by Robin Paige
In his room at the opposite end of the hall from Miss Marsden, Conan Doyle had not yet gone to bed. A tidy fire burned in the grate and his chair awaited him, but he stood before his window, wrapped in a green silk dressing gown, gazing down at the empty street, the gas lamps wreathed in twisting ribbons of mist.
Doyle frowned. He was thinking with a great deal of discomfort about Fletcher Robinson—Bertie. What the devil was he to do about the man? When they had first met aboard ship on their return from South Africa, he had been quite taken with the affable young journalist, who had already made something of a name for himself as a wartime correspondent for the Daily Express. A few weeks ago, Bertie had invited him to Norfolk for a pleasant golfing holiday, entertaining him with eerie tales of his native Devon and the great moor, among them a local legend of a gigantic hound. When Doyle remarked that the strange tale might serve as the background for a ghost story, Robinson had been quick to propose a title and sketch out a plot—a skill at which he was quite adept. Almost before Doyle knew it, he found himself agreeing to a collaboration, and the next morning, still under the spell of Robinson’s boyish enthusiasm about the project, he wrote a note to his mother to say that they planned to coauthor a “small book.” He even mentioned Robinson’s proposed title, The Hound of the Baskervilles, and the fact that they intended to spend a fortnight at Bertie’s family home, to the east of Dartmoor, where they could make day trips to the moor and steep themselves in atmosphere for the project.
At that point, of course, Doyle had given no thought to bringing Holmes or Watson into the plot, for Holmes was dead, and anyway, that would only muddle things. The two of them did not intend their tale to be a detective story but rather a classic masterpiece of the supernatural, in the manner of Dickens’s “The Signalman” or Henry James’s “The Turn of the Screw,” which they saw as striking exactly the tone of psychological fear and dread that they were after.
All this literary discussion was delightfully exhilarating, although if Doyle had been a bit more cautious he might have recalled that he’d not had much success with such ventures. He and J. M. Barrie had thrown themselves into the libretto for a comic opera which had proved a disastrous failure, and his impulsive agreement to coauthor a work with his brother-in-law Willie Hornung had come to a similar bad end.
In this case, the difficulty was that Robinson had run dry of ideas after that first energetic outburst. And when Doyle had handed him a preliminary section of the story, he’d had the temerity to scratch out perfectly good sentences and insert his own—and insist on treating every forthcoming page in exactly the same way! What’s more, Bertie’s much-vaunted knowledge of the moor had turned out to be about as extensive as the average day-tripper’s, a fact that tonight’s embarrassing exchange with Crossing had demonstrated. And worst of all, the more intimate he and his coauthor became, the more of a bore the fellow seemed—a genial bore, but nonetheless irritating, especially since he’d begun to talk so possessively about “their” story.
So, after chewing the whole mess over for several days, Doyle had decided to extricate himself from the frustrations of this ill-advised collaboration. He had come up with exactly the right method, too. He would bring Holmes and Watson into the piece and make it, after all, a detective story—his detective story, of course, for Robinson could not expect to lay claim to a Sherlock Holmes mystery. Anyway, his was the name that would sell the thing. Robinson’s name would never be worth more than a couple of shillings.
And while Doyle didn’t like to be crass about it, money was the central issue here. He had often joked that he’d killed his bank account when he killed Sherlock Holmes, but it was the unfortunate truth. His last novel, A Duet, had been a commercial failure, the book on the Boer War had brought in nothing at all, and he was chronically short of funds. With Holmes in The Hound, he felt sure that Greenhough Smith at The Strand would gladly give him a hundred pounds per thousand words. Without Holmes, he’d have to settle for substantially less. Yes, all things considered, Sherlock was the single stone that would bring down two very different birds: Bertie’s ambition to be the coauthor of The Hound of the Baskervilles, and his own unhappy need for money. He hated like fury to go back on his word to anyone, even to Robinson, and no doubt he would suffer pangs of conscience for it. But there it was. He had no other choice.
Having come to this conclusion a day or so ago, Doyle had excused himself from staying longer at Ipplepen and had moved to Princetown, to the Duchy Hotel, where he could finish his work without any more interference from Robinson, particularly those offers to edit his work! The only question that remained was how and when to tell Bertie that their short-lived collaboration was over.
With a dejected sigh, he leaned his forehead against the cold glass of the window. He didn’t suppose the matter would end there, for he knew Bertie well enough to realize that the man might be contentious. While they didn’t have a written agreement—he’d been astute enough, at least, not to back himself into that sort of corner—Bertie had drawn him into a conversation about their project in the hearing of several friends. Even Harry Baskerville, the coachman whose surname Robinson had filched, had seen them in the billiards room, going over the story together. Doyle was not a pessimistic man, but he could smell trouble ahead over this thing. He would no doubt have to promise to pay the fellow something out of his royalties to get him to step aside.
He sighed again as he turned from the window, went back to his chair, and sat down. An unopened envelope lay on the table beside him, a letter from his wife Louisa, at home with the children at their new house, Undershaw. She was dying of consumption—had been dying for eight long years—and he knew what he would read in the letter: a cheerful report of the family’s doings, a bit of gossip about friends, a solicitous wish for his health, and between every line, her constant, steadfast, undying love. He should read it, he knew, and write a response to go into the morning post. Touie—his pet name for her—insisted on hearing from him each day that he was absent, and most days, he dutifully complied.
His hand hesitated for a moment above the envelope on the table but went instead to his pocket. He took out an already much-read letter and unfolded it slowly, taking in the heady fragrance of roses that scented it. It was from Jean Leckie, the woman Doyle had loved for four years, since their meeting on March 15, 1897, an anniversary that he always marked by giving her a single white blossom, a snowdrop. But Doyle knew in his heart that his love for Jean did not have the purity symbolized by the flower. While he fought hard against the darkness of desire and so far had won—if winning were measured by his adamant refusal to permit himself to physically consummate their love—his undeniable yearning for her constantly offended his sense of what was right and true. It was the source of an enormous conflict in his soul, eating away at him day and night.
He sighed and refolded the letter once again. He did not need to read it, for he had already memorized its few lines. Jean would be here tomorrow, and they would be together again, for at least a few hours. He could touch her hand, kiss her lips, enjoy the warmth and comfort of her delightful company.
Under the circumstances, it was all he could ask, and more—far more—than he had any right to expect.
CHAPTER NINE
Princetown
March 31, 1901
SAMUEL SPENCER CHANGES PLEA
GUILTY Or WIFE’S FIENDISH MURDER
Yesterday, halfway through his trial, Dr. Samuel Spencer changed his plea and confessed his guilt in the murder of his pregnant wife Elizabeth. The dramatic event occurred immediately after the Crown’s prosecutor, Mr. Daniel Stasney, prepared to disclose, through the introduction of certain letters, that Dr. Spencer was jealous of his wife’s love for another man.
Although that man has not yet been publicly named, several letters were found in the victim’s possession, revealing her intention to leave her husband. A servant had testified that she had overheard Dr. Spencer and his wife, who was some fifteen years younger
than himself, in violent argument. Officer Walter O’Reilly had testified that he answered a neighbor’s frantic summons to find Dr. Spencer standing over his wife’s body, a bloody poker in his hand. Dr. Spencer’s solicitor had argued that an intruder was responsible for the murder.
After the disclosure of the murderer’s motive by the Crown, Dr. Spencer’s solicitor requested a recess, and when the court returned to session, reported that his client wished to change his plea to guilty. In view of this surprising turn of events, the Honourable Justice Martin has recessed the trial until next week, when he will pass sentence on Mr. Spencer.
Edinburgh Berald, 26 January, 1900
Enjoying the brisk temperature and bright morning sunlight, Charles walked to the prison early the next morning. In the shadow of the school and the police station, a shimmer of white frost still clung to the paving stones, while between the houses on the north side of the street, Charles could see the open moor lying in silvery folds like a carelessly thrown robe, decorated here and there with heaps of blue gray granite, diamond bright in the morning sun. Charles was not a poetic man, but it seemed to him that there was something clean and innocent about the moor, which endured despite all the cruel efforts of those who, in small ways and large, sought to exploit its reserve of mineral and metal and stone, its resources of silence and solitude. It was that innocence that he loved and hoped to see preserved for all time to come, and to that end, he had joined the Dartmoor Preservation Association shortly after it was formed in 1883, and had submitted an article or two for publication in the association’s journal.
But there was a place on the moor which held nothing of innocence. Ahead, on his right, loomed the prison, Tyrwhitt’s “great work” and Princetown’s raison d’être, the poisoned womb from which the town had been born. With mixed sensations of reluctance and enthusiasm, Charles quickened his step. The sooner he finished instructing the guards and saw that the fingerprinting project was well under way, the sooner he would be able to get out of the prison and explore the moor—tomorrow or the next day, he hoped, if all continued to go well with the work.
Once inside the walls, Charles went first to the Administrative Block, where he put his head into the governor’s office to remind Oliver Cranford that he would like to speak sometime that day with Samuel Spencer, in the man’s cell, if that were convenient. Then he went off to spend the morning with the two young guards and instruct them in the business of setting up a fingerprinting system.
He’d been with them only an hour, however, when another guard arrived with the message that Prisoner 351 had been returned to his cell. “If ye’ll follow me, please, sir,” he said. “I’ll take ye there.”
The cell, Charles saw as he stepped through the low door, was a bleak stone cubicle about twelve feet by seven and eight or nine feet high, dark as a cave and cold enough to make him glad that he was wearing his greatcoat. A barred window no larger than a tea tray was set in the outer wall near the ceiling. The thick, metal-bound wood door was fitted with a glass peephole, shuttered on the outside so that the guards could look at the prisoner within at will, but the prisoner himself could not choose to look out. A man in a gray prisoner’s uniform, the number 351 blazoned on the front and back of his coarse jacket, was seated on the bed, which was made of wooden boards on trestles only a few inches off the floor and covered with a thin mattress and a rough blanket.
The prisoner looked up at Charles. His eyes were a quite remarkable blue. “What do you want?” he asked in a gruff North Country voice.
“ ‘Wot d’ ye want, sir,’ ” the guard snapped. “An’ stand t’ attention when ’is lordship speaks t’ ye.”
“Thank you,” Charles said to the guard. “You may leave us now.”
The guard shook his head. “No, sir, milord. Prison rules, milord. Not’llowed.”
“Just go and stand outside the door,” Charles said gently. “If I need you, I shall be sure to call.” When the guard still hesitated, he went on, “If you are in doubt as to taking my instructions, I shall be glad to go with you to Major Cranford so that he may give you his authorization.”
“Tisn’t yer instructions I doubt, milord,” the guard replied uneasily. He nodded at the prisoner, who had remained seated. “They‘uns be right dang’rous, sir, some more ’n others. Ye dessa‘int turn yer back on ’em.”
“I understand,” Charles said, waiting until, with a last nervous glance at the prisoner, the guard went out and closed and locked the door.
His eyes adjusting to the gloom, Charles glanced around the cell. In one corner stood an enamel jug and an empty slop jar. In another corner, a wooden ledge was fixed so as to serve as a table. On the bare, distempered wall above it was a mirror the size of a post card, under the edge of which was inserted a black-bordered obituary notice and a blurred, sepia-toned snapshot of a young man. On the table sat a tin plate, for the prisoners took their meals alone in their cells. To the right and slightly above the plate was a cup. Beneath the table stood a wooden stool.
Charles pulled the stool toward the bed and sat on it. “My name is Sheridan,” he said. “Charles Sheridan. I hope you will allow me the privilege of a few minutes’ conversation, Dr. Spencer.”
“Do I have a choice?” Spencer asked sardonically. He swung his feet onto the bed and shoved a pillow between his back and the stone wall. “Anyway, as long as you’re here, I’m released from work detail. You may stay as long as you like.” His voice was gruff but cultivated, and he spoke slowly, as if he had grown disused to speaking. He rubbed his hand across his shaven head, where a fuzz of sandy hair was just showing. “You may stay all day, as far as I’m concerned.”
Charles regarded the man thoughtfully. Spencer was in his forties, of slender build but well muscled. He looked an athlete, not yet having acquired the flab that comes from a diet of too much bread and too little meat. His jaw had a hard, clean line, his eyes held no self-delusion, and there was a contained self-sufficiency about him, almost a kind of monkishness. Indeed, Charles thought that it would not be hard to imagine the man as having chosen a life of monastic retreat—not to books, but to labor, for his hands were callused, his face reddened as if by wind and sun.
“You work outdoors, I take it?” Charles asked.
“In the bog fields.” Spencer was wary. “I build ... walls.” He folded his arms and waited. When the silence had lengthened to several minutes, he asked, “Well, then, what do you want?” He added, almost insolently, “my lord.”
“To know about the crime that brought you here,” Charles said.
An opaque curtain came down behind Spencer’s eyes, but Charles could read the pain in the thin lines around the man’s mouth. “What do you want to know about it?”
“I should like to know what happened.”
Spencer was curt. “What happened? It’s in the court transcript.”
“I have read the transcript,” Charles replied in a measured tone. “Since you did not testify on your own behalf, I could not read your version of the events, however.”
“I was not required to testify.” There was no drama in Spencer’s voice, no theatrical gesture, only a flat factuality.
“You gave no statement to the court, other than a change of plea.”
“No. ”
“And you are required to say nothing now. I should appreciate it, that is all.” Charles sat without moving, crouched on the stool beside the bed as if he himself were a penitent, the prisoner his confessor. After a moment he added, “Your wife was struck by a poker, as I understand it. By an intruder, your solicitor first argued.”
“Yes.”
“Struck a number of times—eight or nine, according to the coroner.”
Charles saw and took note of the spasm of pain that crossed Spencer’s face. “So they say,” he replied, in a low voice.
“She was killed in her bedroom?”
“Her body was found in her bed. She was wearing her nightdress.” Charles could feel the cold of the cell on the
back of his neck, but Spencer was sweating, the perspiration like jewels beaded on his forehead. “Why are you asking?”
“And why was she killed?”
The man’s nostrils flared. “You read the transcript, didn’t you? It’s all there, the whole sordid story. The maid heard us arguing. The policeman found me with the poker. I was jealous. I killed her because I was jealous. I tried to cover it up by claiming that she was killed by an intruder.”
“Of whom were you jealous?”
“Of ... of a man with whom she was planning to leave.” Spencer’s eyes closed against the memory. “A man she loved more than she loved me.”
“And where were you when this terrible thing happened ?”
Spencer’s eyes came open and he laughed, a hard, false laugh that fell into the cold like frozen clods of earth. “I was standing over her with the bloody damned poker, you bloody sod. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Because I’m guilty.”
For a moment, Charles wondered what question Sherlock Holmes would have asked to shake the man out of his insistence on his guilt. He could think of none, though, so he repeated, in a lower voice, “Where were you when your wife died, Dr. Spencer?”
Spencer’s eyes were slitted; he was breathing in short, rasping gasps. “Ask the police. Ask the prosecutor. Ask the judge who sent me here.” He opened and closed his hands. “They’ll tell you where I was.”
“You were in the house? In your laboratory in the attic, perhaps? And when you heard the quarrel in the bedroom, you left your laboratory in such haste that you abandoned your microscope and several petri dishes open to the air?”
With an abrupt, jerky motion, the prisoner sat up and swung his feet over the edge of the pallet. “Get out of here,” he rasped. “I have no more to say to you.”
Charles still crouched on the stool, his face expressionless, wishing that he could be like Holmes, could make this a mere intellectual puzzle, a riddle of guilt or innocence designed to be unraveled in a cloud of tobacco smoke, before a comfortable fire in the grate at Two Twenty-one B Baker Street. “Do you know who killed her? If you know,” he added, “I should be glad if you would tell me. Even at this late date, it may be possible to obtain proof of his guilt.”