The Investigations of Sherlock Holmes

by John Heywood

  “Enough now, you two!” cried Holmes. “The police will be arriving soon.”

  Mention of the police was enough for the pair. A quick glance flashed between them; they both twisted round and spat on their fallen foe, and in an instant rushed past us. I moved to stop them, but Holmes held up his hand to stay me.

  “Let them go, Watson, let them go.” We heard the front door open, and a moment later, through the window, I saw them running down the street. “I have no great quarrel with the Arrighelli brothers. It’s pretty clear they had no idea what harm their little deception was designed to inflict. No, this is the fellow I was after,” said my friend, indicating the supine figure of Harfield. “Might I suggest, Watson, that you go upstairs and remove the battery of medicines from Miss Harfield’s room? We may hold them in safekeeping for the police. Let us hope that the damage is not permanent, and that the unfortunate lady’s condition will improve once Mr Rupert Harfield has been removed from her home and her life.”

  The Case of the Standing Wheat

  I returned one evening to the Baker Street flat I shared with Sherlock Holmes to find that my fellow-lodger was not alone; a furtive-looking little man was perched on the edge of the easy-chair, turning his hat round and round in his hands. He glanced up at me sharply as I entered.

  “Ah, Watson!” exclaimed Holmes. “Your masterly sense of timing has not deserted you. Inspector Lestrade here is about to tell me of a case that has been causing the force some concern.”

  “It is not my own case, you know,” said the inspector. “It’s down in Sussex, and the local constabulary is in charge. Perhaps you have heard about it; Lowe farm, near Birley, is the place, and the man held is the farmer, name of Queeny.”

  “I read a report in this morning’s paper, yes,” I answered, settling into a chair.

  “I wonder that you take an interest in it, Lestrade, if you are not handling the matter,” intervened Holmes. “I suppose you have not enough work of your own on hand.”

  This remark elicited a snort of outrage from the inspector. “Believe me, Mr Holmes, I have enough and more on my plate, I can assure you of that. No, that’s not it, but I’ll tell you what my interest in the case is. The enquiry is in the hands of the local man, Chief Inspector Ellery, and Ellery is an old friend of mine. We trained together, and were promoted to inspector in the same year. There are a couple of oddities about this Lowe Farm case that Ellery couldn’t fathom, and last night he came up to see me about it. Quite informal, mind you; he doesn’t want to see the Yard called in. It would hurt his professional pride, you see. Of course, he knows of you, Mr Holmes, and he knows you have worked with me a few times. And he knows that when you have been involved in a case, you haven’t always insisted on taking the credit. Well, if you were able to give him any help, I should say that he’d be very grateful, though he’s too proud a man to ask. I should be grateful too; there’s not a finer man in the force than Jack Ellery, and I don’t want to see him fail.”

  “So your old comrade Ellery consulted with you,” said Holmes, “and you in turn consult with me. I think I had better hear what has provoked this flurry of consultation.” He pushed the cigarette-box towards our visitor. “Take one of these, make yourself comfortable in the easy-chair, and tell us what you know about the death at Lowe Farm.”

  The inspector gathered his thoughts for a few moments, frowning and turning his bowler hat round and round in his hands.

  “There’s little enough to tell,” he began, “and I’m not sure old Jack Ellery isn’t making a mountain out of a molehill. Be that as it may, the facts of the matter are these:

  “Yesterday, at about seven in the morning, the farm-hand at Lowe comes from the upper fields, where he has been mending a gate. He goes down to the barn, which lies by the lower field. The lower field is a wheat-field, not yet harvested. He notices a number of crows in one corner. So he goes into the wheat to scare them off, and up they rise in a great flock and he sees what they have been feeding on. It’s the body of a man, lying in the wheat. Straight away the lad runs over to the house to fetch his master, John Queeny. He finds Queeny at the house all right, but he’s the worse for drink, and refuses to move. When Fairbrother - that’s the farm-hand - begs him to come, his employer flings a bottle at him and tells him to go to the devil.”

  “What an extraordinary response!” I exclaimed.

  “Not so extraordinary as you might think, Dr Watson,” replied the inspector. “Not for this man Queeny, at any rate. He is given to occasional fits of very hard drinking, they say, when he becomes surly, violent, and morose. These bouts of drunkenness last several days, during which time nobody goes near him. In the end he sleeps it off and emerges, grim-faced and foul-tempered, to work again on the farm.

  “Well, young Billy Fairbrother finds himself in a quandary. His master won’t come, and there’s no-one else he can turn to, for he’s the only hand on the farm, and Queeny lives alone without a housekeeper or servant. So Fairbrother has no choice but to go to the village himself and alert the constable. He is obliged to walk, for Queeny does not keep a horse. He sets off, and the village lying some four miles distant, it isn’t much before noon that he returns to the farm, accompanied by the village constable. As soon as they arrive the constable, having made a brief inspection of the scene, instructs Fairbrother to guard the body, while he himself makes sure that Queeny doesn’t leave the house. And so they remain for an hour or so until my friend Ellery comes on the scene, with two constables and surgeon.

  “The surgeon carries out a preliminary examination of the body, and then has the constables remove it, and in the meantime Ellery carefully checks the ground where the body lies. The greatest care was taken not to disturb the ground, Mr Holmes,” added the inspector, with a glance towards my friend.

  “Of course,” answered Holmes. “Pray continue.”

  “Well, the surgeon confirms what has been obvious enough already, that the dead man has suffered the most severe injuries, including a broken neck, a broken leg, broken ribs, severe bruising and some lacerations. Death, which must have followed the injuries immediately, occurred between ten and seven hours before the examination - in other words between three o’clock at night and six in the morning. Nothing was found that might identify him.”

  Holmes had risen and walked over to the window, where he stood gazing out as though quite uninterested in the inspector’s tale. Without taking his eyes from the clouds that drifted across the sky he interrupted the policeman:

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “No wallet? No name in his hat? No card? No initials on his watch?”

  “Nothing, Mr Holmes. All I can tell you is this, that he was a man in early middle age, in good health, of good height, slender frame, and well enough dressed.”

  “I see. So the dead man remains unidentified?”

  “That is so.”

  “Pray continue.”

  “Now, the farmer Queeny - or perhaps I should say the small-holder, for his place is not above thirty acres - John Queeny, I say, lives alone on his land. His wife is dead and, as I said, he has no servant or housekeeper. His only help in working his farm is this lad Fairbrother, who lives in the neighbouring farmstead with his parents and walks across to Queeny’s every day. In the summer months Fairbrother arrives there at dawn and leaves at dusk; so he did yesterday morning.”

  “Whose word do you have for that?”

  “Fairbrother’s own. He made a full statement to Inspector Ellery.”

  “Not Queeny’s?”

  “Queeny has not made a statement.”

  Holmes nodded and waved the inspector to continue.

  “There’s not much doubt about who did it, Mr Holmes. For one thing, only a great lumbering ox of a man like Queeny could have inflicted the injuries we saw. Further, he has a most foul reputation a
mong his neighbours as a violent, ill-tempered bully. No man, woman or child is safe when he is in drink. They say that his cruel use of his wife hastened her early death, and he has twice been in trouble with the authorities over assaulting his hired men. Fairbrother is a very different type of person - a simple young man, he is, they say, a gentle soul. Besides which, he is half the size of Queeny - I don’t say he is a weakling, but he lacks the strength to inflict the terrible injuries that the stranger suffered. It all points one way, gentlemen, and accordingly Queeny is now under arrest on suspicion of murder.”

  “I see. Well, as the local police seem to have the matter well in hand, I am not quite clear how I can help,” commented Holmes.

  “I’m inclined to agree with you there, Mr Holmes. Ellery has his man under close arrest, and the process of the law can take its course. What more does he need to do? But you see, Ellery is a stickler for detail, and there are one or two details that he can’t quite explain to his satisfaction. He worries about them - worries too much, to my way of thinking. You can’t always expect to understand every little thing about a case. Life doesn’t work out that way and no more does police work. But he doesn’t see it like that. I have no doubt, Mr Holmes, that if you could be prevailed upon to help him he would be a deal happier.”

  “Then you had better tell me about these details that so trouble your friend Inspector Ellery.”

  “Well, firstly, the identity of the dead man. We can’t find out who he is - or was, should I say. None of the local men is missing. That’s one thing. Next, how did he get there? No tracks to where he lay, and no sign of what must surely have been a most terrible struggle. We don’t have a weapon, either. It must have been something akin to a sledgehammer that delivered those blows, but nothing has been found.”

  “Considerable difficulties, are they not? Do you have any theory to explain them?”

  “ ‘Theory?’ ” The inspector leaned forward in his chair. “I don’t know about theories, Mr Holmes,” he answered, “but I can make a plain guess. There are a few gangs of labourers travelling the area, looking for harvest work. Gipsies, some of them. They visit all the local farms, offering themselves for hire. Now, suppose Queeny is drinking at his place with one of those fellows, and they fall out. The labourer storms out; the farmer follows in a rage, and fells him. He carries the body away from the house to the field where he pitches it into the corn, leaving as few tracks as possible.”

  Holmes was still standing at the window, watching the evening clouds scudding high overhead. After a long silence he turned to us. “There is something about this case that arouses my curiosity. How are you fixed for tomorrow, Watson? Could you leave your practice for the day?”

  “Certainly. My neighbour will take my place. I have done as much for him several times recently.”

  “Good man! That settles it. We shall go down to Birley, in Sussex, tomorrow.”

  Lestrade, never at ease for long in a chair, leapt to his feet. “I’ll leave this copy of the surgeon’s summary for you,” he said, tapping the sheaf of papers he had brought with him. “I’m pleased you’ll be helping my friend Ellery, Mr Holmes, very pleased. I’ll admit it’s a puzzler in some respects, this case. But there’s only one man who could have done this murder, and that man is Queeny. He’ll swing for this, I’ll wager, and when he does, no-one will mourn his passing.”

  With these prophetic words the inspector gave us goodnight, and left.

  Holmes and I took an early train the next morning to Birley. We were met at the station by a constable and driven to the police station, where we were ushered into a side room to wait for Ellery. After a few minutes the door opened and in burst a splendid figure of a man, tall and broad-chested, with a bold stride that befitted the veldt better than the little fields of Surrey. He introduced himself as inspector Ellery; and as he shook my hand with a firm grip and looked me straight in the eye, I could not help thinking wryly that this fine specimen of English manhood was as different from the dark, furtive little Lestrade as it was possible for a fellow to be. Ellery thanked us for coming, and immediately got down to the matter in hand. The suspect Queeny was in the cell below, he told us, and the body of the man he was charged with murdering was also in the station; it was agreed that Holmes should interview Queeny, then examine the body, and finally pay a visit to Lowe Farm, Queeny’s smallholding where the body had been found. Ellery took us down to the cell, looked through the peep-hole, and unlocked the door. The three of us entered.

  In the course of my association with Sherlock Holmes I have visited a number of suspects in police custody. It is a situation in which few men are seen to advantage, and Queeny cut as poor a figure as any. We found him slumped in the corner of his cell, glaring listlessly up at us as we entered. His huge bulk was more pathetic than menacing, like that of the caged bear whose claws and teeth are drawn. He sullenly denied having murdered the man; indeed, he was adamant that he had been alone all that night, and had not seen a soul until the hired man Fairbrother had burst in on him the next morning. On this simple point he was obstinate; further questioning brought nothing but oaths or grunts. After a few minutes even these unhelpful responses dried up and were replaced by a morose silence. “Friend Queeny was not very communicative, was he?” Holmes cheerfully remarked as we left the cell. “Let us hope the dead man will tell us more than the living one.”

  The body was laid out under a sheet in an upstairs room, and beside it, on a bench, were laid out the dead man’s clothes and the contents of his pockets. Holmes looked through them one by one. “A remarkably sturdy coat and waist-coat for the summer months,” he muttered. “Perhaps he knew that he was to be abroad in the small hours. No maker’s name. Stout canvas boots ... with soles of gutta-percha. No hat.” He turned to the smaller basket. “Now, let us see what he carried in his pockets. A handkerchief; some coins; a clasp-knife: what do you make of the knife, Inspector?” he asked.

  The inspector took the knife in his hand. “Well, I should say it was a pocket-knife of ordinary design, by no means new,” he answered, handing it back.

  “Yes, it is well-worn,” agreed Holmes, “and also well-preserved. See how readily it opens; probably because--” he lifted it to his nostrils - “yes, a faint smell of gun-oil. He cleaned it, I see, as well as oiling it. Sharpened it recently, too - do you see the shine on the edge where it was honed?” he asked, turning the blade to catch the light. “And sharpened it often: see how the blade is worn hollow. What else do we have? Ah, his fob-watch! This is a fine time-piece - not quite a marine chronometer, I suppose - a deck-watch, perhaps. Well-tended, like his knife, but it isn’t going. It gives four minutes after three o’clock.” He put the watch to his ear. “Perhaps it needs winding ... no, it is broken. That is indicative. Nothing else - no pocket-book, for example?” he asked himself, looking through the basket. “No. Then let us turn to the body itself.”

  The orderly pulled back the sheet to reveal the body. Holmes examined it in silence for some ten minutes before replacing the sheet and turning to us. “Very much as the doctor reported, of course. Not much new to learn here, I think. Let us move on to Queeny’s place. I should like to see where the body was found.” We returned to the station to pick up a dog-cart.

  “Tell me, Mr Holmes, did our doctor miss anything in his report? Have you learnt anything new about the dead man?” Ellery asked as we jolted along the lanes on our way to Queeny’s farm.

  “No, no,” came the answer. “Only the hands. Did you not notice? The palms were calloused.”

  “I had not noticed the palms of the hands, no. A labouring man, do you think?”

  “I think not. His accoutrements do not suggest it, and his hands were well enough manicured. No case under the nails, for instance.”

  Ellery looked puzzled, until his eyes lit on his own hands holding the reins. “A riding man!” he exclaimed.

  Holmes, however, see
med to have lost interest in this line of enquiry, and became absorbed in the countryside through which we were passing. It was a bright day, and the wheat harvest was in spate. In some of the fields we passed, gangs of harvest-men were busy in the sun; some fields were empty, already harvested, and reduced to bare stubble; in others, the ripe wheat still stood, rippling in the breeze.

  After some twenty minutes of this pleasant journey a sign saying LOWE FARM came into view. There we turned into a narrow, overgrown track, and as we headed up to the farmhouse we passed the wheat-field where the body had been found. Holmes desired to be let down immediately, and down we all jumped. The field, one of those as yet unharvested, was surrounded on three sides by a low, scrubby hedge, the fourth side being edged by a ditch. In the corner by which we entered grew two old elms, beyond whose spread began the wheat. A constable standing in the shade of the trees saluted our arrival. He was, Ellery explained, guarding the spot where the body had lain, about thirty yards beyond the trees. Holmes approached the spot with as much circumspection as if the body were still there, cautiously examining the damaged wheat, often dropping to his knees to peer at the ground with his magnifying lens, sometimes taking out his tape-measure, although to measure what, I could not see. Whatever the measurements were, he jotted them down in his note-book, while Ellery, his constable and I waited patiently under the trees, observing this procedure with some curiosity. If the two policemen were a little surprised by the minute care with which Holmes carried out his investigations, they were a good deal more surprised when he emerged from the wheat and knelt at their feet to examine their own footprints.

  “Lord, Mr Holmes,” exclaimed Ellery with good humour, “I trust we are not suspects?”

  “I need to know who went where, Inspector. I shall not be able to identify the footmarks of the murderer or his victim, if I cannot distinguish their tread from yours. Now, the labourer Fairbrother: he is a smallish fellow with a spring in his step?”