It would be too much to say that Holmes looked embarrassed but there was no doubting he coloured a little as he replied.
“There I must admit to a slight embellishment of the truth, Watson,” he said. “I told the young lady on the counter that I was a police inspector and required the contents of both Reilly’s and Salah’s telegrams as part of my enquiries.”
Any hope that our meeting should remain clandestine was destroyed at that moment, as I gave out a belly laugh which must have been audible in the manor house. The idea of Inspector Sherlock Holmes was simply too humorous for any other reaction. I blinked at my friend through tear-filled eyes and, once I had regained my breath, asked him how he had convinced the girl.
“Simplicity itself,” he said, regarding my levity with obvious disapproval. “As we heard when we arrived, my name is unknown in these parts and a good speaking voice and an air of authority was sufficient to carry the day.”
I shook my head in admiration at Holmes’s cheek – and then quickly sobered, as I realised one important fact about the telegram. If Holmes was showing it to me here, then he obviously did not intend to show it to Inspector Fisher. His disregard for Scotland Yard and, on occasion, the strict letter of the law was one thing, but to deliberately withhold evidence of such importance…
I said as much to him as I handed the paper back. “You need to show this to Inspector Fisher, Holmes. Largely on account of your arguments, he has allowed Reilly free rein to go where he pleases. In light of this telegram, that is clearly not the wisest course of action. Who knows what he might do.”
Holmes simply slipped the paper back into his jacket. “I showed you this for a reason, Watson, but I hope you will trust me when I tell you that there is no reason to show it to the inspector. Reilly is not a killer, nor will he prove one in the future, I am sure of that. Giving this information to Fisher will only lead him to arrest the wrong man, while the true killer is allowed to escape.”
“If you can prove that, Holmes, show Fisher the proof instead, then. Tell him who he should be arresting!”
Holmes was evasive. “Proof sufficient to convince a man as stubborn as Inspector Fisher is a difficult thing to produce. I must admit that, at the moment, I have none to give him.” He grabbed my arm and stepped towards me. “I am asking you to trust me for now, Watson. I believe I know what Reilly’s words mean, and I do not believe that they have anything to do with murder. Until I can prove that, however, I hope you will assist me in unmasking the real killer.”
I hesitated before making any reply. It was true that the telegram did not admit to murder, and might refer to an infinite number of things, but the timing of it was surely more than coincidental, and I knew that Fisher would see it that way too. But Holmes was seldom wrong, and never when he was as certain as he now seemed. Not without reservations, I nodded my head.
I would keep Holmes’s secret for now, and help him look for another potential murderer. But I was not happy.
Chapter Thirteen
Hopkirk is Suspected
It seemed that whenever we left the manor house for any length of time, we returned to find the situation had changed. It was quite disorienting.
We had taken a leisurely route back, enjoying the crisp, cold air, and comparing our opinions of the other guests. So it was that an hour had passed between our departure and our return, and in that time it seemed the inhabitants of the house had vanished.
Of neither guests nor police was there any sign, though a faint banging sound could just about be made out towards the rear of the house. The main hall and library were unoccupied, however, and the dining room equally empty. It was only as we entered the servants’ area that we encountered another living soul, as Lawrence Buxton appeared from within a large walk-in pantry and greeted us with a soft “hello”.
He explained that the other guests were either resting in their rooms or had taken the opportunity, now that the likelihood of further storms had diminished, to view the gardens. An auction was still to take place in a few days, after all.
Inspector Fisher, however, was conspicuous by his absence. It seemed that after his meeting with Holmes he had gone directly to the cellar, where he had set his two assistants to a thorough search and had not emerged since.
Buxton, who had gone down to check on progress and been sent running by the inspector’s irascible bark and the threat of arrest, reported that they had set up lanterns where they could and were moving slowly from one end of the still dimly lit cellar to the other, shifting larger items out of the way wherever possible, and painstakingly examining any other areas on their hands and knees. The cellar was large and cluttered and it would take several hours to investigate every inch of its interior. The inspector, Buxton informed me with no small hint of malice, was supervising the operation from a makeshift seat by the outer door.
“Though what they hope to gain from doing so, I have no idea,” he continued, chewing thoughtfully on a sandwich.
“It’s the way that Inspector Fisher likes to work, I believe,” I remarked. “He told us that he is a great believer in meticulous police work of this sort.”
“He lacks imagination, you mean,” Buxton retorted. Fisher’s high-handed behaviour in the cellar had obviously soured his impression of the inspector. “Why are you not investigating, Mr Holmes, that’s what I should like to know?”
Holmes explained that he had been ordered not to do so, but this information served merely to irritate Buxton further. He lamented the attitude of the modern police force for a few moments, then announced that he had work to do.
As he left, I turned to Holmes, intending to suggest that we take a look at the cellar. But as I opened my mouth to speak, in perfect time, as though the one action had prompted the other, a loud shout echoed through the house.
“That noise came from the cellar,” he said, and smiled. “In the circumstances, I do not think that it could be described as interference if we were to go down to offer what assistance we can, do you?”
“No,” I agreed with a matching grin, “I don’t think that it could.”
* * *
The cellar was only marginally more brightly lit than it had been when Hopkirk and I had ferried Salah’s body to his room. It had, however, undergone a minor transformation, in that a series of narrow winding walkways had been created among the clutter and junk, allowing access to all but the most impenetrable areas of the room.
Inspector Fisher stood at the end of one such walkway, shining a torch down at a patch of shadowy floor. The smaller of the two constables sat on an upturned crate, cradling his hand to his side.
“Cairns has just trapped his hand between two planks of wood,” said the other constable, Halliday, stepping in front of us to block our way. He looked over his shoulder towards his superior officer, who glanced up, hesitated for a moment in thought, then decided we should be allowed access.
“Let them in,” he called over. “I’ve got something to show Mr Holmes.”
Halliday stepped aside and we carefully picked our way across the room to the inspector.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said, pulling a watch from his waistcoat pocket. “If it is afternoon yet… ah, so it is, just about. You will be pleased to hear that diligent police work by myself and my two colleagues here has already turned up not one but two important pieces of new evidence. Evidence which, taken with other information already known to me, is of sufficient weight to allow me to build a working hypothesis as to the identity of the killer of Mr Alim Salah.”
He tilted his lantern so that it shone at a forty-five-degree angle, illuminating a small space beneath a mass of rotting carpets. Something sparkled in the light. Fisher crouched down and pulled whatever it was towards himself.
“Your timing is impeccable,” he sneered. “We only discovered this a matter of moments ago.”
With a grunt of effort, he sprang to his feet and turned over his hand, to reveal a long leather wallet, embossed with what appeared t
o be gold leaf and held shut with a diamond clasp. Embossed on the side were the initials A.S. and a curious emblem, which I recognised after a moment’s examination as a large snake, entwined around a precious stone. This had undoubtedly belonged to Salah.
We crowded closer to Fisher as he handed his lantern to the still moaning Cairns and carefully flipped open the catch. From inside, he slid out a thick pile of English banknotes, which he quickly thumbed through.
“Eleven pounds, ten shillings,” he whistled softly. “Whoever killed Mr Salah wasn’t after his money, anyway.”
“Most interesting, Inspector,” said Holmes. Then, unknowingly echoing Buxton’s earlier comment, he continued, “though I am unclear what exactly has been gained by this discovery. By their very presence here, each of the guests has demonstrated they possess sufficient wealth to purchase the house and all the lands that go with it. I am not clear how it narrows down our field of enquiry to say that the killer was uninterested in adding a little under eleven pounds to his fortune.”
I felt sure that Fisher would react furiously to Holmes’s deliberately slighting words, but though he stiffened, he allowed no anger to show on his face. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled something out.
“You may be right, Mr Holmes,” he said. “Which is why the second item my men uncovered is of particular interest. If you will move to the doorway – the light in here is not good enough to see this properly.”
We walked across and stood waiting while Fisher handed the wallet over to Halliday. As the constable carried it upstairs, the inspector joined us in the doorway. He opened his hand, exposing a fragment of dull gold metal. In the bright light reflecting from the snow outside, there was no mistaking it.
It depicted an exploding grenade, the cap badge of the Grenadier Guards. The last time I had seen it had been on our first evening in the house, on the lapel of Captain James Hopkirk.
* * *
Captain Hopkirk pushed against the heavy table until he was so far back in his chair that its front legs left the floor. He tapped a soft beat against the wood with his fingers and smiled across at Inspector Fisher.
We were seated in Fisher’s makeshift office. The inspector sat in Holmes’s old seat, with Hopkirk across from him, and we two grudgingly invited observers were perched on two hard chairs across by the window. Constable Halliday stood by the door, where he glowered in a constant rotation between the captain, Holmes and myself.
Hopkirk seemed the most relaxed person in the room. “My dear Inspector,” he said, “I am entirely at your disposal. If I can assist you in any way, then I would be delighted to do so. All you need do is ask.”
“That is very good of you, sir,” said Fisher. “I’ve only a handful of questions to put to you, so we shouldn’t be long.” He nodded towards Holmes and me. “I’ve been asked to allow Mr Holmes and Dr Watson to observe proceedings, but I’m aware that you’ve already spoken to them, and if you would prefer they leave, I will of course instruct them to do so.”
He waited expectantly, but Hopkirk shook his head. “I’ve no objection,” he said. “I’m sure they’ll be very useful to you.”
A fleeting frown crossed Fisher’s face, but otherwise he hid his disappointment. “Very well,” he said. “I would remind you, however, gentlemen, that you are here to observe and not to participate. I should be grateful if you were to refrain from interrupting at any point.”
I nodded my understanding and Holmes murmured, “Of course, Inspector.” Hopkirk glanced between the three of us and made no effort to hide his amusement. Fisher flipped to a page in his notebook and read from it for a moment before he spoke.
“You are Captain James Hopkirk, a former member of Her Majesty’s Army?”
“Former? I am no longer active, Inspector, but I remain ready to serve if called upon.”
“Really? You surprise me, Captain. My understanding, obviously incorrect, is that you’ve left the army altogether. Are you telling me that is not the case?”
For the first time since Hopkirk’s fight with Salah, I saw the captain’s good humour falter.
“What? How…?” he spluttered, momentarily caught off guard. Then, allowing the legs of his chair to thump back to the ground, he recovered his composure sufficiently to give a slightly hollow laugh. “It is not, my dear Inspector, though I can understand how the confusion might arise in a non-military man.” He waved his cigarette approximately in my direction. “Dr Watson was an army officer, I believe? He will confirm that, in these times of peace, it can be hard for the War Office to justify all us career soldiers cluttering up the barracks. Some of us, adjudged supernumerary, are asked to drop down to half pay until our country has need of us once again. I, for my sins, am currently one such.”
I nodded my agreement, though Fisher had not looked in my direction and clearly had no interest in my opinion. He flipped another page in his ever-present notebook and read it for a moment before looking back up at Hopkirk.
“Yes, sir, I am aware of the half-pay system. I was told, however, that you had in fact been cashiered from your regiment a good four years ago. A matter of honour, I believe?”
“Cashiered from the regiment?” Hopkirk’s expression was puzzled. “You have been misinformed, Inspector. A telegram to the War Office will confirm my status.” He blew a smoke ring towards the ceiling, all sign of discomfiture gone. “Or I can give you the address of my CO’s club and you can send one of your chaps to ask him in person?”
“That won’t be necessary, sir. If I can’t take the word of an officer and a gentleman, eh?” Fisher was equally composed, ticking something off in his notebook, then tapping his pencil against his teeth in thought. “I should like to speak to you about your fight with the dead man, though. You were defending a lady’s honour on that occasion?”
“I was indeed, Inspector, and would do so again. And not just because the lady in question is a personal friend. A woman’s good name is all she has. It behoves all men of breeding to defend that name whenever it is besmirched. That is what I was taught at least.”
Hopkirk plainly felt more secure with this line of questioning, and I wondered how much truth there was in the allegation that he had been drummed out of his regiment. It would not after all be the first time that a disgraced ex-soldier had held onto his rank, and nobody any the wiser. One did not need to move too far away for past misdemeanours to be left behind and youthful indiscretions forgotten.
Perhaps his hot temper had brought him to blows with the wrong person? Or – the thought occurred suddenly but strongly – perhaps there had been no Holmes to step in and prevent a fatal blow. It would also not be the first time a death in the regiment was dealt with by the regiment, and unpleasant matters handled without police involvement. It was not only women whose good name was everything to them.
And yet, Hopkirk seemed wholly sincere. Inspector Fisher continued to circle around the fight, and the captain continued to wield his righteous fury at Salah’s unwarranted slander like a shield.
“Yes,” he said, in response to a question about Holmes’s intervention, “I was grateful to Mr Holmes for stepping in as he did. I am grateful. I am a soldier, not a pub brawler, and when I kill I do so in the line of duty. Mr Holmes’s prompt actions prevented me from disgracing myself and my regiment.” He gripped the edges of the table, pulled himself forward so that he leaned halfway across it. “I am ashamed of the way I allowed my anger to get the better of me. It was a momentary aberration which I immediately regretted. I had no wish to see Mr Salah dead, nor do I wish him dead now.”
The sincerity in his voice was not faked, of that I was sure. I glanced over at Holmes, who sat, fingers steepled before his face in the familiar pose, eyes closed. As though aware I was looking at him, he suddenly opened his eyes. His attention was not on me, however, but on Inspector Fisher, who had pushed back his chair, causing it to scrape unpleasantly across the wooden floor.
“Very good, Captain Hopkirk,” he said, “let us a
ccept that you’d have regretted bashing in Mr Salah’s skull in front of your fellow guests. It’d be a hard murder to deny, for one thing. But what about later? What about late at night, when everyone else was asleep? Would you regret killing him then? Did you regret killing him then?”
Now it was Fisher’s turn to lean forward, eagerness writ large on his face, his sallow skin reddening with pleasure.
That eagerness caused Hopkirk to hesitate momentarily before he replied. “Did I regret it?” he said at last, attempting to sound indignant at the allegation, but succeeding only in sounding amused. “Well, since I did not kill him, the question is moot, I’d say, wouldn’t you?” He picked up his cigarette case from the table and lit another cigarette, his hand completely steady. Once he had it going strongly, he stated plainly, “In fact, I did not see him yesterday evening at all.”
“You definitely did not cross paths with Mr Salah after your fight then?”
Now Hopkirk’s voice was weary. “No, Inspector. As I said, I did not see the man again until Buxton uncovered his corpse.”
“And yet we have reason to believe he was looking for you. ‘I won’t turn the other cheek to this Englishman’s assault,’ he said to Dr Watson, you know, and him armed with a club at the time. Did he come looking for you, determined to get his revenge?”
“He did not, Inspector! Or, if he did, he didn’t find me. As I said, I did not see him again!”
“So you say. Perhaps you can explain, then, how this item came to be found in the cellar a short distance from Mr Salah’s discarded wallet?”
He held out the cap badge we had been shown in the cellar. This was the first I had heard of its location, and I could think of an immediate objection to Fisher’s insinuation. Mindful of our instruction not to interfere, I remained silent and hoped that Hopkirk had realised the same thing.
His hand went to his lapel and fingered the small crease in the fabric where the badge had once sat.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--Sherlock Holmes and the Crusader's Curse Page 13