by Roger Jaynes
‘But what has he to do with this case?’
‘Arnold Saxby,’ Holmes said, ‘was a tall man, with dark moustaches.’
‘Good Lord! The messenger at Mrs Clarridge’s door! ’
‘Presumably. And much more than that, Watson, if my theory proves correct. At any rate, Saxby was not the only person indicted in the Western affair. Also charged, and acquitted, was his common-law wife, Annie Langford.’ Holmes paused, then added, ‘She had a passion for the colour blue.’
For a moment I felt short of breath, as though someone had struck my chest a heavy blow. A chill passed through me that not even the warmth of the afternoon sun could erase. ‘But Holmes, this is incredible! ’ I gasped. ‘Why, A.S. and A.L.! Even the initials match! ’
Holmes cast me a rueful glance. ‘And yet, for all I know, I am not halfway home to offering a solution, much less proving it,’ he admitted. ‘My case is built, almost entirely, upon coincidence, nuance, suspicion. And that, my dear fellow, is the loudest bell of all, which keeps jangling away in my brain. The singular, almost unique nature of this case.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘Think, Watson! How many times have we seen it before? A crime is planned, a deception carried out, the perpetrators are suspected. And yet, upon close examination, it is nigh impossible to connect them to the act itself. I know of only one man who excels at such disassociation, such muddying of the waters. He was the man, two years ago, whose mechanisations so successfully shielded Saxby. And who, until January last, held a professorship in mathematics at this very university.’
‘My God! Moriarty! ’
‘None other, Watson. Professor James Moriarty, the master schemer. Even here, so far from London, the brushstrokes of his insidious technique are impossible to miss. This affair bears his trademark as if it were stamped in wax.’
Behind us, the bells of the Lady Chapel resonantly tolled the hour, as if to underscore the words my friend had uttered. It was at that very moment that I suddenly felt certain he was upon the right track, the facts of the case notwithstanding.
‘Well, if Moriarty and Thatcher both taught in the same department, it’s likely they came in contact,’ I ventured. ‘Might they have had a falling out of some sort, for whatever reason?’
‘It is quite possible, Watson. We do know Moriarty left here under some sort of cloud in January. Thatcher, you recall, first met Annie Lowell – nay, Langford – shortly after. I would not be surprised if it were about the same time that Arnold Samuelson – or Saxby, as we may call him – secured his position at University Library.’
‘Why, then it’s clear as day! The two were hired by Moriarty to blackmail Aubrey Thatcher from the start! ’
‘My thoughts, exactly. Yet Saxby now lies dead in
the morgue, and the professor and Annie Langford have fled.’
‘By his picture, Thatcher seemed a handsome chap. And he does possess money and position. Might the woman have thrown Saxby over?’
‘If so,’ Sherlock Holmes said, ‘then heaven help them. Moriarty’s rule is strict; there is but one punishment for those who cross him. If Thatcher and Annie Langford left Saxby on the tracks, they are not merely fleeing from the law. They are fleeing for their lives!’
Our conversation with Thomas Feeny yielded little in the way of new information. However, he did confirm the details of his meeting with Samuelson just hours before his death, and his physical description of the man matched that of the messenger at Mrs Clarridge’s door. Samuelson, Feeny said, had been employed the third week in February, filling a vacancy which had been open several weeks. He had come highly recommended, with letters from Oxford and Maynooth, and was from the start a diligent and hard-working employee, putting in long hours to help update the library’s new cross-indexing system in July. It was then, Samuelson told him, that he had stumbled upon the fact that Professor Thatcher’s doctoral thesis was nearly identical to one written by one William Booker, who had himself graduated nearly a decade before.
‘You inspected the documents yourself ?’ Holmes asked.
‘I did,’ the librarian replied. ‘Save for a brief introduction, they were the same.’
‘And how did you identify the body? I understand it was . . . quite mutilated.’
‘Quite. My identification was based on Samuelson’s clothing, and his signet ring. The police also found his wallet near the tracks, I’m told.’
‘Ah, you did not view it then?’
‘Only briefly. Frankly, there was not much to see. The head and shoulders had been horribly disfigured. I was, however, able to discern the dark colour of Samuelson’s hair, and his full moustaches.’
‘Well, then it all seems certain,’ Holmes remarked, as he rose to leave. ‘One other point: did Samuelson smoke a pipe?’
‘He did. A Dublin, as I recall. I never knew him to be without it.’
My companion smiled. ‘Is that so? Well, well. Thank you for your time, Mr Feeny. You have been very helpful indeed. Good day.’
Once outside, Holmes hailed a passing hansom, and directed the driver to convey us to the headquarters of the police, giving him the address which Thatcher had supplied.
‘Feeny certainly told us little,’ I commented, as we clattered off.
‘On the contrary, Watson. I am now certain Moriarty knew of the vacancy on Feeny’s staff. It had been open for some time, remember. What better way to put his man in contact with the very documents he so desired? Saxby, no doubt, did much of the work at the library itself, on the nights he chose to stay late.’
‘But shouldn’t we have asked to see the letters of recommendation?’ I suggested. ‘They might be forgeries as well.’
‘To what end, Watson? Either the letters are forged, or the real Arnold Samuelson is no longer of this world. Deceased, I would guess, sometime in February or early March. By now, the question is immaterial, in any case.’
Shortly after, our cab deposited us at the steps of the Durham police station, located within a stone’s throw of both the Assizes and Her Majesty’s Prison. Once inside, Holmes identified himself to a burly sergeant at the front desk, and moments later we found ourselves ushered into the office of Montgomery Doyle, head of Durham’s detective force. Doyle was a balding man of average height, with bushy eyebrows and a sandy-coloured moustache. His impassive face and humourless eyes bore the stamp of his profession, and he carried the stern bearing of a man who is accustomed to wielding authority.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Holmes,’ Doyle said, as he rose from his desk to greet us. ‘And this must be Dr Watson.’
‘Glad to meet you,’ I said, as we all shook hands.
Doyle motioned us to some chairs. ‘Sit down, then, gentlemen, and tell me how I can be of service. You are investigating the murder by Aubrey Thatcher, I take it. Why else would London’s most famous detective be traversing about the Wear?’
‘You are correct,’ my friend confirmed. ‘I have been employed by his brother, Jonathon, only this very morning.’
‘Ah, yes, the brother. Understandable, of course. But I think he has misled you; this is not a difficult case. The findings of the coroner’s jury are quite conclusive. All that remains is to apprehend the professor, in order to begin proceedings.’
‘Your theory in the matter, then?’’
‘There is no theory to it. We can prove conclusively that Aubrey Thatcher shot Arnold Samuelson, threw his body on the tracks, and fled with this woman, Annie Lowell. Blackmail was the motive, and the murder weapon was his own.’
‘What you say may all be true,’ Holmes rejoined, a bit coolly. ‘Still, I should like to see the evidence at hand.’
‘Then see it you shall,’ the other declared. ‘I’m not a short-sighted man, sir. I am aware of some of your previous efforts on behalf of the force. I only hate to see you waste your time. Mark my words: Jack Ketch will have Aubrey Thatcher, once he’s apprehended.’
Doyle rose, and led us across the room to a wooden table, upon
which lay two expensively-bound volumes, a revolver, a spent bullet and some papers – one of which I perceived to be the original of the note Jonathon Thatcher had shown us at the station.
‘It’s plain enough to see,’ the chief explained. ‘Booker’s thesis is on the left, Thatcher’s on the right. The revolver has been identified by his brother, and this is the slug that was removed from the body.’
‘And these?’ I asked, indicating the papers.
‘This letter was taken from Thatcher’s desk; it matches the handwriting of his thesis. The library employment card does as much for Samuelson’s note, which was delivered to Thatcher’s house. And this,’ he added, significantly, ‘is Thatcher’s account book, showing a withdrawal of five thousand pounds the day before he fled. More than enough evidence to hang a man, I’d say.’
Holmes opened both books to where they had been marked, and began to quickly flip through the pages.
‘We have read them quite thoroughly, Mr Holmes,’ the policeman remarked. ‘There is no doubt they are the same.’
‘What is the subject?’ I enquired.
‘The treatise is titled, “Plane Co-ordinate Geometry and Conic Sections”,’ Doyle replied. ‘It deals with the transformation of co-ordinates, or so I’m told. Frankly, I found it rather heavy going.’
As we talked, I noted Holmes had closed both books and continued to inspect them intently, first running his glass along the edges of the pages from top to bottom, and then from the front to the base of the spine. After which, he
re-opened each volume wide and held it to the light, examining the binding closely.
‘You have considered forgery?’ Holmes asked, at last.
‘Most certainly,’ the other declared. ‘Our expert, however, insists both letter and thesis are in Aubrey Thatcher’s hand.’
‘Of that, I had no doubt,’ Holmes said. ‘It was to Booker’s thesis I was referring.’
Doyle appeared struck. For an instant, he glanced first at Holmes and then myself, seemingly unable to speak. ‘I am afraid I do not follow you, sir,’ he said, finally. ‘Your suggestion, frankly, strikes me as incredible! It does not fit the facts.’
‘And yet, clearly, it has been done,’ Holmes persisted.
‘How can you tell?’
‘By comparing the glue along the bindings. Such glue darkens as it ages. Yet, as you can see by the glass, the glue on Booker’s volume is decidedly lighter in colour.’
‘Which means the book has been rebound! ’ I cried.
‘Precisely, Watson. Note, too, the edge of the pages. When the book is closed, a faint, almost undetectable line appears – newer paper, certainly, though an able attempt has been made to age it, probably by rubbing it with dust. A masterful job! Yet the traces remain, none the less.’
‘You seem to have a point,’ Doyle admitted, as he peered through Holmes’s glass. ‘But the boards themselves seem rightly aged.’
‘And so they are. I’ll wager you could search University Library for a year, and not find the book from which they were stolen.’
The dour policeman pondered for a moment, a look of consternation upon his face. ‘If what you say is true, what is the motive then?’
‘To falsely incriminate Professor Aubrey Thatcher. That, Inspector, is what lies at the heart of this matter. Hah! The cleverness of it all. Rather than changing Thatcher’s manuscript to match another, another was merely changed to tally with his.’
‘And who, might I ask, was responsible for this changing?’
‘Arnold Saxby, one of the most skilful forgers in all of England. Since February he has resided here – known as Arnold Samuelson.’
‘What?’
‘It is also no coincidence,’ Holmes continued, ‘that his common-law wife has been here as well. Her name is Annie Langford, a surname she has recently exchanged for Lowell.’
Doyle mulled this over for a moment. ‘You can prove it?’ he asked, sternly.
‘No, but you can, if you wire Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard for all the particulars. I daresay a complete dossier, including pictures, should arrive within a day.’
A satisfied look crossed the policeman’s face. ‘Then you have done me no small service, Mr Holmes,’ he said, with just a hint of gratification. ‘If what you say is true, this case was certainly not merely blackmail, but an affair of the heart as well! The woman turned Saxby over, I’d say, just when his plot was about to hatch.’
Holmes looked dismayed. What was it he had told me, about so much being revealed, in order to conceal? Moriarty, it seemed had laid his plans perfectly once again.
‘It is, I admit, a theory which deserves consideration,’ my friend said, finally, ‘though there are a few points I should still care to pursue. Might I ask a favour? The number of Annie Lowell’s rooming house and Arnold Samuelson’s flat? Also, I would be interested in knowing where Mr Booker now resides.’
‘I have both addresses here,’ Doyle said, as he walked back to his desk. ‘As to Booker, I shall have a constable contact the university. They do, oft-times, keep quite good track of where their people relocate. And you are staying –?’
‘At the Rose and Crown,’ I interjected.
Doyle scribbled down the information we sought, then handed it to my friend. ‘You’ll need this note to gain admittance,’ he said, ‘since both rooms are still under guard. It is the least I can do, Mr Holmes, after what you have revealed. Your theory clears up some questions I had been weighing.’
Holmes looked upon the man intently. ‘There is much more to this than we now know,’ he insisted, gravely. ‘I feel it in my bones.’
Try as he might, the other could not completely mask his look of scepticism. ‘With all regard to your feelings, sir,’ he said, ‘I think I shall confine myself to following up the facts. I shall wire Scotland Yard at once. Thank you, and good day. And to you, Dr Watson.’
Albert House, where Annie Lowell had roomed, turned out to be a grimy, red-brick structure on Aylsham Row, just off Crossgate, which was clearly struggling to maintain its dignity. Its sign, which bore the monarch’s features, had faded noticeably; there was no doorman and the once-white trim of its gutters and windows had long since turned to grey. Inside, at the front desk, we encountered the redoubtable Mrs Purcell, who gruffly sent us up the stairs to Number Four, where a stocky constable stood beside the door. Upon reading Doyle’s note, he allowed us to enter, after which Holmes conducted his usual thorough search of the woman’s rooms. We then returned to the lobby, where my colleague – after artfully engaging Mrs Purcell in a few moments of light conversation – persuaded the reluctant landlady to recount again for us the events of Friday eve last.
A gold sovereign, it should be noted, was what finally did the trick.
‘Her leaving was a shock to me, Lord knows! ’ the woman declared, with some indignation. ‘Why, had the Prince himself walked through those doors, I shouldn’t have been more surprised! As I’m sure you both have noticed, this is a first-rate domicile; and Miss Lowell was my best of boarders. Been with us since February, she had! And in all that time, not once did she cause a fuss, and she always paid in advance.’
‘She’d mentioned nothing before about leaving, then?’ I asked.
‘Not a word! It was just before eight that night when she came down, and asked me if I’d call a boy to fetch her things. Cor, I felt like I’d been biffed! It was all I could do to keep my jaw from dropping.’
‘What reason did she give for this . . . sudden departure?’ Sherlock Holmes asked.
‘None at all, that I could see. Oh, she was most apologetic! “I’ve no complaint about the establishment,” she said. “You must understand. An opportunity has presented itself, and I’ve found preferable lodgings elsewhere through a friend.” A cab, she told me, would be arriving shortly.
‘Well, what was I to do? Though I knew her story was much too thin. First off, the hour was odd; then, too, it was raining cats and dogs! “Very well,” I said, reminding he
r that our rates were weekly. No matter, she said, she didn’t mind; the extra day was mine.’
‘And how was she dressed?’ Holmes enquired.
‘Dressed? Why, smart as always; I’d never seen her otherwise. As I recall, she wore a navy dress that night, with matching cape and gloves.’ Mrs Purcell sniffed, and added, ‘What a shame. To see her, you’d never think she was no lady.’
As she spoke, I cast a glance in Holmes’s direction, recalling Mrs Clarridge’s words. The material of the woman’s sleeve, she’d told us, had been dark, as opposed to light.
‘Proceed,’ Holmes said.
‘Well, I sent a lad up, and Miss Lowell took a seat right over there,’ she said, indicating a small settee. ‘About the time he returned with her luggage, I saw a four-wheeler pull up out front.’ She paused, giving us both a teasing look. ‘And I’ll bet this sovereign on a pint, you’ll never guess what happened next.’
‘Pray, tell us then.’
‘Well, as you might expect, the driver hopped down – but he didn’t open the carriage door! Walked right in himself, he did, dripping from head to foot! ’
Holmes suddenly bolted to attention, like a seasoned hound who has found the scent. ‘You are certain it was the driver?’ he asked. ‘And not the passenger from within?’
Mrs Purcell appeared insulted. ‘Strike me down, if it wasn’t,’ she replied. ‘My eyesight is not faulty, and there’s a street lamp right outside. And as you can see, if you’d care to turn round, my view is not impeded.’
‘Describe this cabbie, then.’
‘He was a tall fellow. Lean, with dark moustaches.’
‘And wearing a signet ring?’
‘Why, yes, now that you mention it. I thought at the time it seemed a bit above his wallet.’
‘His suit? It was this colour?’ Holmes asked, holding up the scrap of cloth he had found beside the tracks.
‘Could be. Close enough, if it wasn’t.’
This time, Holmes and I exchanged a glance. My mind was racing. Had it really been Saxby driving the professor’s carriage? And, if so, how had it come to happen? While I was unable to form a conclusion, I felt certain we were finally getting at the truth.