Buxton was ready with the answer. “That’s the thing, Mr Holmes. As soon as he was placed under arrest, Mr Reilly said that his lawyer had advised him that, should he be arrested, he was entitled to legal representation, and that the closest place he would find that was in Stainforth. So that’s where they’ve gone: Stainforth. Inspector Fisher, Mr Reilly and the tall constable. The little one’s still around here somewhere. Oh, and I almost forgot. Mr Schell went with them.”
“Mr Schell?”
“Yes indeed. He had the most terrible row with Mrs Schell, you know. As soon as he heard that the inspector was heading for Stainforth, he demanded that he be allowed to go too. He didn’t even pack a bag, just put on his jacket and scarf and went and sat in the police carriage and wouldn’t budge. Fisher had no choice but to take him, in the end.”
Holmes appeared a little dumbstruck by these revelations. Here we were, returning in haste with the solution to the murder of Alim Salah and the murderer safely tied up, only awaiting collection by the authorities, and those same authorities had vanished, taking half the manor house guests with them!
“Very well,” he said, rallying. “That accounts for a portion of the inhabitants. But where are the others? Of particularly pressing importance, do you know where Constable Cairns and Judge Pennington have secreted themselves?”
Buxton shook his head. “Captain Hopkirk said he was intending to accompany Mrs Schell for a walk in the grounds, hoping to take her mind off her troubles, I assume, and Mr Watt said he was going to his room to pack. The judge mentioned something about freshening himself up, but the constable…? No, I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr Holmes.”
“I think perhaps you can, actually. May I impose upon you to go and find Judge Pennington and have him meet us in the main hall? Meanwhile, we will seek out the missing constable.” He pointed towards the servants’ quarters. “If I know the British working man unexpectedly relieved of the attention of his immediate superior, our missing constable will be either in the kitchen drinking a bottle of ale, or if beer is not available, smoking a cigarette in some out of the way corner.”
We found him at the back door, sitting on the step, with a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. He jumped up, throwing away the cigarette, as Holmes coughed beside him, and stood, at an approximation of attention, with the bottle poorly hidden behind his back.
“Just taking a break, sir,” he said. “The maid said I could have an ale, seeing as his Lordship won’t be needing them no longer.”
“I have no interest in what you have been doing, Constable,” Holmes said. “What I am interested in is what you intend to do now.”
Cairns looked puzzled. “Inspector Fisher said I was to stay here and make sure nobody else slips away before he gets back, or he sends for me.”
“A commendably succinct summary, Constable, and an extremely helpful one. I cannot agree strongly enough with your inspector that it is imperative that you stay here, in the manor house. Judge Pennington, however, will soon be leaving for the Silent Man public house in the village. There he will find the proprietor, Walter Robinson, where we left him, tied up on the floor of the bar. The front door is locked, but I shall give him the key. Mr Robinson is the true killer of Alim Salah, and must be taken into custody without delay. Am I correct in assuming that you would prefer not to take that particular burden upon yourself, and would rather await the return of Inspector Fisher?”
Cairns’ eyes flicked in animal panic between Holmes and me. The terrified expression on his chalk-white face would have been comical to see in other circumstances. Now, however, time was of the essence and we had none to spare for slow-witted country constables.
“The judge will go down to the village pub and keep an eye on the man lying on the floor there,” I said slowly. “When Inspector Fisher returns, he will arrest the man.”
Slowly, Cairns nodded his understanding.
“It is of the utmost importance that you tell no one else in the house where the judge has gone or why, and that you keep a close eye on the other guests,” Holmes continued. “Nobody must know that Robinson is the killer, and nobody else must leave the house before we return with the inspector.”
Cairns seemed to be following this reasonably well, but as Holmes mentioned our departure, his face blanched once more.
“The inspector said nobody was to leave the house,” he said uncertainly.
“Nobody who was actually in the house already, surely, Constable.”
Cairns scratched his head. “Maybe…” he said.
“And Watson and I have just returned from the village. Thus, we were not in the house when the inspector gave his order and so could not be instructed not to leave it.”
This was too much for Cairns. His mouth fell open and he half shook and half nodded his head in hapless uncertainty.
“We have been helping the inspector,” I reminded him, before he decided that keeping everybody where they were was the safest decision to make.
“The inspector did call you observers,” he agreed hesitantly.
“Exactly!” exclaimed Holmes. “And we can hardly observe without the inspector here to allow it, now can we?” He smiled in what I am certain he thought of as a reassuring manner. “So, Watson and I will take Mr Schell’s carriage – which I notice he has conve”niently left behind – and go to the police station at Stainforth. Once there, we will speak to the inspector and then escort him back here to arrest Walter Robinson. Is that clear, Constable?”
Plainly, it was anything but. Cairns’ face was a picture of confusion for a short period then, obviously deciding it was best to take the path of least resistance, he nodded decisively. He reached for his helmet, which he had placed on the step, carefully substituting for it the beer bottle. “I’ll go and stand at the front then, sir,” he said, securing the strap beneath his chin. “I’ll keep an eye out for Mr Pennington.”
“And don’t forget,” Holmes reminded him. “Not a word to any of the other guests about Robinson or the judge. So far as they are aware, we have gone to help the inspector in his interrogation of Mr Reilly.”
Seeing the panic rising in his eyes, I hurriedly intervened and quickly explained that he was to say nothing to anyone until we returned.
He nodded gratefully and wandered off into the kitchens.
“Remind me of Constable Cairns next time I am overly scathing about Lestrade’s men, Watson,” Holmes said at my side. “Perhaps I should be thankful that they are not more incapable.” He shuddered and shook his head, a wry smile on his face. “But now that he has gone, we must speak to Pennington. He is not the most appealing of characters, but at the moment I should say he is the most trustworthy man in the vicinity.”
Until now I had been carried along by Holmes’s energy and obvious conviction, but as he turned to follow Cairns into the house, I held out a hand to stop him.
“I admit I am not clear why Robinson’s guilt may not be common knowledge, Holmes?”
He frowned and hesitated a second before replying. “It is not so much his guilt as Reilly’s innocence which I should prefer to remain between us for now, Watson.”
I nodded my understanding. It would not be the first time circumstances had necessitated a degree of subterfuge.
* * *
Judge Pennington proved surprisingly easy to convince to carry out his role in Holmes’s plan. As soon as he had grasped that Robinson was a convicted felon who had escaped from prison, he was more than willing to watch over him until Inspector Fisher arrived.
“You need say no more, Holmes,” he declared. “When it comes to matters of criminality, I can put aside my personal feelings and work with any man. I will leave for this public house at once, and you may assure the inspector that his prisoner will be waiting for him at his convenience.”
As Holmes slipped a key from the ring he had taken from Robinson and handed it to the judge, he agreed that we would drive straight from Stainforth to The Silent Man, and Fish
er would take Robinson into custody from there.
Pennington bustled off and we hurried out the front door, past Cairns who threw a sketchy salute in our direction. The Schells’ carriage was in the driveway and their horses in the stable. It was the work of only a few minutes to hook them up and then, with Holmes in the driving seat and me inside, we set out for Stainforth at good speed.
Chapter Nineteen
Stainforth
The trip to Stainforth was uneventful. We passed Judge Pennington as we sped through the village, and I was reassured to see he was almost at The Silent Man, but otherwise we saw nobody on our journey. Holmes was a more than competent driver and we made excellent time, arriving at the door to the police station a mere forty minutes after setting out.
Even so, Fisher had arrived before us, and was not pleased when Holmes strode past the sergeant on the desk and swept into his private office without so much as a by-your-leave, demanding that Reilly be set free. I trailed behind him, warding off the irate sergeant and trying my best to keep him from being arrested himself.
For a moment it was touch and go whether we would both end up ensconced in the cells, but after a brief hesitation Fisher waved the sergeant away.
“It appears that I may do nothing without your supervision,” he grumbled, gesturing that we should take seats against the wall. “You might as well stay now that you’re here – though I’ll be speaking to Constable Cairns about how exactly that happened – but don’t say a word unless requested to do so by me, or so help me, I’ll be the first policeman to throw Sherlock Homes and Dr Watson in jail.”
I could have answered that he would certainly not be the first policeman to do so, and I might even have reminded him that I myself had spent some time incarcerated, but that would not have been helpful. I glanced over at Holmes, expecting him to speak, but he gave a tiny shake of the head, and so I turned and watched Fisher instead.
He was seated behind a battered and stained but well-made oak desk, with his notebook open before him and, directly opposite, sitting slumped in his chair, Mr Reilly.
I had found both men to be rather quick-tempered, but when Holmes pushed his way in, neither had been speaking; nor did they do so now, preferring instead to sit and wordlessly stare at one another.
“May I speak if nobody else intends to?” Holmes asked, after the silence had stretched on to an uncomfortable degree. When Fisher responded by waving a hand in his direction, he took it to be consent and continued by asking another question. “Lawrence Buxton told us that you had come by important new information, Inspector. Might I ask what that information is?”
Fisher immediately brightened. He flipped open his notebook, which lay on the desk in front of him, and turned to an entry near the back.
“Of course,” he said. “You think that you can play the same trick on me that you do on your tame inspector back in London, don’t you, Mr Holmes? Keep evidence to yourself, don’t share it with anyone and then spring it on them at the last moment, like some kind of conjuror.” He grinned, though his lips barely moved and the effect was rather more like an animal baring its teeth. “Well, that won’t wash here. I knew you’d sneaked out of the house, you see, in spite of being ordered not to. I had Halliday keeping an eye on you, and when you slipped away, he was right on your heels. He hid round the corner when you went into the post office and after you’d gone in to the pub with Dr Watson, he spoke to the woman who sends the telegrams. He’s a clever lad, is Halliday, and he knew what she showed him was more important than watching you swilling brandy.” He twisted the notebook round on the desk so that it faced us and jabbed at one section with his pencil. “So it’s not just you who knows what Mr Reilly sent to London.”
The note of triumph in his voice was so overwhelming that I instinctively leaned forward to read the two capitalised lines he had indicated on the page.
SHERLOCK HOLMES IS HERE STOP WILL DO WHAT I CAME TO DO THEN DEPART BEFORE IDENTIFIED STOP MAKE ARRANGEMENTS TO LEAVE TUESDAY PM STOP
“Mr Reilly informs me he’ll say nothing until his lawyer arrives,” Fisher announced. “He says that he can explain everything, but he knows the British legal system of old – whatever that’s supposed to mean – and he won’t say a word until he’s got a witness he can trust.”
He glared at Reilly, daring the older man to contradict him. Reilly never raised his eyes from his lap. Holmes, however, reacted as if Fisher’s words had freed him from the need for silence.
“Perhaps Mr Reilly would accept that Dr Watson and I are witnesses he can trust?” he said to the room in general. For the first time since our arrival, Reilly looked up, though he still said nothing. “Even better, perhaps he will allow me to explain everything for him. I believe I have the broad strokes of his story, but I’m sure he will correct me should I go astray.”
At this, Reilly turned in his chair and examined Holmes minutely. “I doubt you can truly know my story, Mr Holmes, but in our brief acquaintance you have struck me as an intelligent and honourable man, and it will help pass the time more quickly to hear your theory than not. By all means, sir, go ahead.”
I thought Fisher would be less keen, but perhaps he too wished to be done with the oppressive silence, for he shrugged his acquiescence and muttered, “Why not?” in a weary tone.
“Thank you,” said Holmes, and rose to his feet, the better to address the room. As was his common practice, he paced about as he spoke, illuminating his more salient points by making jabbing motions with his hands and turning first to one person then the next as his narrative encompassed them. So it was that he began by addressing Inspector Fisher directly.
“It will be most efficient, I think, first to lay out the evidence you believe speaks most damningly against Mr Reilly, Inspector. By this I mean the footprints in the snow, indicating his presence in the grounds at the time of the murder, and the telegram he sent, apparently announcing in advance that he would kill Alim Salah.” He held up a hand to forestall the beginning of a complaint from Inspector Fisher. “I am aware that there are other factors which you believe indicate the killer – that the location in which the body was left suggests someone who required it to be hidden only for a few days, that Mr Reilly had argued with the dead man recently, and presumably other minor matters, but each of these could as well apply to any of the other guests. Only the peculiar boot prints, left on the night that Salah was killed and near the place his body was dumped, and the telegram you have just showed us uniquely implicate Mr Reilly.”
Fisher grunted and smiled thinly at Holmes. “I’ll reserve judgement on just how much those points could apply to the other guests, but I’m keen to hear what excuse you’ve come up with for the boots and the telegram first.”
“Not excuses, Inspector,” Holmes protested mildly, “reasons. In fact, a single reason explaining both elements. First, the boot prints in the snow. Of course, those were indeed Mr Reilly’s boot prints and he was in the back garden when Salah was killed. He denied it, but he was certainly there. What else could possibly have made such distinctive marks? The reason he was there I shall leave to the end of my account, if I may, but the actual events I think I can sketch in now, without too much difficulty.
“For reasons which, as I say, I shall explain in a moment, Mr Reilly had gone into the garden once everyone was – apparently – asleep. Standing in the faint light cast from the back door, he paused, perhaps shivering in the cold. I doubt he was certain exactly where he intended to go. The grounds of the estate are large, after all, and he had had only a day to get his bearings. Thus, he was standing there when he heard an unexpected sound in the otherwise silent night. A crunching sound, I imagine, of the sort cartwheels would make as they turned through deep snow. And then a quieter sound, as this invisible man passed under the trees that stand on the corner of the house, closer to the spot at which Mr Reilly had paused, becoming more nervous with every passing moment. Because he could not be found outside the house at this time of night, not without havin
g to explain himself. And an explanation was the last thing he wished to provide.
“So he hid, slipping down the path which leads to the cellar proper and waiting there in the darkness as first, something heavy was dropped to the snowy ground, then the back door was slowly opened and closed and, finally, everything was quiet again.”
Holmes paused and looked down at Reilly. “Nobody could expect you to carry out your task then, could they? Better by far to go round to the front of the house and from there take yourself off to bed, leaving what needed to be done for another night. Is that not how it was, Mr Reilly?”
The planter nodded slowly. “Almost exactly, Mr Holmes. I’m not as young as I used to be, and it was deathly cold that night. I was actually already thinking that I would have to go back inside and try the following night, with more insulation, when I heard whoever it was coming through the snow. I hid just as you said and stayed there until they’d gone indoors. The only thing you got wrong is I didn’t hear anything being dropped, just the door opening and then a bit later, closing again.” He hesitated and swallowed heavily. “When Buxton discovered Salah’s body, I prayed that it had been him I’d heard, and he’d taken a tumble during his night-time explorations. But you put soon paid to that idea, and then I knew it must have been the killer. If only I’d confronted him, perhaps…”
“It is lucky that you were necessarily so discreet, Mr Reilly. Had you challenged him, it is possible that we would have a double murder to investigate. The killer is a large man who has killed before and you, as you said yourself, are no longer in the first flush of youth.”
Fisher, who had been listening to this exchange with a look of patient amusement on his face, sat up sharply. “What’s that about the killer?” he snapped, but Holmes ignored him.
“I take it you saw nothing at all of the man carrying Salah’s body?” he asked Reilly. “There was no peculiarity of his gait or his breathing?”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--Sherlock Holmes and the Crusader's Curse Page 19