The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part III

by David Marcum

  “Ah, Coram, of Yoxley Old Place. That old devil!”

  “My understanding is that Professor Beasley recently claimed to have the original in his possession and, once authenticated, it was to be returned to the Coptic Church in Egypt, after he had made a copy for the University faculty.”

  “You are correct, that was his intention.”

  “Was? What, then, has happened?”

  “I have a few notes here from the local man, Inspector Horburgh of the Buckinghamshire Constabulary, concerning a crime that was committed during the night. Yesterday evening, Father Philxenous of the London Patriarchate went to visit the professor at his cottage in Bourne End, in order to examine the aforesaid Scroll. The Patriarch had had a few doubts about whether the Scroll was genuine, but having pored over it for a long time, he agreed that all was in order. The professor then locked the document away in its usual place, following which he and the Patriarch had a conversation, during which, the professor recalled, his visitor became very excited, as was only to be expected. The visitor, who was quite elderly, then said he was tired from the long journey and the excitement - he had come up from Somersetshire, which necessitated three changes of train - and he went off to bed very early without taking any supper, saying he wasn’t hungry. He had intended to spend the next few days going over the document with the professor, explaining a few points about the various dialects of the Coptic language. The visitor then went to bed, and that was the last Beasley saw of him. The following morning, the professor awoke to find the house had been entered during the night, and that, not only had the Scroll been stolen, but the Patriarch had disappeared. He had been kidnapped, and a ransom note left demanding ten thousand pounds for the return, alive and safe, of the reverend gentleman.”

  “Dear me,” said Holmes, “a small fortune.”

  “Of the scroll, however, there was no mention.”

  “The implication being that the thieves-”

  “Singular!” interrupted Lestrade. “One thief, and I think I can also show that the kidnapping was well planned in advance, too, but let me come to those points in a minute.”

  “Then the thief intends to keep the Scroll and sell it privately.”

  “Yes, he did a proper job, whoever he was; a clean sweep.”

  “It is likely, then, that he already has a buyer. A big job, though; there cannot be many would handle something of this scale. And yet, taking a hostage surely complicates matters for him considerably. It would have been difficult enough to escape with the booty, but for one man having to subdue and force-march an unwilling party along with him seems madness. Criminals can be greedy, I suppose, and it is never difficult to find instances where greed outweighs common sense.”

  “Indeed. At about half past seven this morning, the professor had knocked on the visitor’s bedroom door to tell him that breakfast would be ready in an hour, as the housekeeper usually comes in about eight o’clock. Receiving no reply, he had opened the door and looked in. He was a bit surprised to find the room empty, and imagined that the old fellow had gone down before him. The professor is a heavy sleeper and possibly wouldn’t have heard his visitor stirring; but there was no one downstairs, and it was only when the professor went back upstairs again that he noticed a slip of paper on the dresser beside the bed - the ransom note.”

  “One moment - had the bed been slept in?” asked Holmes.

  “Yes, it had.”

  “And what of the Patriarch’s luggage?”

  “It was left behind, and apparently still contained a few articles; a clean shirt and some undergarments.”

  “And the bedroom window?”

  “Closed and locked on the inside.”

  “Was there a skylight?”

  “Let me see... Yes, but no lock on the skylight, according to Horburgh.”

  “Pray continue.”

  “At first the Professor was incredulous, but there was the empty bed, the abandoned luggage, and no sign of the Patriarch. It was such a shock that he thought to make some strong black coffee to pull himself together. Suddenly he remembered the Scroll and dashed to his study to check, and it was then that he found it missing. It had been in his bureau, which was locked, although the key had been left under a small potted plant nearby. The key to the bureau was missing, so the Professor had to use his spare key to open the bureau. Apart from the note, there was not a single clue as to what had happened, and he had heard nothing during the night. As you can see, there was an unseasonal fall of snow in the city last night, but it had been much heavier out in Buckinghamshire - a few inches. Oh, you haven’t heard the best yet, Mr. Holmes, not by a long chalk!

  “As Beasley stood gazing out of the study window which looks out to the front of the building, his wits began to return; he noticed with a start that there were no footprints in the snow outside leading away from the front door, as he would have expected, for the snow had stopped before the professor went to bed. He could see in any case that no-one had left the house by the front door for it was locked from the inside. He therefore assumed that the thief must have made his getaway by the rear door, but that was also locked from the inside. A thought struck him, and so he returned to the Patriarch’s bedroom, which is at the back of the house, and looked out the window. He could see a clear set of footprints leading from the rear garden fence which backs on to a riverside path, across the garden all the way to the roan pipe adjacent to the window. At that point, the prints were muddled a bit. Furthermore, the snow which had fallen on the window sill had been greatly disturbed too, so that it is pretty obvious how the intruder got in - through the fence, across the garden, up the roan pipe, and in through the window. But nothing to suggest how he got away with the Scroll and the Patriarch. It is a complete mystery!”

  “And yet, if the escape was not made above ground... well, perhaps it is too early to theorise. I assume you have given strict instructions for nothing to be touched until my arrival.”

  “Of course. The place is being watched, and Inspector Horburgh, the local man who called me, is in charge.”

  “I suppose a run out to Bourne End is in order, Watson? Then ask Billy to call us a four-wheeler for Paddington!”

  “Unfortunately,” I replied, looking at the grey slushy pavements outside, “I detect a slight thaw which may obliterate the footprints.”

  “Hm, yes. Well, we shall still be able to examine the rest for ourselves.”

  “Incidentally,” said Lestrade, “the ransom note was composed of words cut out from a newspaper, which indicates to me that the kidnapping was aforethought.”

  “Excellent,” replied Holmes, “that seems a bit of a faux pas on the thief’s part, for there are very few common typefaces which I should be unable to identify, and I should be very surprised if we do not glean something from the note.”

  The journey down to Bourne End was a pleasant one, especially the final leg from Maidenhead, as we steamed slowly up through Cookham, where, with the sun at our backs, and the Thames glinted and shone in the cold clear air. The top of Winter Hill was still contoured by its light dusting of snow, and although a thaw had set in, there was scarce a breath of wind, the plumes of smoke from the houses and cottages in the sleepy riverside villages rising up in straight lines out of the chimney pots.

  Sergeant Canterville of the Bucks. Constabulary had been in conversation with a genial-looking old white-haired railway porter as the train drew in, and he hailed us as we alighted to the platform.

  “This is Mr. Merryweather,” said the sergeant. “He was on duty yesterday when Father Philxenous arrived.”

  “Yes, I saw the ole fellow getting off the tray-in,” the porter said, in that drawling manner characteristic of the small Thames-side hamlets. “Now I hee-aar as he’s been kidnapped. Ha! We haven’t had so much excitement since the Marlow Donkey went off the ray-ils one foggy night and nee-aar e
nded up in the river. Gave me a turn, though, when I heard what had happened to old Nobby!”

  “Do you know the Professor?” asked Holmes.

  “Went to school together, we did, hee-ar in the village. Nobby were always an odd bod, right enough. While us normal lads would be kickin’ a ball arou-and or standin’ at a wicket, ten-to-one he’d have his nose in a book. A bit touched, we used to think. But he’s travelled all over the Holy Land, and they say he can jabber away to a Bedoow-in or an Ottoman, or a Hebroo like a native. Seems he had these Copticks eatin’ out of his hands. Well, the-aar he is now, Principal of whatever-it-is, and hee-aar’s me trudgin’ arou-and in all weathers, luggin’ suitcases and sweepin’ draughty waitin’ rooms, so who’s the mad one now, I say.”

  “Mr. Merryweather was telling me he remembers a queer lookin’ fellow loiterin’ about the station yesterday,” said the sergeant.

  “Yes. He hung about the Waitin’ Room most of the day.”

  “Can you describe him?” asked Lestrade.

  “He were a tall, thin, swarthy fellow; he had a broad-brimmed hat pulled dow-en almost over his eyes. Even though there were a coo-al fire burnin’ in the Waitin’ Room, he had his collar turned up. Lairy lookin’ sort of customer, but he weren’t breakin’ any bye-laws, so I leave him be.”

  “You could not see his face?”

  “That’s right. He seemed to be waitin’ for someone arrivin’ on a tray-in, for he had no luggage of any sort himself. He stood well back from the window, too, except when a tray-in come in.”

  “Did you examine his ticket?”

  “He never come off no tray-in, and didn’t buy a ticket hee-aar, to the best of my knowledge, and he never spoke to anyone. From the little I could see, I didn’t recognise him as bein’ from the village.”

  “But he was here before Father Philxenous arrived, and remained here afterwards?”

  “That’s right. He loafed arou-and until after the last tray-in from Maidenhead, then he left.”

  “One moment,” interrupted Holmes. “Were there still trains to arrive from other points after he left?”

  “There was the last one off Marlow for the day that terminates hee-aar, and one off High Wycombe that runs rou-and and goes back up empty stock.”

  “Thank you,” said Lestrade, “you have been very helpful.”

  “This is the address, sir,” the young sergeant said briskly to the Inspector, handing him a card.

  Professor C. N. Beasley,

  1, Lime Kiln Lane,

  Bourne End,

  Bucks.

  “I don’t know the place,” said Lestrade, “so you’d better take us.”

  We circled the station and crossed the single track railway by the level crossing, then over a narrow stream, and at the end of the road turned into the Lane, which made a cul-de-sac. A low picket fence separated the houses on one side from the river path which was bustling with people.”

  “There’s a fair goin’ at Falconer’s,” said the sergeant by way of explanation. I had observed, tacked around at various points near the railway station, notices advertising the circus.

  “Where exactly?” asked Holmes.

  “Just there, that’s Falconer’s Field under Harvest Ridge,” the young man replied, pointing out a steep slope not far off. “In full swing, too, by the sound of it.”

  “How long has it been here?” asked Lestrade.

  “Came on Maundy Thursday - five days now.”

  Four houses stood in the cul-de-sac, some way back from the street, each with its own front garden: two older cottages at the end, and two newer villas nearest the street crossing. The professor’s cottage was at the side of the Lane which backed on to the river.

  “The footprints,” said Holmes impatiently, “have been lost in the thaw.”

  “If you please, sir,” said the young sergeant, touching his cap to my friend, “the Professor took a photograph of them - we have sent it out to be developed.”

  “Excellent,” remarked Holmes. “The professor seems a model client.”

  “Ah, here is Inspector Horburgh now,” said Lestrade, as an alert-looking man of middle age strode towards us.

  “Perhaps it would be better to remain and speak out here,” said the local Inspector briskly. “We have not eliminated the professor as a suspect, yet.”

  “What motive do you think he might possibly have for stealing his own possession?” asked Holmes.

  “None, to be truthful. It’s a mere formality, but I want to be sure of my ground. The fact that he seems to have been quick-witted enough to take a photograph of the footprints before the thaw set in could cut both ways - take nothing for granted is my motto.”

  “Excellent!” replied Holmes. “But, assuming the photographs show what the professor described, what would be your theory as to the manner of escape? Can it have been made through some underground passage or other? The cottage hardly looks old enough.”

  “Eighteenth century,” said Horburgh.

  “Not impossible but, I should say, unlikely. How long had the professor lived in it?”

  “Since a boy.”

  “Then that appears to take care of the only other conceivable explanation - any place of concealment would be likely to be known to someone who had lived there all his life, so the thief and the Patriarch can hardly have remained concealed in the house, unless the professor is party to the conspiracy.”

  “I agree,” said Horburgh, “but I still intend to search it from top to bottom. We have interviewed a number of people: first I spoke to Mrs. McGill, the housekeeper - she corroborated everything he told me himself. A quiet, simple woman, her husband is chronically unwell, and she lives at the other side of the village. It is extremely doubtful if she has had anything to do with this. The owner of number three - one of the new villas - is a Mr. Selborne, the company accountant. A recent arrival in the village, commutes to the City each day by the eight-twenty, presently on holiday in Switzerland, left last Tuesday. I then interviewed Mr. Joshua Bennett, the former Rector at St. Nicholas, who lives in the other old cottage, number two - he is eighty-two and stone deaf. I think he can be eliminated. In number four, the other of the new houses, lives Captain Tierney. An interesting character, to say the least: formerly of the 7th, Bombay, Mountain Battery, Royal Artillery.”

  “Retired?” asked Lestrade.

  “Dishonourably discharged!” replied his colleague.

  “I see.”

  “Drink and gambling. He had been in India. Youngish chap, bachelor, wild, and a nasty piece when the ‘fluence is on him. Motive certainly - gambling debts. Thin as a rake and could easily shin up the roan pipe. He will have had a gun in the house too, I am sure, and could have frightened the old man.”

  “You mean you haven’t searched the place?” asked Holmes.

  “Wouldn’t let us. Said he knew nothing about it, as he was dead drunk last night - he certainly looked pretty woody this morning. Swears he never left the house yesterday, and what’s more, as he put, ‘couldn’t give a damn about any bloody heathen relics,’ and went on about putting ‘these devil-worshippers about their business.’”

  “Fine fellow!” I replied.

  “I had to threaten to run him in after he challenged the young constable to fisticuffs.”

  “You might get a warrant,” said Holmes.

  “I have sent to the magistrate for one. I had a word with the circus people too, down at the camp in Falconer’s, but couldn’t get much out of them. They saw nothing and heard nothing. Don’t like policemen around the place, keep themselves to themselves, but they’re not a bad lot. If you ask me, they get blamed for a lot of things the settled folk do.”

  “All the same, I may take a look round there later,” said Holmes, to my surprise. “Now, I should like to examine the premises.�
�

  My friend first inspected the garden and the outhouses - which amounted to a coal bunker and a tool shed. He stopped for a considerable length of time at a spot by the rear fence which led, through some bushes, on to the river path.

  “There is no doubt that there has been someone though here recently,” he said, pointing to some broken twigs and twisted branches. “That would certainly corroborate the professor’s story.”

  “Yes, I saw that,” said Horburgh.

  “It is impossible, of course, to follow these footprints on the path, as there have been so many here. I am confused as to which direction this person passed through.”

  “Surely it is obvious,” said Horburgh, looking at Holmes strangely. “The professor saw the footprints leading from the fence to the house...”

  “I thought your motto was to take nothing for granted,” replied Holmes.

  “Well,” said the Inspector, somewhat ruffled at my friend’s remark, “the photograph should dispel any doubt.”

  “Yes, possibly,” said my friend absently, as he wandered back to the other end of the garden. He then stopped to stare up at the cottage from the ground.

  The Inspector followed the line of his gaze, “It’s a pity that he didn’t take a shot of the window sill, too.”

  “In point of fact, it wasn’t the window sill I should have wanted to examine,” replied Holmes enigmatically, to the deepening mystification of the two Inspectors.

  “Shall we go inside now?” I asked, breaking the strained silence.

  The professor greeted us warmly, and asked the housekeeper for tea. In answer to Holmes’s question, Beasley said he had seen no-one unusual loitering in the vicinity of the house about or before the time of the kidnapping. No visitors had called - weeks could go by without one, he said.