by Roger Jaynes
‘Tell us,’ Holmes asked, ‘What happened next?’
‘Well, he walks over, and asks if she is Miss Annie Lowell, and she said yes. “Good”, he said. “Professor Thatcher is waiting for you in the carriage; I’ll get your things.” And then he comes over to me and asks to settle up, he does! Well, I was dumbfounded: a cabbie asking about a lady’s bill! “She’s paid in advance,” I said. “That’s very well”, he told me. “Professor Thatcher made a point that I should ask.” And with that, he grabbed her bags, and out the door they went.’
‘You watched them leave?’
‘I had nothing else to do. And it was a bit strange, you must admit.’
‘So?’
‘So I walked over by that flower stand, and saw him throw up her luggage. She was already in the carriage, smiling and talking to someone else.’
‘Professor Thatcher?’
‘I assume so. I could not be entirely certain, since he was sitting in the shadow. Miss Lowell, however, I saw quite clearly in the street light, in spite of the pouring rain.’
Holmes clapped his hands together, a satisfied look upon his face. ‘Thank you, Mrs Purcell! ’ he cried. ‘As sovereigns go, the one I passed to you was worth every shilling. Good day to you, madam! Come along, Watson.’
Once outside, however, my friend’s mood darkened. He smacked his fist into his other hand. ‘The clever devils! ’ he muttered. ‘Ah, Watson, what a fool I’ve been! ’
‘You’ve solved it, then?’
‘I believe I have. Although there are a few minor details which we must confirm.’
Holmes handed me the note Inspector Doyle had given us not an hour before. ‘By my watch, it is four o’clock,’ he said. ‘We will save considerable time, at this point, by going our separate ways. You, Watson, will take a cab to Saxby’s flat. There are two items I wish you to search for among his things, and there is a question which must be put to whoever is in charge. You should, I think, have no trouble meeting me back at the Rose and Crown by six.’
‘Ah, for dinner, surely.’
Holmes frowned. ‘A sandwich, perhaps, if we have time,’ he said. ‘We must return to the Durham police station by seven.’
‘But for what reason?’
‘To confer with Inspector Doyle and Professor Cromwell, to put an end to this sinister business. I shall, among other things, send them both messages to that effect.’
‘Where are you off to now, then?’
Holmes heaved a sigh of discontent. I could tell he was not pleased with himself at all. ‘The morgue, Watson. Had I gone there first, I should have certainly detected Moriarty’s scheme much sooner – and saved us several hours of work, as well.’
While I had to admit that I was lost, I could not help but bow my head and purse my lips, at a complete loss. ‘Holmes, please! ’ I implored. ‘You cannot leave me in the dark like this! I must have some sort of clue as to what’s gone on.’
My companion offered me one of his slight, mysterious smiles. ‘We have a cabbie who does a professor’s bidding, and a professor who drives a cab,’ he said. ‘A rather peculiar combination, wouldn’t you say? Think along those lines, Watson, and I’m sure you’ll have no trouble picking up the thread.’
At which point, Holmes whistled twice at a passing hansom, giving me detailed instructions before he climbed aboard. After signalling my own conveyance, I rode to Saxby’s flat on Margey Lane, where I did as I had been instructed, and rejoined Holmes in our rooms at the Rose and Crown, shortly before six-thirty.
I found him stretched out somewhat morosely across our bed, smoking a pipeful of the strongest shag, three open envelopes and their contents by his side.
‘It was as you suspected, Holmes,’ I told him. ‘A Dublin Cutty was nowhere to be found, and all the shoes were square-toed as well. According to the landlord, Samuelson – or that is, Saxby – received very little mail, but all of it was from London, posted from various addresses.’
‘Moriarty does not miss a trick,’ my friend replied. ‘You have deduced what has happened, then?’
‘I must confess that I have not,’ I answered. ‘In spite of the clue which you supplied.’
‘Then this, perhaps, will help,’ Holmes said, tossing me one of the messages from upon the bed.
Glancing down, I read:
Dear Mr Holmes,
In answer to your question, it was the fourth toe of his left foot. Though to what end it matters, I cannot imagine.
Respectfully,
Jonathon Thatcher
‘Holmes,’ I asked, even more confused, ‘what does this mean?’
‘The very worst, I assure you, Watson. It means that while I have solved the case, matters cannot be rectified. We have arrived too late for that. But come, we must be off ! It is closing in on seven.’
As we clattered across Durham’s busy streets in the growing darkness, Holmes said not a word. Having been at this juncture many times before, I knew it was wise not to press him, since all would be revealed shortly.
At the station, Holmes and I were again shown into the office of Montgomery Doyle, where we were introduced to Professor Ellis Cromwell, an elderly gentleman whose silver mane, black frock coat and shiny pince-nez made him appear the very picture of a member of the academia.
‘I am honoured, Mr Holmes,’ Cromwell stated, as the two shook hands. ‘However, I am not clear as to what assistance, if any, I can lend in this affair. I received your note, I must admit, with some surprise.’
‘As did I,’ Doyle interjected, reaching for a cigar. ‘You have, I take it, discovered something important, to call us here so hurriedly and at this house.’
‘What I have discovered will solve this matter,’ Holmes said. ‘I have found Professor Aubrey Thatcher.’
‘What! ’ Doyle cried, nearly dropping the match he had just struck. ‘Tell us then, man! Where is he?’
‘In your own morgue. It was he who was shot and thrown upon the tracks.’
We were all stunned by Holmes’s revelation. Observing the pale colour of Professor Cromwell’s cheeks, I offered him a chair. Doyle, who was made of sterner stuff, had quickly regained his composure and was carefully lighting his cigar. He then slid behind his desk. ‘I must remind you, Mr Holmes,’ he said, ‘that the body has been positively identified –’
‘ – by clothes, a signet ring and a wallet. As it was meant to be. It is not coincidence the two men were of the same approximate build, and had the same colour hair. Saxby, I imagine, had to grow a moustache. The trains passing through the night did the rest.’
‘What you say is pure conjecture,’ the inspector insisted. ‘Where is your proof ?’
‘Here,’ Holmes said, handing him the note he had shown me earlier. ‘Thatcher chopped off that toe by accident, as a child. When I examined the body, the same toe was missing. I also observed a nasty scar; the point, obviously where the axe, so many years ago, had struck.’
Doyle thought a moment, then sprang up, a look of revelation upon his face. ‘By Heaven, sir! ’ he declared. ‘If what you say is true, then it was Saxby, and not the professor, who left town with the woman! ’
Holmes clenched his fist in anger, and began to pace. ‘Precisely! But not before they had made poor Thatcher victim of one of the most vile conspiracies imaginable! This was no mere killing; it was a calculated revenge of the very worst sort. The plan was to take everything before they fled – his money, his life, even his reputation! ’
Doyle appeared impressed by my friend’s outburst, and a trifle perplexed. ‘Clearly, sir, you know considerably more of this than I,’ he admitted, returning to his chair. ‘My only goal is that all be brought to light. I should be interested to hear what you think has transpired.’
‘The chronology of the affair is simple enough,’ Holmes said. ‘Saxby and Langford arrived in February; he to secure a job at University Library, she to bring herself in contact with Professor Thatcher. While the hard-working Saxby was forging Booker’s thesis to m
atch, she was seducing him with her feminine wiles. For a man of Thatcher’s age and inexperience, such a woman’s attentions would have been heady stuff, indeed; he found himself smitten, as she had planned.
‘During those halcyon months, I have no doubt Langford took great pains to learn the habits of the house – that Mrs Clarridge religiously attended the theatre on Fridays, for example, or that Thatcher kept a revolver in his desk. An impression of the keys, both front and back, was also quite likely made.
‘Once Booker’s thesis had been replaced, the trap was sprung. Saxby confronted Thatcher, threatening him with exposure unless he paid. At first, the professor probably refused, knowing he had committed no crime. But as his appointment to the Senate – and imminent marriage – drew near, he finally did give in. Who knows the true particulars? Perhaps, finally, he did bare all to Langford, hoping she would stand by him. Her reaction, I’d wager, was anything but reassuring.’
‘So he did go to the park that night to pay?’ I suggested.
‘Yes. What he did not know was that Saxby’s motive was much deeper; that he waited with the professor’s own gun in his hand.’
Suddenly, it all hit me. ‘Good Lord, Holmes! ’ I cried. ‘The square-toed shoes! They, and the testimony of Mrs Purcell, prove it was Saxby who shot Thatcher, then picked up Langford, and returned to the professor’s home for his belongings! ’
Holmes clapped his hands. ‘Capital, Watson! What Mrs Clarridge saw, of course, was Saxby dressed in the professor’s hat and coat, hurrying out of the door. They had
not counted on her being there, and it nearly upset their plans.’
‘But she says she heard him speak.’
‘In the thunder and rain, she heard a voice,’ Holmes stated. ‘Given the circumstances, Watson, had you ever heard Thatcher speak, I daresay even you could have passed off an imitation.’
The inspector took a long draw on his cigar. ‘You seem to have explained it all very well, Mr Holmes,’ he concurred, at length. ‘Except one thing, and that is motive. Who would want to so ruin a man?’
‘Professor Cromwell, I’m sure, can answer that,’ Holmes said, ‘since you refer to a man, who until January of this year, taught at this very university –’
The old man gasped.
‘ – and who, at this very moment, sits in London at the head of a criminal organisation more vast, more powerful, than the world has ever seen.’
‘Moriarty! James Moriarty! ’ Cromwell cried, clearly shaken. ‘God help me, then! Thatcher’s death is upon my conscience. I should have made him pay! ’
‘Moriarty?’ Doyle queried. ‘I have never heard the name. Who is this villain, then?’
Cromwell shook his head sadly. Even though the old gentleman was seated, I could see he was leaning heavily upon his stick for more support. ‘He is a man of outstanding intellectual gifts,’ Cromwell said. ‘Have you read his theory, “Dynamics of an Asteroid”? Some argue he owes a debt to Dodgson, but I cannot agree. He is the visionary of our decade.
‘Until this January last, I felt Professor Moriarty had a most brilliant academic career ahead of him. My only concern was that another, larger, institution might lure him from us. It was then I learned of his darker side.’
‘From Professor Aubrey Thatcher?’ Holmes suggested.
Cromwell nodded. ‘Aubrey was not a theorist,’ he said, ‘but he was a sound instructor, honest and diligent. Upon discovering that Moriarty had been diverting certain departmental funds to his own ends, he did not hesitate to bring the matter before me.
‘It was no easy choice for me, gentlemen. Moriarty was the brightest star upon our horizon; yet I also realised that if I refused to act, all that I and the university stand for would have become a sham. So I offered Moriarty a choice: leave the university, or face prosecution for the monies he had squandered. As you are well aware, Mr Holmes, he left –’
‘ – but did not forget! In fact, no sooner had Moriarty established himself in London, than he began to plot his insidious revenge. Not only would he repay Thatcher in kind – dishonouring his name and forcing him from the university – but he would take his life, as well! ’ Holmes paused a moment, placing a finger to his lips. ‘His wrath, I feel certain, was further fuelled by your announcement of Thatcher’s appointment to the Senate,’ he added. ‘After all, he and you alone knew what high service Thatcher had rendered the university.’
‘I sense you are correct, Mr Holmes,’ Cromwell agreed. ‘But in spite of all that has transpired, I do not regret the choice. Aubrey Thatcher’s loyalty to Durham remains unquestioned.’
Once again, Montgomery Doyle was on his feet. ‘This is a heinous crime,’ he said. ‘Rest assured, gentlemen. I shall alert Scotland Yard, and the Port Authority, immediately! Warrants shall be drawn – for the two who fled, and this Moriarty fellow, as well! ’
Holmes shook his head. ‘Saxby and Langford you may apprehend,’ he said. ‘If so, the chances of a conviction seem fair. But I guarantee you, Inspector, when it comes to Moriarty, no connection to any of this shall ever be convincingly made.’
Doyle appeared annoyed. ‘You seem quite certain on that point, sir,’ he replied, coolly. ‘I prefer to think that Moriarty must answer to British law.’
‘The trick,’ Holmes told him, ‘is to place him in the dock. Believe me, Inspector, I know his ways! His alibi, for the weekend past, shall be as strong as Dover’s cliffs; Saxby and Langford, if caught, will deny any knowledge of the man. And if you’re lucky enough to discover correspondence, not a sheet of it will be signed.’ Holmes laughed. ‘Why, marrying Watson into Buckingham Palace would be child’s play, compared to linking Moriarty to Thatcher’s death! ’
Doyle frowned. ‘You seem sure of your facts,’ he conceded. ‘However, I shall ask Scotland Yard’s advice; should it concur with yours, then Saxby and Langford will be our prey. If not, I shall travel south, place the darbies on Moriarty’s wrists myself, and force him to prove his story.’
‘As you wish. And now, gentlemen, if you will excuse us, Watson and I must go. We have one final task to perform this night, before we’ve earned our beds. Our client must be informed of this sad turn of events.’
Though our errand was a heavy one, I none the less welcomed the chance for a few moments alone with my friend, once we had hailed a cab and clattered off into the night. There were a number of questions I wished to press.
‘Holmes,’ I asked, as we rode along, ‘when did you first suspect that it was Thatcher, and not Saxby, who had been killed?’
‘At the professor’s house, when Mrs Clarridge told her story. It occurred to me that she had not actually seen his face. Then, too, there were no square-toed shoes in Thatcher’s closet. Yet, Square-toe had surely been there; you recall the footprint in the clay? Most convincing, however, was the fact his slippers remained, and that his pipe lay on the rack.’
‘That seems like pretty shaky ground to me.’
‘How many times have I told you, Watson, that the smallest point may often be the most essential? Barring fire or earthquake, no Englishman would leave his favourite pipe behind. Was there a Dublin lying about in Saxby’s rooms? I rest my case.’
‘Still, you couldn’t be sure. Not until you’d visited the morgue, at any rate.’
‘Correct. I should have done it sooner, but I failed to recognise what an important clue Jonathon Thatcher had inadvertently given us. I was, I admit, too caught up in theories of cross and doublecross. Reveal to conceal, remember?’
‘But you were right. That is exactly what Moriarty did.’
‘And a clever show it was. Performed admirably, especially by Annie Langford, chatting happily to no one as she sat in Saxby’s cab.’
‘I see now what you were driving at. There should have been a coachman at the professor’s house, since there was one at the hotel.’
‘And there should have been a professor, Watson. Instead, there was only a cabbie matching Saxby’s description, wearing Saxby’s clothes.
And a tall man in the professor’s coat and hat, hurrying off with his luggage into the night.’
‘Good Lord, Holmes! A thought just hit me. If Saxby was still wearing his original suit when he picked up Annie Langford, then Aubrey Thatcher’s body must have been inside the cab! ’
‘It is quite likely. A pair as cold-blooded as they could certainly pull it off. From the Prince Albert, I imagine, they returned to the safe remoteness of the park, where clothes were switched and the body was dumped on the tracks. Saxby needed the professor’s garments, after all, for his part in the charade.’
‘And what of the five thousand pounds, Holmes? Will Moriarty get that, as well?’
‘We have no way of knowing, Watson. I suspect, however, that it was Saxby and Langford’s commission – along with tickets to the Continent.’
‘Do you think the police will apprehend them?’
‘Perhaps. Though I’m sure their escape route has been well planned.’ Holmes smacked his fist into his hand, and uttered a curse of frustration into the night. ‘Mark my words, Watson,’ he vowed. ‘Some day, I shall bring this devil to account! ’
For a few moments, we bumped along in silence, as houses and street lamps passed by outside.
‘Watson,’ Holmes said. ‘Are you still game to view the cathedral tomorrow?’
‘I should like that very much.’
‘Good. Then we shall rise early, and spend some reflective hours strolling about its transepts, before we return to London. Ah, but our cab is slowing! Are we there
already? . . . The lights are burning; he’s home, then. Poor man! I only wish that we had better news to convey.’
A postscript must be added to this case. Saxby and Langford were never apprehended by the police. While it was generally assumed they had fled to Europe, the New York Port Authority was also wired particulars; nothing ever came of it. Six months later, a report reached us that the two had died in a train crash near Tours, but it was never confirmed. Over the years, they never resurfaced, and what has become of them remains a mystery to this day.