether I should perhaps hold back until Holmes returned the news of my encounter with Professor Crook in the woods and what I had subsequently learnt about him,
but in the end, when supper was concluded, I decided I would tell them. Both Blake and Whitemoor were shocked at what had happened, although I stressed that I was none the worse for it. They were also shocked, of course, to hear of the terrible mental deterioration with which Professor Crook was afflicted.
“Poor fellow!” cried Blake. “I am very sorry to hear that, but it at least explains why Dr Taylor won’t let anyone see him, which is something that had always troubled me.”
I nodded. “I hope Holmes is not too late back tomorrow,” I said. “I can scarcely wait to tell him all that has happened since he left. We seem to have had several weeks-worth of events packed into just a couple of days!”
“It will be interesting to see what Mr Holmes makes of any of it,” said Whitemoor.
Blake nodded his head in agreement. “Yes,” said he, “and I am also very much looking forward to hearing Holmes’s thoughts on Samuel Harley’s riddle.”
13: Sherlock Holmes Discourses
AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE the following morning, after Whitemoor had left us to make his way to the railway station, Farringdon Blake declared himself to be in “a lazy frame of mind”.
“I don’t think I shall do any work today,” said he with a yawn. “Yesterday I delivered a lengthy article on railway braking systems to one journal, an article on Pythagoras’s theorem to another, and a third, on the general pattern of winds around the world, which I prepared last week, to another, so there is nothing immediately pressing that I have to attend to. I get very few such free days from one month’s end to the next, so I think I shall make the most of this one. I have a few small tidying-up jobs to do in the study, but after that there is nothing I would rather do than give you a guided tour of the garden. What would you say to that, Watson? There are, I believe, some parts of it that you have not yet seen.”
The Riddle of Foxwood Grange Page 17