by Roger Jaynes
‘I see. Then might I ask you a few questions? Your testimony, I’m sure, will be of great assistance.’
‘But of course, sir. I shall help in any way I can.’
‘Good. Then tell me, if you would, everything that happened on the night Professor Thatcher disappeared.’
‘We had a frightful storm that night, Mr Holmes.
Thunder shook the house, and the rain came down in sheets. Professor Thatcher had just finished dinner, and retired to the study. I had started to clear the dishes, when suddenly he returned, wearing his coat and hat and carrying a large umbrella. “Something important has come up, Mrs Clarridge,” he said. “I must go out for a bit. Don’t worry, I won’t be late.” And out he went, without another word, into the night.’
‘What of his manner? Did he seem upset?’
‘Well, yes, sir. Agitated, sort of. As if something was preying on his mind.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, needless to say, I was quite surprised, considering the state of the weather. Friday being my night off, I had planned to go out myself. I enjoy the theatre, and the University Company was doing HMS Pinafore at Bishop’s Cottage. But with it raining cats and dogs, I decided to stay in. I finished the dishes, and retired to my room to read.’
‘And where is your room located?’
‘There, sir,’ the woman said, pointing to a door at the end of the hall, ‘just beside the stairs. The dining room and kitchen are on the left, the study and morning room on the right.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Clarridge. One moment, if you please.’
Holmes strode to the door of the housekeeper’s room, opened it and stepped inside, then turned back towards us and gazed about the hall. He was, I knew, attempting to put himself in the housekeeper’s place.
‘From here, you have an unobstructed view, not only of the staircase, but the hallway and front door as well,’ he remarked. ‘And where is Professor Thatcher’s room?’
‘At the top of the stairs, sir. The first door on the right. If you step out into the hall a bit, you can see it easily.’
‘Quite so,’ Holmes murmured, as he did so. He then closed the door and rejoined us. ‘Pray continue, Mrs Clarridge.’
‘Shortly before nine o’clock, I heard Professor Thatcher return. I remember the time exactly, as I had just put down my book and was preparing myself for bed. Since it was still pouring, I thought the professor might have need of a toddy, or wish me to dry some of his things. So I climbed out of bed, threw on my robe, and went to the door, as I could hear him on the stairs.
‘When I stepped out, I was surprised to see the hallway dark, save for one small candle upon the lampstand near the front door. The professor’s umbrella stood next to it, but his coat and hat were not upon the rack. Looking up, I could see light from his bedroom, as the door was slightly ajar. I called out to him, and asked if there was anything he needed. “No,” he replied. “Nothing, thank you.” So I closed my door and went back to bed.
‘I had almost dropped off, when I heard footsteps again, this time descending the stairs. For some reason, Mr Holmes, I suddenly felt something was very wrong. Quick as I could, I lit a lamp and eased open my door, just enough so as to peep out into the hall –’
‘And what did you see?’ Holmes asked. ‘Pray, be precise.’
‘Why, there, Lord help me, was Professor Thatcher! He was standing at the front door in his coat and hat, with a bag in his hand! I started to cry out, but before I could utter a sound, he’d pinched the candle and was gone.’
‘You are certain it was Professor Thatcher?’ I enquired. ‘You saw his face?’
‘Not exactly, sir. It was dark, and his back was to me, you see. But I’m sure it was the professor. I recognised his hat and coat, and I’ve packed that brown valise of his a hundred times, if ever I’ve done it once.’
The old woman gave us a bewildered look. ‘Pardon me for saying it, sir,’ she added, ‘but when you look at it straight, that just doesn’t make sense. I mean, who else would be in the professor’s bedroom, packing his clothes, if not the professor himself ? And as to the door, outside of myself, he has the only key.’
Holmes put a finger to his chin. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Who else, indeed? Continue, Mrs Clarridge. What happened next?’
‘For a moment, I didn’t quite know what to do, I was so taken aback. Then I grabbed my dressing-gown and hurried out, and went to this side window here, to see what I could see.’
‘Which was?’
‘Professor Thatcher, sir, just going out to the gate. His head was bent and the rain was whipping at his coat tails, and in the glow of the street lamp, I could see a carriage waiting. When he reached it, he handed up his bag, took the driver’s seat, and off he went.’
Holmes and I exchanged glances.
‘He drove the cab, you say?’
‘Yes, sir. I thought that odd myself.’
‘For a university professor, odd indeed. And what type was it? Hansom or four-wheeler?’
‘Oh, it was a growler, sir. Of that I’m sure.’
‘You said he handed up his bag. Someone else was inside the carriage, then?’
‘Well, yes, sir –’ For the first time, the small woman’s dark eyes looked away.
‘Come, come! ’ Holmes demanded. ‘Tell us all.’
‘It was a woman,’ the housekeeper replied.
‘Miss Lowell?’
‘I couldn’t say, sir. All I saw was her gloved hand and the sleeve of her dress, as she took the professor’s valise.’
‘And what colour was this glove and sleeve?’
‘I really couldn’t say, again, sir. Except that the material was dark rather than light.’
My companion frowned. ‘One final point, then,’ he continued, ‘about the message Professor Thatcher received on Thursday, the day before he disappeared. It did arrive at precisely half past three?’
‘Yes, sir. An hour before the professor returned from classes. I left it on his desk in the study.’
‘And how would you describe the man who delivered it?’
‘He was a tall man, sir. About the same height as the professor, I’d say. And he had dark hair and thick moustaches.’
‘Do you recall anything else about him? A scar, perhaps? A limp, a mannerism?’
Mrs Clarridge thought a few seconds, then shook her head. ‘No, Mr Holmes. Nothing else, I’m afraid. You see, I had no cause to take further note of him. Messages are delivered here quite commonly.’
‘I understand. Thank you, Mrs Clarridge. Your help has been considerable. And now, Mr Thatcher: might I examine your brother’s bedroom, and then the study?’
‘Of course. Though I doubt if you’ll find anything enlightening. The police, you realise, have already searched both rooms quite thoroughly.’
Holmes made a long face. ‘If I find nothing, Mr Thatcher,’ he said, as we began to climb the stairs, ‘that most certainly will be the reason. The police, I have often found, obliterate as much as they discover. Since we hold so few threads at present, I hope, in this instance, that has not been the case.’
Holmes’s words, unfortunately, proved to be prophetic, in spite of his meticulous search of Professor Thatcher’s sleeping quarters. For a quarter-hour, he crawled and darted nimbly about the room, examining every object – the four-poster bed and nightstand, the dressing table and window sills, a large chest of drawers, even the carpeting and the floorboards. As he put away his glass, however, defeat and frustration showed clearly in his face.
‘As I feared,’ he exclaimed, ‘the police have trampled through like a herd of elephants! The only things undisturbed, it seems, are some large tufts of dust under the professor’s bed.’
‘Dust?’ I queried.
‘Yes. Mrs Clarridge, apparently, has been so upset that she has neglected her weekend cleaning.’
Holmes strode to the centre of the room. ‘I suspect that our friend Square-toe was here,’ he said. ‘A loose shoe nail has snagged the
carpet in no fewer than three places. Yet it is impossible to tell; the traffic has been too heavy. Cigar ash is pressed into the carpet, as well, and a cigarette stub lies in the tray. But from whose hand did they come? Square-toe, Professor Thatcher, or an inquisitive inspector, as he roamed restlessly about? Remind me, Watson, never again to complain of Lestrade or his minions. Compared to this, they are tidy as household cats.’
‘Of one thing, you may be sure,’ Jonathon Thatcher stated. ‘Neither cigar nor cigarette was smoked here by my brother. A pipe is his only vice.’
‘That, and the fact some clothes and toilet articles are missing, seem to be the summation of our findings,’ Holmes muttered, as he knelt before the closet. ‘But, hello! – What have we here?’
He brought out a pair of slippers, which he proceeded to examine intently. ‘These are your brother’s?’ he asked.
‘They are,’ the other confirmed. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I observe that they are not only well-worn, but decidedly expensive. Soft leather, well-stitched, and lined with lamb’s wool, which is heavily matted from frequent use.’ Holmes smiled. ‘Yes. I’ll wager these cost one and six, if they cost a farthing.’
‘Your appraisal is quite accurate,’ Thatcher stated. ‘I should know; the slippers were a gift from me, on Christmas last. As I told you before, Aubrey was never a handy man. He chopped off a toe, when he was seven, trying to cut wood. He’s not taken well to dampness ever since.’
Holmes fairly beamed, as he heard the words. In his eyes, I noted, was a look I had seen many times before, when the facts of a case were falling into place, though for the life of me, I couldn’t fathom why. It was a good time, I decided, to see how much he would reveal.
‘Holmes, what are you driving at?’ I chided. ‘A pair of slippers? What kind of clue is that?’
‘The very best kind, Watson,’ he answered. ‘A clue not even the clumsiest of policemen can erase.’ Refusing to say more, he turned to Thatcher, then added, ‘Along those lines, I suggest we proceed to the study.’
Upon entering the room, Holmes walked directly to the mantle above the fireplace, directing his attention to a mahogany rack filled with pipes, and a glass humidor of tobacco. As we joined him, I noted a framed picture on the shelf as well, of two men standing beside a large gazebo in the bright sun. The shorter of the two, I recognised immediately, was Jonathon Thatcher.
‘Your brother?’ I asked, indicating the other man in the photo.
‘Yes, that is Aubrey,’ Thatcher confirmed. ‘The picture was taken last summer, at a picnic on the museum grounds at Elvet Hill.’
‘He is much taller than you,’ I commented.
‘A full head taller, Dr Watson. Facially, we both resemble our dear mother, but it was Aubrey who inherited our father’s height. And, as you can see by his moustaches, his coal black hair as well.’
While we conversed, Holmes had been removing the pipes from the rack and examining them, one by one. ‘A Dublin with a Cutty stem,’ he remarked, as he replaced
the one nearest to him. ‘And a calabash and a briar, as well –’
‘The dark Meerschaum is his favourite,’ Thatcher interjected.
‘So I gathered,’ Holmes replied. ‘The colour of the bowl says as much.’
Holmes took down the humidor, extracted some tobacco, and held a pinch of the dark leaf beneath his nose, rubbing it gently between his index finger and thumb. ‘Rat trays, without a doubt, ’ he stated. ‘A Turkish blend.’
‘Right you are! ’ cried Thatcher, who was obviously impressed. ‘You know your tobaccos, Mr Holmes.’
‘It is one of many things of which I’ve made a study,’ my friend explained. ‘Your brother had this specially prepared, I take it?’
‘Yes. It came from a small shop called the Tin Box, located on Mosley Road. He has smoked nothing else, for as long as I can remember.’
‘Another point in our favour, since the jar is full and his pouch still rests upon the shelf. One other question: where did your brother normally keep his revolver?’
‘In one of the side drawers of his desk. Which, I can’t recall. But if you check, I’m sure you’ll find a box of cartridges.’
‘And who, besides yourself, might also have known where it was kept?’
‘Well – Mrs Clarridge, most certainly.’
‘And Miss Lowell?’
‘Perhaps. I cannot be positive. You think she is involved, then?’
Holmes drew out his pipe, and began to fill the bowl from the glass humidor on the mantle. His features were set; his dark eyes gleaming. ‘I am as sure of it as I am of your brother’s innocence,’ he declared. ‘For her to be blameless, I must believe that a man of your brother’s inexperience could handle a team on a stormy night; or that, knowing he was never to return, still left his favourite pipe and expensive slippers behind.’
Holmes struck a match and inhaled. ‘No, no,’ he added, shaking his head. ‘I do not believe it, in either case.’
While I did not doubt my friend’s sincerity, I could not help but feel alarm that he put so much faith in what, it seemed to me, were trifles. The preponderance of facts still pointed to Aubrey Thatcher as a man being blackmailed, a man who had committed murder, and who then absconded with his wife-to-be in order to escape punishment. Despite my misgivings, however, I decided to remain silent until a more suitable moment. Holmes, as oft was his nature, was not ready to tell all. And any protestations from me, I knew, would have only further distressed our client.
Holmes decided that we should go next to University Library, for a talk with Thomas Feeny, after which we would visit the police, since the incriminating documents were in their possession. Thatcher, however, firmly refused to accompany us.
‘I have nothing to discuss with Mr Feeny,’ he told us. ‘Nor do I care to listen to Inspector Doyle, or any of his associates. I have heard quite enough of their theories in recent days.’
All things considered, I could easily understand the poor man’s feelings. Before leaving, however, we asked directions to Feeny’s office, and secured the address of the Durham police station, which Thatcher said was located on the city’s east end, near the Assizes on old Court Lane.
Moments later, we were strolling briskly along in the sunshine across Palace Green, towards the huge grey pillars of University Library which lay ahead. Since we were alone, I decided the time was right to question Holmes on his feelings in the case; my curiosity was as brimming as the sun was bright.
‘You know, Holmes, we have come across cases where the party in question was actually guilty,’ I reminded him. ‘The Boating Lake matter in Regent’s Park, for example. Why, Lady Pembrooke deliberately sought your help, in order to throw everyone off the track.’
‘I do recall the case, Watson.’
‘Well, it does seem to me that we’re grasping at straws in this. Pipes and slippers, indeed! The one concrete thing we have discovered is the evidence of the square-toed shoes. And they prove conclusively that Aubrey Thatcher was at the scene of the murder, that he returned home, packed a bag and left again in flight.’
‘And what if they are not his shoes?’
‘Now that is impossible, surely.’
Holmes paused, a bemused look upon his face. ‘Is it? Of the six pairs I examined in his closet, not one was of that fashion. Then, too, there is the matter of the gun.’
‘What of it? There seems no question as to whom it did belong.’
‘The question, Watson, is who knew that the gun was kept in Aubrey Thatcher’s desk. Is it too much to suppose, for example, that in six months’ time Miss Lowell had not discovered it? For all we know, Thatcher may have shown it to her himself, for whatever reason.’
‘My dear Holmes, you must enlighten me,’ I rejoined. ‘I may be very stupid, but I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re getting at.’
With a sigh, Holmes placed a reassuring hand upon my shoulder. ‘It is a perplexing business, I do admit,’ he said. ‘Ju
st when I catch a glimpse of light, the darkness rolls in again. What is most damning is that almost all the facts seem to point in one direction, while my instincts point the other.’
‘And what do your instincts say?’
‘That Aubrey Thatcher is innocent. And that this is a far more devious, more sinister affair than the police suspect. From the very start of this case, Watson, little warning bells have been going off inside my mind.’
‘Bells?’
‘Yes. The first was at the station, when Jonathon Thatcher told us of his brother’s alleged indiscretion, and that he had indeed withdrawn five thousand pounds before he fled. Given Thatcher’s innocence, blackmail by Samuelson was obvious – and forgery was strongly suggested.’
‘Forgery?’
‘Of course. How else does a document come to have two different authors, ten years apart?’
‘But why would Thatcher consent to paying, if he had committed no crime?’
‘That is the most terrifying thing about blackmail, Watson. In most cases an innocent victim is afraid to fight the accusation, no matter how false. For once it becomes public, a name is smeared, a reputation brought into question, no matter what the final outcome. Thatcher, too, remember, had Miss Lowell to consider: would she marry a man whose station was so beleaguered?’
‘Come, come, Holmes. For this to be true, you’re asking me to believe that a simple file clerk was not only a blackmailer, but a forger as well.’
‘Perhaps I am. That’s where the second bell comes in. It sounded, strong and clear, when we were riding in the carriage with Jonathon Thatcher, and I asked him about his feelings towards Miss Lowell. I don’t suppose you recall the name, Arnold Saxby?’
‘Saxby, Saxby . . . But, of course! The Western securities scandal, two years ago.’
‘Correct. Arnold Saxby, a master forger, with a decided bent towards blackmail. That he was guilty, I have no doubt, yet he was acquitted for lack of evidence. After which, he dropped out of sight, and has not been heard of since.’