Chapter Seventeen
Tuesday Night and Wednesday Morning
So frantic had the last few hours been that I had failed to realise quite how late it was. A glance at my pocket watch confirmed that it was after 10 p.m., and a rumble in my stomach reminded me that I had not eaten since lunchtime. There was no chance that there would be any hot food left, if there ever had been any, so we set off for the kitchens in search of sustenance.
The servants’ quarters were in darkness, but there was a full moon outside, which shone through the kitchen windows and provided enough illumination for us to light the gas lamps. In the pantry I found bread, fresh butter and cheese, which Alice had presumably laid in, and Holmes turned up a large bread knife and some plates. There was nobody else about, so we sat at the large kitchen table and chatted while we ate.
“I am glad that we have this moment to pause and reflect,” Holmes began as soon as he had eaten his fill and got his pipe going strongly. “The last few days have been altogether too reactive and insufficiently deductive for my liking. Indeed, I must admit that there have been times when I have missed Lestrade, though obviously I would never tell him so. He has entirely too exaggerated a view of his own competence as it is. But there have been moments when relatively speedy access to Scotland Yard would have come in extremely handy.”
“I am sure that there are,” I sympathised. “But at least Mrs Schell has shortened our list of suspects. Removing one person from the list – two, in fact, since Hopkirk serves as alibi for Mrs Schell as much as she for him – narrows the field a little.” I held out my hand and counted off the remaining guests on my fingers. “All that leaves is Pennington, Watt, Reilly, Buxton and Mr Schell. That is not a long list.”
“We can rule out Frederick Schell,” Holmes replied. “As you remarked earlier, he is physically weak, and an American to boot. He would use a gun, should he feel the need to defend his wife’s honour.” He frowned. “No, we can strike him from your list, I think. And the serving girl Alice, too, for that matter. Neither has the strength to carry Salah into the cellar and then tip him behind that tumble of machinery.” He smiled. “Even if the two of them banded together for some inexplicable reason, they would be unable to lift so large a man from the ground.”
“One of the others then?”
Holmes did not reply. Instead, he cut a slice of cheese and slowly raised it to his mouth. As he chewed, he nodded to himself, but said nothing. Only when he had finished eating did he seem to remember that I had asked him a question.
“Mmm? Yes, Watson, one of the others, most definitely.”
It was clear that his mind was elsewhere. We sat in companionable silence for five minutes or so, eating our bread and cheese then each lighting a cigarette. Finally, when I was beginning to think of sleep, he said suddenly, “Do you recall what I said to you last night? That I would have need of your medical expertise? Well, be prepared to provide that assistance tomorrow. I cannot say exactly when, as it depends on factors somewhat beyond my control.”
“Of course. Will I need my medical bag?”
“I would not think so. But if you were to have your stethoscope to hand, that would be useful.”
“Very well.” I held his eye for a long moment, waiting for him to say more, but it became clear that he did not intend to do so. I had already trusted him over the matter of Reilly’s telegram so there was nothing to be gained by not trusting him now. Besides, I was tired and in no mood to play games, even if I could tease the information out of him, which I doubted.
“It has been a long day, Holmes,” I said eventually, and pushed myself to my feet. “I am off to bed.”
“I shall stay a little longer, I think,” he replied, grinding out one cigarette and immediately lighting another.
I wished him goodnight and walked towards the door. I turned back at the last minute to ask him something but his eyes were already closed as he blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. I left him there and headed for the stairs.
* * *
Over breakfast the next day, conversation was dominated by the need to place final bids for the estate by noon that day. Lawrence Buxton, it transpired, had knocked on everyone’s door late the previous evening to explain that it would not be possible to telegram bids as had originally been planned; a sealed envelope handed to him by midday would suffice.
“Well, I shall not be bidding,” Reilly declared as soon as the subject came up. “Even had Salah not met such an unfortunate end, the climate in this country is too harsh for my blood.” He paused to take a bite from a slice of toast, then continued, “I have been away too long, I’m afraid. The East is my home now.”
Amicable Watt looked across from the sideboard where he was piling sausages on his plate and nodded. “It’s not for me, either,” he said. “I couldn’t risk being up here and getting cut off from London. Who knows what idiocy the fools I left watching things have got up to while I’ve been stranded by this blasted snow.” He slid an egg from its platter. “No, I’ll be glad to get home and get back to work. I’ve seen the countryside now, and I can’t say it’s taken my fancy.”
His plate completely full, he took a seat alongside Frederick Schell, who to my surprise had already been seated at the dining table when we entered. His wife was, however, conspicuous by her absence. “What about you, Mr Schell? Will this place do for one of your health camps?”
“Not health camps, Mr Watt,” Schell corrected him fussily. “Sanatoriums. But no, I have decided Thorpe Manor is unsuitable for my needs. Our clients are often sickly. Like Mr Reilly, they would find this climate too harsh.” He shook his head and glanced round the room. “The estate is not what I expected.”
“That goes for me, too.” Captain Hopkirk had barely looked up from his plate as the others spoke, and did so now only for as long as it took to speak these few words. For reasons that were not difficult to guess, he seemed entirely deflated and, for all his inappropriate behaviour with Mrs Schell, I could not help but feel sorry for the man.
The room fell silent for a moment as everyone waited for Hopkirk to continue, but when it became clear that he had said all he intended to, Judge Pennington, who had taken a keen interest in everyone’s comments, turned to Holmes and me and enquired as to our intentions.
“I have never been entirely clear what your role here is, Mr Holmes,” he said. “Nor yours, Dr Watson. I thought initially you were potential bidders, like myself, but the way you attempted to take control when Salah was killed inclined me to wonder if you had arrived expecting some such occurrence.”
He paused, leaving room for a response, but Holmes said nothing and when Pennington looked across at me, I decided that discretion was called for and busied myself with my breakfast.
“Will you be bidding then?” Pennington pressed. “Can you at least tell us that?”
Holmes pushed away his plate and shook his head. “Neither Dr Watson nor I will be bidding on the estate,” he said. “Will you? If you do, it seems you will be the only one who does.”
Now it was Pennington’s turn to avoid the question. “That remains to be seen,” he muttered.
“Are you telling us you haven’t decided yet?” Watt chided him. “Didn’t they teach you to make decisions at that posh school of yours?”
Pennington stared at him through hooded eyelids, which, combined with his hunched posture, again put me in mind of a carrion bird. “They taught me manners, Mr Watt, which is clearly more than you learned in the gutter in which you were educated!”
Watt grunted in anger and, for a second, allowed his constant expression of good-natured amity to slip. He crashed to his feet and leaned forward, intent on coming to grips with Pennington. Then, perhaps remembering that the judge was some years his elder, or recognising their disparity in stature, he stopped and contented himself with standing, staring across the table for a few moments. Pennington attempted to hold his stare, but after a few moments he looked away and Watt, apparently satisfied, picked
up his plate and cutlery and strode from the dining room.
In the silence that followed this explosion of fury, Frederick Schell asked Holmes to pass him the salt and conversation recommenced in desultory fashion. One by one, the other diners ate and left, until only Holmes and I remained.
“Do you have a better idea of when you might have need of my stethoscope today?” I asked as soon as we were alone, for the matter of Holmes’s need for my medical knowledge had been playing on my mind since he had reminded me of it the previous night. Obviously, I was ready to provide such support whenever required, but the fact that Holmes had forewarned me – that he seemed to know the very item of equipment that would be needed – filled me with concern.
“Early this afternoon,” he said. “I have preparations to make, and then I shall be forced to disobey the inspector and spend some time in the village. Can you likewise avoid his scrutiny for long enough to meet me outside the post office at five minutes to two this afternoon?”
“Of course, Holmes, if you say it is necessary. But can you not tell me what this is all about?”
He shook his head. “I would rather not. But I shall do so as soon as I can, I promise you.”
He pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, brushing crumbs from his waistcoat. “I had best be away now. I have no idea how long it will take me to obtain… certain items, which I will need later. Should Fisher ask after me, I am sure you will be able to concoct some suitable story from your fertile imagination.”
He said no more, but slipped from the room. I heard his footsteps on the stairs as I lit another cigarette and pined for the morning newspapers, which the snow had rendered unavailable since we arrived in Thorpe Manor. As I sat and smoked, I heard footsteps come back down the stairs and then the front door open and close. I crossed to the dining-room window and watched Holmes saunter in the approximate direction of the model Crystal Palace. Whatever he was up to, time was evidently not pressing, for he stopped on several occasions to kick at the snow with his shoe and on another to fill and light his pipe. After a few minutes of this uneventful perambulation, I grew bored of watching, and went in search of Gulliver’s Travels and a seat by the fire.
Chapter Eighteen
A Culprit Brought Low
I did not see Holmes again all morning, though that was hardly surprising, as I made an effort to see as few people as possible. For all his talk of my fertile imagination, I was not by nature a good liar and I doubted that I could hide his absence from Inspector Fisher for long. Fortunately, the inspector spent much of the day ensconced in his makeshift office and on the few occasions on which he emerged, I made sure to be elsewhere.
I did seek out Buxton in the early afternoon. He told me that, in the end, nobody had handed him a bid envelope, so the Thorpe estate remained unsold.
“Of course, this terrible death made a sale unlikely. And,” his voice fell to a whisper, “between us, I am not disappointed by the delay. A new owner is unlikely to be interested in a history of the Thorpe family. Or sympathetic to the historian writing it!”
“I suppose not,” I agreed. “What will happen now, do you think? Will Mr Purser hold on to the estate, or make another attempt to sell it?”
“I really could not say, Dr Watson. Personally, I hope he remains an absentee landlord for many years to come.” He laughed and I realised it was the first time I had seen him genuinely happy since the first night we had met him. “But if you will excuse me, I have some notes I made last month on Joshua Thorpe, the so-called Dales Horse Killer, to collate.”
He laughed again and headed towards the library with a newfound spring in his step. I heard a door slam upstairs and Fisher’s voice calling for Constable Halliday, so I slipped into the kitchens to see if Alice could produce a pot of tea.
* * *
Half an hour later, I set out for the village. I could hear Fisher talking to one of his constables in his office, which faced on to the side of the house, and I had not seen the other for some time, so I was confident in walking unobserved down the drive to the path which led to Thorpe-by-the-Marsh. The weather remained cold, but with a definite hint of change in the air. The snow in the overhanging branches was beginning to thaw, causing heavy droplets of water to fall in a constant drip into the stream of water that ran down the gutter of the path. It was a chilly but bracing day for a walk and within a few minutes I felt my mood lighten. I realised that the events of the past few days and the enforced stay in the house had had a suffocating effect on me. It was good finally to be doing something positive, even if, at the moment, I had no idea what that actually involved.
Holmes was standing outside the post office, as he had said he would be. He folded a sheet of paper into his pocket and checked his watch as I walked up, then nodded his approval. “Five minutes to the hour exactly, Watson,” he said and pointed towards the entrance to the Silent Man public house. “Would you mind?” he went on. “I have a sudden desire for refreshment.”
Given the choice, I should have preferred a hot drink, but Holmes had still not explained why we had sneaked out of the manor house like two schoolboys, and I hoped that he would do so once we were seated in the pub. There was, however, one very good reason why that was not likely to happen.
“It is almost two, Holmes,” I pointed out. “The pub is about to close for the afternoon. It will not reopen until six.”
“Is that so?” he replied. “Wait here a moment while I speak to our friend the landlord. I am sure he can be convinced to serve us one drink.”
He was behaving very oddly, but that was not unusual, so I shrugged in agreement. “Very well,” I said. “I have known country pubs to take some liberties with licensing laws, I suppose.”
“Excellent,” he said, with a grin. “Count to one hundred and then follow me in. With luck I shall have a whisky poured and waiting for you, and then we can talk.”
With that, he trotted across the road, and vanished inside The Silent Man. After I had counted a slow century, I followed.
* * *
I saw Holmes at the far end of the bar as I entered. He was speaking to Robinson but, hearing the door, he switched his attention to me.
“I was just saying to Mr Robinson that we had once again trudged from the manor house through the snowdrifts, Watson, and would be obliged if he could provide us with two large whiskies before we are forced to make our way home. And take one for yourself, landlord,” he continued, turning back to Robinson.
Something had changed in Robinson’s mood since last we had seen him. Then he had been full of good humour and a desire to help, but now he seemed sullen and defensive. Indeed, I thought he would refuse the offer, for his face flushed and I fancied I saw a tremble in his hand as he poured the drinks for Holmes and me.
“I thank you for the offer, sir, but as I have explained, we are about to close. In fact, we should have closed two minutes ago.”
“A small whisky, then! You just admitted that there is no policeman about to force you to close, and I am sure you can spend a few minutes raising a glass with two customers happy to pay to learn more about the village.”
Robinson could hardly disagree. There was nobody else in the bar, nor enough men in the village, I suspected, for the place ever to be particularly profitable, and Holmes had laid a pound note on the bar. He frowned at Holmes, but poured himself a glass and grudgingly muttered, “Your health, gentlemen,” in our general direction.
“And yours, landlord,” Holmes replied with a bonhomie which was in marked contrast to Robinson’s more morose toast. “And that of your dog too. I hope that it recovers soon. I keep no pets of my own, but I am given to understand by those who do that an injury to a beloved animal companion can be very worrying, especially when recovery is slow.”
“My dog…?” Robinson laughed, as curiosity overcame some of the initial reticence he had exhibited. “Is conversation so dull at the manor house that news of my Geordie has reached even there? Though I have mentioned it to nobody…
” His voice trailed off in puzzlement.
“A simple deduction, landlord,” Holmes said with his most friendly smile. “There are several dog hairs on your waistcoat and I noticed numerous scratch marks in front of the fireplace on our last visit. Dogs are social animals but he did not make an appearance then, nor has he investigated us today, despite the loud bang the door made when Watson closed it with too much force a moment ago. Hence he is in some way indisposed. Add to that the bowl of water to the side of the fireplace, in which the water is contaminated with dust, and we can assume that whatever ails the animal occurred several days ago. There is a very faint smell of carbolic acid emanating from your back room – so the dog has not died, but has suffered an injury to which you have applied an antiseptic.”
Robinson greeted this speech with a grudging grin.
“You do a good line in parlour tricks, I’ll give you that, Mr Holmes.”
Normally, Holmes would have taken offence at even his most simple deductions being described in such unflattering terms, but on this occasion, he simply gave a small bow and smiled with apparent pleasure.
“It is a knack I have, a small talent with which I amuse my friends. All it requires is an eye for detail and an ability to extrapolate from observed fact. I am glad to have had a chance to demonstrate it for you before we leave.”
I had no idea what Holmes meant by that, but the promise that we would soon be gone was enough to pique Robinson’s interest further.
“You’re leaving? That is a shame,” he said, though the look on his face gave the lie to his words. “Are your investigations over already?”
“You have heard about our little mystery, then?” Holmes asked, almost jovially. “I had thought that Inspector Fisher wished to keep it quiet.”
“Someone must have mentioned it,” Robinson suggested carelessly. “It’s hard to keep a secret in a small place like this.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--Sherlock Holmes and the Crusader's Curse Page 17