by Robin Paige
The job completed to his apparent satisfaction, Lord Sheridan unlocked a desk drawer and took out a large envelope. Taking up the card and gesturing to the other items, he smiled.
“Now, constable,” he said, “let us present our discoveries to Major Cranford and Dr. Doyle.”
A few minutes later, the two men were in the prison governor’s office, where Major Cranford and Doyle were seated in front of the fire, chatting amiably, the tea tray on the table between them.
“Well, Sheridan, did you find anything of interest in the cell?” the major asked, rising.
“I did indeed,” Lord Sheridan replied. With a quiet word to the constable, he directed him to lay out the pieces of evidence they had assembled, one by one, on Major Cranford’s desk. “If you will step over here,” he added, to the major and Doyle, “I will explain my current line of thinking about the matter of Dr. Spencer’s guilt.”
“With regard to the murder for which he was imprisoned?” the major asked. “Or this latest murder?”
“I think both,” Lord Sheridan replied, “although you may of course arrive at a different conclusion.”
The constable stepped away from the desk and assumed a watchful stance, folding his arms across his chest. It seemed to him that there were hardly enough bits of evidence to form the basis for any coherent story. But he had the idea that if anyone could make sense of it all, it would be his lordship. He prepared himself to listen.
In a few moments’ time, Lord Sheridan summarized what had happened in Edinburgh some eighteen months before, including the meager evidence that had been presented at Dr. Spencer’s trial: the policeman’s and servant’s testimony, and Spencer’s belated confession. “Unfortunately,” Lord Sheridan added, pointing to the enlarged photograph of the bloody handprint that he had taken out of the large envelope, “the police did not consider this evidence relevant, so it was never introduced to the court.”
The constable came a step closer to the desk and bent over to have a look at the photograph, which revealed several quite distinctive loops and whorls, of the sort that Lord Sheridan had shown him several days before.
“The jury wouldn’t have known what to do with it if it had been introduced,” Doyle remarked with a shrug. “No criminal has ever been convicted by such evidence.”
“You are correct,” Lord Sheridan agreed evenly, “but that is a problem that will be remedied in time.” He took up the microscope slides he had made earlier. “These are the fingerprints of the prisoner’s right hand, taken from a cup I obtained from his cell when the constable and I searched it.” He handed Doyle his hand lens. “Even a cursory examination will show that they bear no resemblance to the fingerprints in the photograph, which was made at the crime scene.”
While the constable and the major watched, Doyle bent over, studying the two sets of prints. At last he straightened. “I must agree that these marks are not at all similar,” he said. “But if you took Spencer’s prints from a cup, how do you know that they are not the prints from his left hand?”
“Because of the position of the cup in relation to the plate,” Lord Sheridan replied. “When I noticed it during my earlier visit and when I found it again today, it was placed above and to the right of the plate, thus.” He moved Cranford’s blotter and inkwell to demonstrate. “No left-handed man places a cup in such a position.”
Seeing Doyle’s frown, the constable spoke up. “ ’Tis so, sir,” he said. “I thought as much myself when I saw the plate and the mug, there in the cell.”
The major stroked his chin, frowning. “I take it that you are suggesting, Sheridan, that Spencer did not murder his wife.”
“I am, indeed,” Lord Sheridan replied. “In fact, when the murder occurred, Dr. Spencer was working in his laboratory in the attic.”
The major’s eyebrows went up. “How do you know that?”
“I guessed,” Lord Sheridan said, “and the prisoner confirmed it by his response when I questioned him. You see, the doctor was in the midst of an experiment that he abandoned when the crime occurred. Two open petri dishes were later found on his laboratory table, and the fact was recorded in the police report.”
Doyle knitted his brows. “Two open petri dishes? But surely no doctor would—”
“Exactly,” Lord Sheridan said. “No doctor would abandon an experiment at such a vulnerable moment unless he were galvanized into sudden action by the horrendous screams of his wife. Unfortunately, however, the open petri dishes were never introduced as evidence. Nor was the fact that when the policeman found Dr. Spencer standing beside the body, there was not a drop of blood on his hands or his person. Remarkable, I submit, if he had indeed bludgeoned his wife to death.” He picked up the photograph. “No, someone else left this bloody handprint on the wall. The real murderer, no doubt, fleeing from the scene.”
The constable stared at the photograph Lord Sheridan was holding. If what his lordship said was true, the escaped man was innocent of his wife’s murder! But why in God’s name would he plead guilty?
“Perhaps the handprint was that of the victim herself,” Doyle suggested.
“She was a small woman,” Lord Sheridan replied, “and the handprint is far too large. Moreover, she was killed in her bed and could not have risen after the first or second blow. The more significant question, of course,” he added thoughtfully, “is why Dr. Spencer would plead guilty to a murder he did not commit.”
The constable nodded eagerly. Yes, that was exactly the question. Of course, he had never before worked on a case like this one, but in his experience of human nature, a man would willingly yield up his freedom only in defense of someone he—
“Perhaps the killer was known to Dr. Spencer,” the major suggested, “and he wished to protect him. Or her. I suppose the killer could be a woman, although women are more apt to use poison than pokers.” He glanced obliquely at Doyle. “This is up your line, Doyle—or Holmes’s, I should say. What do you make of it?”
Doyle hesitated, as if he were not quite sure how to respond. “Bewildering,” he said finally. “Most puzzling.”
“It certainly has a character all its own,” Lord Sheridan said. He pointed to the snapshot that the constable had placed on the desk. “Here, for instance, is Spencer’s younger brother Malcomb, who is pictured in this photograph. According to the obituary notice the constable and I found in the cell, Malcomb Spencer’s body was pulled from the Thames one month after Dr. Samuel Spencer pled guilty to his wife’s murder—and a year to the day after that murder. The drowning was presumed to be accidental, but I think we may reasonably question that verdict.”
“Suicide, p’rhaps, sir?” the constable asked, thinking that a man in such a position must carry such a heavy burden of guilt that it would quite naturally sink him.
“I think it quite probable,” Lord Sheridan replied with a nod. “But we are advancing beyond the scope of our evidence here. We shall have to know more before we can form a conclusion as to the manner of Malcomb Spencer’s death. To return to the central question, the sequence of events at the trial clearly suggests that Spencer pled guilty to protect the real murderer, who I agree must have been known to him. As I recall, the guilty plea—astonishing to some—occurred when the Crown was on the point of revealing letters from the man with whom Spencer’s wife had fallen in love.”
The constable stared at Lord Sheridan. Perhaps the Crown was about to say that Spencer’s wife had formed a relationship with—
Doyle pulled doubtfully at his upper lip. “You’re suggesting that Spencer’s brother was his wife’s lover and her murderer?”
“And that Spencer pled guilty to protect his brother and prevent him from being connected with the dead woman?” the major put in.
“Yes,” Lord Sheridan replied. “The letters in the Crown’s possession do not identify Malcomb Spencer as the victim’s lover, for I have seen them myself. However, Spencer may have thought that the Crown had additional information, and that if the letters were intr
oduced, his brother’s name would ultimately be revealed. He pled guilty, I believe, to keep that from happening and to protect his brother’s wife Clementine and her daughter Rachel.” He pointed to the obituary. “You see them named here. Their lives would have been irreparably destroyed by the knowledge of a husband’s and father’s betrayal. I imagine that Spencer would have done anything to keep them from learning what his brother had done.”
The constable pulled in his breath, feeling a wave of compassion sweep through him. That a man would give up his freedom, would allow himself to be locked away from the sun and the open air in order to shelter a woman and child—it was almost beyond imagination. If someone else knew this story, no wonder he was willing to help the prisoner escape.
“My dear Sheridan,” the major murmured, “this is quite a remarkable line of reasoning.” He glanced at Doyle. “Worthy of Sherlock, wouldn’t you say, Doyle?”
“I seem to have walked right into the thick of one of Holmes’s cases,” Doyle replied with an uneasy laugh.
“My reasoning is merely speculative,” Lord Sheridan said with a shrug. “A scientific use of the imagination, as it were, and only to be confirmed when more facts can be obtained.” He frowned. “But I fear that we must be concerned at the moment with something far more concrete and immediate.”
The constable, who had been thinking about the prisoner’s means of escape, put out his hand to the books that lay on the desk. “The Bible, you mean, sir?”
“Exactly,” Lord Sheridan said. He picked up the Bible and opened it. “I believe that this Bible contained information—a letter, instructions, perhaps a map—meant to facilitate Spencer’s escape.” He showed them the pocket created by the gluing of the flyleaf.
“Where did this Bible come from?” Doyle asked. “Was it sent to him in the mail?”
“It may have been given to him on Saturday last by the Salvation Army missionary who handed out Bibles to Scottish prisoners.” Lord Sheridan turned to the major. “It would be a good idea, Oliver, to take a look at the other Bibles that were distributed that day, to see if they have been altered in a similar way. I suggest that you also make inquiries about the identity of the missionary. A woman, was it?”
“I believe so,” Cranford said. “I didn’t see her myself. Our prison chaplain handles such matters, since he is personally acquainted with the Salvation Army commander who is responsible for the Prison Gate Mission. I’ll ask Chaplain Peters to telegraph an inquiry and see to collecting the Bibles immediately.”
Doyle cleared his throat. “There is one more thing. I agree that his lordship’s line of reasoning is quite ... remarkable. It does seem to me, however, that the question of Spencer’s guilt or innocence in the murder of his wife has no bearing on his guilt in the matter of Sir Edgar’s murder. Wouldn’t you agree, Major Cranford?”
The major looked uncertain. “Well—” he began.
“I would not agree,” Lord Sheridan replied firmly. “I cannot believe that a man who knowingly and deliberately assumes another’s guilt in order to protect the innocent would knowingly and deliberately murder an innocent man. In fact, I’d stake my own life on it.”
The constable’s nod was emphatic. “True, sir. I’m with you there, sir.”
“I’m still not convinced that Spencer is innocent of his wife’s murder,” Doyle persisted. “After all, the man has fled, and escape is usually deemed a confession of guilt.”
“True indeed,” Lord Sheridan said quietly, “but not in this case. On the day before his escape, the prisoner refused to allow me to take his fingerprints, even after he understood that they might be used to clear his name. In fact, I suspect that Samuel Spencer went over the wall when he did to ensure that I should not have the opportunity to prove him innocent.” He looked from one man to the other. “You may conclude as you will, of course, but I shall look elsewhere for the person who murdered Sir Edgar Duncan. And when I have found him, Dr. Spencer will be free at least from suspicion of this crime.”
And the constable, who had ten minutes before believed absolutely in the guilt of the escaped prisoner, now found himself believing without reservation in the man’s innocence.
He only wished he knew where else to look for Sir Edgar’s killer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The sun was already sinking when I reached the summit of the hill, and the long slopes beneath me were all golden-green on one side and gray shadow on the other. A haze lay low upon the farthest sky-line. out of which Jutted the fantastic shapes of Belliver and Vixen Tor.... Down beneath me in a cleft of the hills there was a circle of the old stone huts, and in the middle of them there was one which retained sufficient roof to act as a screen against the weather.... This must be the burrow where the stranger lurked.
The Hound of the Baskervilles
Arthur Conan Doyle
The sun had set into a thick band of cloud that glowed as fiercely as coals in a grate when the man walked to the top of the hill above the stone huts, a pack slung over his shoulder, a leather jerkin open over a wool sweater, abundant brown hair curling out from under a jaunty Tyrolean hat, a stout Swiss walking stick in one hand, field glasses hung about his neck. In recent years, such figures had become familiar to moor dwellers, who although they could rarely take time from their work to tramp the moor themselves, certainly understood its appeal to those who sought its health and recreational benefits. These visitors were more than welcome, for they often stopped at farms to purchase a cup of cold milk or a bit of new-made cheese. To an observer glimpsing this man from a distance, then, he would have seemed nothing more than a visitor out on a casual evening’s ramble, bent on exploring the moor at twilight.
But there was no observer. The man surveyed the moor around him, seeing no human figure, hearing no human sound in all the great, undulating expanse of it. Still, he was wary, for yesterday he had encountered the woman, and this afternoon, he had seen a trio of armed men silhouetted against the sky, their carbines at the ready, as if they were poised to shoot on sight. As he walked down the granite-strewn hill, he went quickly, approaching the hut from a different angle than he had the night before and being careful not to dislodge so much as a pebble.
The hut was the only one in the settlement circle that boasted a roof, probably constructed within the past half century by a sheep-herding moorman who needed to seek an occasional night’s shelter from the elements. The man took one last look around, then ducked through the opening and into the small, dark space within. With his disappearance, the moor was once again empty, vast, and eternal, the twilight falling as it had fallen for eons upon a landscape pocked by masses of granite and scored into a fissure-and-hummock terrain by the rains. The stone-circle settlement was the only sign that humans might have laid their hands on the land, and it was so old and element-worn that it, too, might have been an artifact of nature or the playful work of ancient gods.
People other than the shepherd had made occasional use of the small hut in recent years, leaving behind a rotten scrap of blanket, a rusted tin, the butt of a cigarette. Its present occupant, however, had been careful to remove all signs of his own previous night’s habitation. A visitor who happened by the hut during the day would scarcely have suspected that anyone had recently spent the night here.
Now, the man took off his pack and leaned it against the wall, pulling out a candle that he lit and stuck on a stone. Next came a waterproof that he fastened over the door opening and a wool blanket that he unrolled on the ground. These items were followed by a canteen of water and a folding kit of cooking utensils, a tin of ham and two of beans, a thick wedge of bright yellow cheese, two fragrant apples, and part of a loaf of bread, all of which the man arranged on a flat, tablelike stone.
He took off his hat and then, with a frown of irritation, lifted both hands and took off his hair, rubbing the stubble on his shaven head with his hand. The hat was bad enough—he had become ill used to hats of late, not having occasion to wear them—but the wig was a
great deal worse, especially when he grew warm from walking. Still, it was the most inspired element of the disguise, for it would be difficult for anyone to imagine that the brown-haired rambler in tweeds, sweater, and leather jerkin was Dr. Samuel Spencer, Prisoner, an escaped convict with a shorn head.
But his finding of the disguise and the food was the only thing that had gone right in the past three days, Spencer thought bleakly. Everything else in the operation had gone wrong, all wrong, starting with that damned escape. Too early by a full bloody week, although he couldn’t blame himself or anyone else for what had happened. It had just happened, that was all, and now he was living with the consequences.
It had been a good plan. If everything had gone the way it was supposed to, he would have slipped over the wall on the following Monday, the day he and Evelyn had agreed, and headed straight for the cache to meet her and don the disguise. Together they would have set off for the rail halt at Yes Tor Bottom, a pair of ramblers out for a morning walk on the moor, arriving just in time to hail the train from Princetown to Yelverton, well before the prison guards could be organized for pursuit. If confronted, Evelyn would have been shocked and alarmed to hear of the escape (she was a resourceful actress) and both of them would have presented their forged identification papers. In three hours they’d have been in Plymouth, where Evelyn had booked passage for two for South America on the Bonnie Dee, sailing that very evening.
If things had gone according to plan, which they hadn’t, of course. His premature departure had been triggered by Wilcox and Black, going over the wall when they did. The instant he had seen them make their break, he’d known that he had to go with them or lose his chance for months, perhaps longer. The warders would be severely punished for their carelessness and would take out their anger and frustration on the men who were left, tightening the watch and making an escape on the following Monday utterly impossible.