The Adventure of the Disappearing Prisoner
An unseasonably fine March morning can hardly be anything but pleasant, yet I felt that the day had begun strangely. To my surprise, I discovered my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes in high spirits at breakfast, a state of affairs so unusual that I felt compelled to remark upon it.
“I would think from your pleasant expression, Holmes, that you have solved the Merriton bank fraud case that Lestrade was so concerned about.”
He looked up as I took the chair at the opposite side of the table. ”Indeed, I was at last able to obtain the evidence that I have been seeking since the arrests. Hoffnan and his group had no defence against it, and will doubtlessly spend the remainder of their active years in prison.”
As I began my breakfast he proceeded to relate the details of the succession of deductions which had led to such a satisfactory conclusion. These I would record at the first opportunity, for possible future publication. I finished the last of my toast and drank my coffee, before rising and moving to the window feeling Holmes’ eyes upon on me. I looked out into Baker Street to see that the early spring sky was still an unclouded blue. A cold but bright sun shone down as passers-by huddled into their thick coats, wearing mufflers and gloves.
“Yes, Watson,” he said, as if had read my thoughts. “It is indeed a beautiful day for the time of year and, to anticipate your question, I would be amenable to a brisk walk in Hyde Park or St James Park or anywhere else that appeals to you. I have no new case to distract me at the moment, although I await the results of several enquiries. So, what do you say, old fellow, shall we take the air for an hour or so?”
But it was not to be. We had left our lodgings behind by no more than fifty paces, when a police coach swerved to the kerb ahead of us.
“It is Lestrade,” Holmes observed at once. “I very much regret that our walk is likely to be postponed.”
The little detective fairly dashed from the coach, coming to rest breathlessly as he accosted Holmes and myself.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he began. “I regret this intrusion but I thought you would like to hear what I have to say, Mr Holmes, especially as you helped the Yard to put Cutter behind bars.”
“Cutter?” Holmes retorted. “Ephraim Cutter?”
“He is to hang at the end of the week,” I recalled.
“Indeed he was, Doctor,” Lestrade confirmed. “But he disappeared from his cell in Pentonville, during the early hours of this morning.”
Holmes gave the Scotland Yard man an incredulous look. “Come now, Lestrade. What sort of foolishness is this? Men cannot pass through solid walls, and I would wager that there are few more solid than those of a condemned cell. Have you visited Pentonville and examined the walls and surroundings? There is surely some trickery here and I cannot say I am surprised – Cutter showed himself to be an imaginative and cunning adversary during the investigation.”
Lestrade nodded his bulldog-like head. “Very true, Mr Holmes, and I have seldom encountered a man who deserved his fate more. At the Yard, we have discovered six victims, at the last count. His method never varied. He would kidnap the child of a wealthy family, extract money from them and then return to them a strangled body. I believe he considered this safer than leaving alive a child who could possibly identify him.”
“I am familiar with the case, inspector. I conclude from your avoidance of my question that you have not yet visited the prison. How then, did this notion of a miraculous escape come to be?”
“We will discover that when we meet the Reverend Arnold Chester, the prison chaplain. That is of course, if you gentlemen will consent to accompany me.”
He indicated the coach and Holmes glanced at me. I nodded my assent because, although I was disappointed at the postponement of our walk, I found myself intrigued by Lestrade’s narrative.
Little was said, during the journey. Holmes sat with his head upon his chest and the inspector wore a distant look – doubtlessly wondering as to the outcome of this strange situation. As for me, I had been this way with Holmes before, and as we entered Barnsbury my past impressions of the drab confines of the prison returned to my mind.
The coach came to a halt and Inspector Lestrade approached the gate to speak to the guard within. After a moment we were admitted, to be met by a heavily-built man of perhaps forty years.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said as we alighted. “We were advised of your coming. My name is Gramwell. I am Head Guard of the condemned cell block and the governor has instructed me to accompany you there and to provide any information or assistance you may need.”
Lestrade acknowledged the man and requested him to lead us to Cutter’s cell, whereupon we were taken to a small building that was set apart from the main structure. On entering I felt again the claustrophobic and depressed feeling that I remembered from my previous visit. The inspector too appeared uncomfortable as he regarded the stone walls and tiny cells which had been the last residence of many evil souls. Only Holmes seemed unaffected.
Gramwell led us around a corner into a short corridor and stopped abruptly. A thin and nervous-looking uniformed guard stood talking to a man wearing the dark clothes of a priest, outside a cell with its door wide open.
“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to the Reverend Arnold Chester, our prison chaplain, and Andrew Bellows, who had special responsibility for the condemned man, Ephraim Cutter.” Gramwell’s disapproving tone made it clear that he blamed Bellows for Cutter’s disappearance, although how this could be when the nature of this strange event was as yet unknown was difficult to comprehend.
Lestrade introduced Holmes and myself, before Gramwell announced that he would leave us to conduct our interviews unimpeded, but would be close at hand if needed.
There was silence for a moment, during which Holmes’ gaze took in the dull surroundings before returning to the two men before him. The Reverend Chester was the first to speak.
“Mr Holmes, I confess to being confounded by all this. Mr Cutter’s conversion was remarkable, a true miracle, but I could not have imagined that he was to be taken literally.”
My friend regarded him thoughtfully. “I am as yet unfamiliar with the recent situation here. Pray relate, in your own words, what has occurred.”
“I visited Mr Cutter soon after his arrival at Pentonville.” The priest averted his eyes, as if he found the memory an embarrassment. “I found him to be an evil man, given to curses and blasphemy. He boasted of his crimes and showed no remorse. During subsequent visits however, I noticed a gradual change. The man’s resistance softened. He began to listen when I quoted the Bible about God’s arrangement for atonement and forgiveness, and a new hope dawned in his eyes when I explained that to Him no man is beyond redemption.”
“Could this have been a subterfuge?” I asked.
“With what object? I was convinced of his sincerity simply because his fate was sealed. He was about to face the hangman, nothing could change that. He would gain nothing by pretence.”
“He would be far from the first to undergo such a change, with the prospect of approaching death,” Holmes observed. “Did his new-found faith increase, in response to your instruction?”
“Very much so, in fact he began to tell me of visions that he had begun to experience as he slept. This went on for several weeks, until he revealed to me that he believed God was about to set him free. I explained to him that he must not take this to mean that he would be released. The message, if indeed it was genuine, surely meant that forgiveness for his crimes was possible. This did not satisfy him, and on one occasion he shouted his belief that he was soon to regain his freedom so loudly and adamantly that the guards had to be called to quieten him.”
Holmes looked up sharply. “When did this occur?”
“The evening before last. He kept repeating that God was about to come for him.”
“And then, a little more than one day later, he disappeared from his cell?”
“So it would appear,” the reverend shook his head. “I have never heard or experienced such an event. Frankly, I do not know what to believe.”
A faint smile crossed Holmes’ features. “We shall see what is revealed by looking into the matter.” He turned to Lestrade. “Have you any questions for the Reverend, Inspector?”
Lestrade, who had remained silent until now, looked mildly uncomfortable. “Not as yet, Mr Holmes.”
“Then perhaps we can continue with whatever Mr Bellows can tell us.”
The guard who had been assigned especially to watch Cutter, possibly to prevent him from cheating the hangman by ending his own life, shrank visibly. “I can tell you nothing that I have not already explained to Mr Gramwell, and the governor,” he stammered. “I began my duty, the early shift, and found this cell empty. There was no sign of the prisoner, nor any indication as to where he might have gone.”
“Do you believe that he was removed by the hand of God?”
Bellows looked at the stone-flagged floor uncertainly. “I could not say, sir. The prisoner once told me that he expected the Almighty to come for him in a blaze of glory.”
Holmes nodded, slowly. “And do you see any sign that this has occurred?”
“None, sir.”
My friend walked around the cell. “Not even these substantial burn marks on the floor here, and on the lower walls? Come now, Bellows, you must have noticed these despite the poor visibility in here, and having done so must have formed some sort of explanation. Why, I can still smell traces of smoke in the air.”
Lestrade peered into the semi-darkness. “I see them, Mr Holmes, but cannot understand how there could have been fire, without kindling.”
“Perhaps, then, it was God’s work,” said Bellows.
Holmes moistened a finger with saliva and brushed it across the discoloured stonework. It came away coated with a deep crimson hue.
“Not unless our Creator announces Himself with a blaze of permanganate of potash, mixed with a little glycerine. The effect of that combination is much like a miniature volcano, with much fire and smoke. I am surprised that the fire brigade was not summoned at once.” He paused, I thought for effect. “But of course, as Cutter was the only occupant of the condemned block, no one else would have noticed. Except for you, Bellows. What have you to say to that?”
The guard could maintain the deception no longer.
“I had to do it sirs, they have my family. The prisoner Cutter said that my wife would be found floating in the Thames and my children would be returned to me hacked to pieces over the next few weeks. I did not want to betray the trust that had been placed in me, but what else could I do?”
“Most of Cutter’s gang escaped the police net because there was no evidence against them,” Holmes recalled. “Some were his relatives. They would have been easily capable of organising such a scheme to set him free. I do not doubt that they would have carried out their threat or indeed, may yet do so.” He turned to the weeping guard. “Have your family been returned to you, Bellows?”
His answer was a distraught shake of the head.
“So, we have disproved any divine intervention in this matter. Now we must ascertain how Cutter left the prison. How did you assist him?”
The young man sat in a corner of the cell with his head in his hands. He looked up at us with shamed and fearful eyes. “I gave him my spare uniform.”
Holmes nodded. “Are the guards and visitors required to sign out when they leave the premises?”
“They are required to sign both in and out as necessary.”
“Pray find Mr Gramwell in the corridor, and request him to bring the attendance ledger here. Tell him it is of the utmost importance that I examine it.”
Bellows left quickly and without a word. He returned within ten minutes with a large leather-bound volume.
“Mr Gramwell apologises for the delay, but he had to obtain the governor’s permission.”
“Very well.” Holmes took the ledger and ran his finger along the entries for the early shift change-over. “How many guards work in this part of the prison?”
“There are five of us, to accommodate the various meal breaks and reliefs.”
Lestrade and I peered over Holmes’ shoulder, as he identified every entry. “As I expected, over the course of an hour or so six men signed out. Again, there is no mystery regarding Cutter’s exit.”
“I will have every constable in London on the lookout for him.” Lestrade assured us.
“A wise move, inspector, but it occurs to me that I may be able to narrow down his likely whereabouts on consulting my index. Watson and I will now return to Baker Street, and you no doubt will be anxious to get back to the Yard.” He fixed his gaze on the wretched form of Bellows, who was still visibly shaking and pale. “As for you, there can be no doubt that you are guilty of a serious dereliction of duty. Nevertheless, I cannot find it in myself to condemn you entirely.” I saw a look of surprise enter Lestrade’s face at this. “Because I have asked myself how I would have acted in your place and found no different answer, I will intercede on your behalf with the prison governor. I cannot say what your fate will be, but I will endeavour to reduce the harshness of it. I am certain that Reverend Chester also will assist with this.”
The priest assented, placing an arm around Bellows’ shoulders as we left. In the corridor we confronted Gramwell who was eager to learn what had transpired. Holmes evasively told him that all would be explained when we returned, probably the following day, for a meeting with the governor. He asked the head guard to arrange an appointment and confirm this by telegraph to Baker Street. The man looked taken aback at this, but nodded his assent when Lestrade voiced his agreement.
“Do not assume yet, that the hangman will not be needed at the appointed time,” were Holmes’ parting words to the dismayed head guard.
The police coach delivered us back to our lodgings. As we alighted, Holmes informed the inspector that he would communicate with him by telegraph the moment he was able to confirm his suspicions. “A glance through my index should suffice, Lestrade. I cannot quite recall the date, but I am certain that Cutter’s likely whereabouts were mentioned in an article published in The Standard. On receipt of my message, your attendance in the company of, say, six armed constables would be as well. I recall that his associates, including his immediate family, are in every way as villainous as he, though nothing as yet has been proven against them.”
The inspector nodded. “In addition, I will ensure that every man on the beat is aware that Cutter is again at large.”
The official vehicle rattled off and Holmes and I were back in our rooms in minutes. Mrs Hudson appeared to inform us that the luncheon hour had approached, only to be waved away by my friend who was on his knees racing through page after page of his index. I, being fully conscious of increasing hunger pangs, gratefully accepted a portion of veal and ham pie and the stewed apple that followed.
I had hardly put down my coffee cup, when Holmes stood up with a triumphant shout.
“I have it, Watson! I have it!
“You have discovered Cutter’s hiding-place?”
“I am certain of it, sufficiently so to inform Lestrade. A recent newspaper cutting mentions, here in the small print, that Cutter’s sister and her husband are the owners of the steam launch Erica, moored in the Port of London near Tower Bridge. I would wager that Cutter has taken refuge there.”
“Would they not have sailed by now?” I ventured.
“I would have expected so, but perhaps the tides were against it, or it was necessary to gather supplies for what is undoubtedly intended to be a long voyage. At any rate, there is no mention of such a departure in the sailing lists of any newspaper. I imagine their intention is to conceal themselves among the network of English rivers until they feel that police interest in them is waning. By then, Cutter will have had sufficient time to change his appearance as he has done before.”
The glitter in Holmes’ eyes meant, I knew of old, that the game was again afoot. I handed him his hat and coat and hurriedly put on my own, and we stood in Baker Street awaiting a cab moments later. We interrupted our journey to the Port of London but once, for him to vanish into a Post Office to send the promised telegram to Lestrade. Soon the sinister shape of The Tower was evident, before we left the hansom near the bridge. We descended and walked cautiously along a narrow footpath, noting the name of each tethered vessel as we passed. The river curved slightly, and we saw on the opposite bank several open barges which appeared to be deserted. A number of dormant steam launches rode the water unsteadily, disturbed by the wake of a craft heaped with coal. I saw that for a good two hundred yards ahead nothing else was berthed.
“There!” Holmes exclaimed suddenly, indicating a half-rusted tub moored near a group of overhanging trees. “I can just make out the name of the vessel. It is the Erica.”
“She appears to be deserted.”
“Which is precisely what Cutter would have us believe, is it not, until an opportune time to set sail arrives. Are you armed, Watson?”
“My hand rests upon my service weapon.”
“Excellent. I also am prepared. We have no means of knowing how many opponents are concealed in there, so I think we will await Lestrade and his men before making an approach. It would be best to avoid any shooting if that is possible, for to the best of our knowledge the wife and children of our friend Mr Bellows remain captive. Let us hope they have not been harmed, or that the Erica does not leave her berth within the next half-hour.”
We stood in the shadow of a tall stack of crates, listening to the movement of the Thames and the passing of its shipping, but never once averting our eyes from the Erica, before we heard the heavy tread of the approach of the official force.
Lestrade demonstrated uncharacteristic caution in keeping his men concealed, for they remained some way off as he responded to Holmes’ signal and joined us.
“You discovered their hiding-place quickly, Mr Holmes.”
“A quick search of my index was all that was necessary. I knew I had seen a reference to Cutter or his family, quite recently.”
The little detective nodded. “According to our files at the Yard, Cutter alone has been convicted of a crime, although most members of his family have been suspected of robbery at one time or another. Unless the others break the law today, he is the only one we can arrest.”
Holmes looked at Lestrade and beamed. “Inspector, I was considering a number of approaches to accomplish this, whilst preserving Bellows’ family unharmed. I do believe that you have just supplied the answer I was searching for. If we are successful, you will truly deserve all credit for the outcome.”
Lestrade’s expression was blank, and I saw that he had not understood my friend any more than I had myself. We waited for Holmes to disclose his plan.
“Inspector,” he said at length. “I would be obliged if you would order your men to form a line along the bank, in full view of the Erica. I assume that every man is armed?”
“All six constables have been issued firearms, Mr Holmes, as you requested in your message.”
“Capital! If you will leave it to me to converse with Cutter, I believe I can resolve the situation.”
Lestrade was silent for a moment, and appeared as puzzled as before, but he did not dispute Holmes’ intentions. “Very well, Mr Holmes.”
We remained in concealment while the constables took up their positions. They stood in a line near the wide wooden plank that bridged the gap between the shore and the Erica’s deck. Each man brandished his weapon, presenting a formidable barrier to escape.
Without a word, Holmes strode out to stand where he was easily visible from the boat. After watching the vessel for a short time, he cupped his hands to his mouth and hailed those within.
“Halloa, the Erica. Ephraim Cutter, you are hopelessly outnumbered. Surrender yourself now, and much bloodshed can be avoided.”
The faint echo of his words died away, without any discernible effect.
I believe he was preparing to repeat his message when the cabin door was slammed open violently. Two men stood on the threshold. I recognised Cutter from his trial, which I had attended with Holmes, but his companion was unknown to me.
“Jake Quintly,” Lestrade said, anticipating my question. “A cousin of Cutter, not known to be on good terms with him, usually. He’s slipped through our fingers many times because he intimidates witnesses, but his day will come.”
“I’m sure it will,” I replied, observing the large bearded man with a long scar above his left eye.
Even from this distance I could see the blank stare, that of the wild beast, that Cutter had invariably worn in the courtroom. He reached behind him, into the shadows of the cabin doorway, and dragged forth a young woman who cried piteously as he placed her in front of him with his arm about her neck.
“See here, Mr Sherlock Holmes and all you coppers,” he cried in a hoarse voice. “if you try to stop this boat from leaving here you’ll all be sorry. I’ll slit this tart’s throat and then both her brats, and you’ll see them float down the river behind us. What do you say to that?”
As his words died away I heard sounds from some of the constables that indicated their horror and revulsion. Even they, accustomed as they were to the dark aspects of life in the capital, were affected by the pitiless cruelty of this man. Never more, I told myself, was a man more justly condemned.
“That would be foolish in the extreme don’t you think, Cutter?” Holmes replied after a moment. “It cannot have escaped your notice that Mrs Bellows and her children are the shield that prevents these officers from opening fire. Kill them, and what protection for you remains?”
Cutter hesitated, and Quintly gave him an uncertain look.
“We have guns too. We’ll take some of you with us. I will never face the hangman.”
“That may be, that is how it could turn out. But how many of your family are in there? How many will die needlessly in the battle?” Holmes paused to let Quintly, not Cutter if his intention was as I suspected, take this in. “I must tell you that you alone are wanted by the law. Inspector Lestrade assures me that none of your family have ever been convicted. This means that, provided Mrs Bellows and her children are returned to us unharmed, all that is required for them to sail away unmolested is your return to custody.”
In the short silenced that followed, I saw Quintly’s expression harden. I remembered that Lestrade had mentioned that the two were rarely on friendly terms, despite their family connection. Cutter turned to Quintly and spoke quickly, apparently voicing a curse or oath, before they retreated back into the cabin with Mrs Bellows who sobbed loudly.
“I don’t think you’ve convinced him, Mr Holmes,” said the inspector. “You can’t appeal to the better nature of a man like Cutter. If nothing happens within the next ten minutes, I’ll give the order to open fire.”
“Lestrade!” I protested. “Remember the woman and children in there.”
“It is not my choice nor my wish, Doctor, but I am under orders not to let Cutter escape. How many more children might die, if he is allowed to resume his activities?”
“Let us be patient, while they consider the situation,” said Holmes. But the words were hardly out of his mouth when the cabin door was flung open again momentarily and Mrs Bellows and a small boy and girl pushed roughly onto the deck. At a sign from Lestrade, one of the constables laid down his weapon and stepped aboard the Erica to assist them onto the bank. They were hurriedly removed from the scene as sounds and cries of much violence erupted from within the vessel. We looked on as the door opened for a final time, and a bruised and bloody Cutter staggered onto the deck. At once the constables’ guns were raised, but there was no need. Cutter appeared ready to make his escape in the river but Holmes, seeing that he was unarmed, boarded the boat with a single leap and restrained his adversary with the grip of steel that I had seen him apply before. Both men had regained the bank and Lestrade fastened police handcuffs on Cutter’s wrists, before a man I had not seen before appeared in the wheelhouse and a heavily-built woman freed the line. Clouds of steam appeared as the engines burst into life, and the craft shuddered. The vessel left the bank slowly, then more quickly as the current took her and swept her out of our sight.
“We have, I think, won the day on this occasion,” Holmes observed.
The little detective walked back along the bank with us. “Mrs Bellows and her children are safe, Cutter will probably hang as was arranged previously, Mr Holmes. But the others on that boat could have been charged with kidnapping and assisting a convicted escaped prisoner. I cannot help but feel little satisfaction, for we have achieved only a partial victory.”
“I concur of course, Lestrade,” Holmes said a little disappointedly, “but on occasion one has to take the view that in life, by its very nature, things often do not turn out exactly as we would have them. As it is, you will undoubtedly have further opportunities to apprehend other members of Cutter’s family for future misdeeds, and I have already stated that full credit for this encounter is justly to be yours. As for the immediate future, I suggest that you instruct your men to convey Cutter to Scotland Yard, to await your arrival after you have shared the excellent dinner that I know Mrs Hudson has prepared for us at Baker Street.”
The Adventure of the Drewhampton Poisoner
In response to repeated requests from my publisher, I have recently approached my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes on several occasions, to enquire whether any of our past cases that have been hitherto withheld for one reason or another, could now be laid open to public scrutiny. His reply was not at first favourable, nor was it enthusiastic, for he has always maintained that our exploits should be viewed as exercises in logic and reasoning, rather than as tales of the dramatic and mysterious.
At length, and with the utmost reluctance, he gave his permission. This was more, I have not the slightest doubt, to ensure that I would press him no further, than for any desire for fame or notoriety. I believe that I have mentioned the following events in passing, and only once in my writings until now. To my surprise I find that my notes are incomplete, and so I must rely on my ailing memory to assist in relating this affair to the public to the best of my recollection.
March had been a month of very mixed weather. Two weeks of intermittent storms were now succeeded by days of warm weather that suggested a pleasant spring ahead. Holmes’ mood had been deteriorating for some time despite his recent successes, as it always did when he was starved, as he put it, of mental stimulation.
On one such morning, Holmes and I had left the breakfast table and were about to settle ourselves in our armchairs to enjoy our first pipes of the day, he collecting yesterday’s dottles from the mantleshelf, when I chanced to glance through our half-open window to look down upon Baker Street.
“Holmes!” I called to him, and he looked towards me in response. “Unless I am much mistaken, you are about to acquire a new client. There is a fellow running towards our door as if the devil were after him, dodging in and out of the passing traffic.”
His expression lightened immediately. “If he is indeed intending to visit us, let us hope he has something interesting to offer. You may have noticed, Watson, that I have not been my most amiable self, of late.”
“Not at all, dear fellow,” I replied with a tactful, if not completely truthful, assurance. “Ah, it seems I was right.”
The door-bell rang loudly and we heard Mrs Hudson answer almost immediately. There followed some momentary discussion, during which I formed the opinion that our landlady was enquiring whether the caller had secured an appointment. His voice rose at this, betraying the conceived urgency of whatever had brought him to our door, whereupon Mrs Hudson allowed him to enter and preceded him on the stairs.
Holmes answered her knock with a bid to enter, and a tall man, ashen-faced and trembling, was shown in. We rose from our chairs as our landlady withdrew, for it was clear that our visitor was far from well.
“My dear fellow, come and rest yourself in this basket chair,” my friend said concernedly.
I put an arm around our new client’s shoulder and guided him. He shivered violently under my touch and his expression was of someone deeply troubled.
Holmes quickly poured a measure of brandy from the decanter, and the man accepted it gratefully. When he had drunk much of it he set the glass down on a side-table, beside the top hat which he had removed before entering.
“Are you feeling any improvement?” I asked him.
“Thank you, yes. I am most grateful to you gentlemen,” he replied in a stilted voice. “Recently this strange condition has come upon me. Our local physician can make nothing of it, other than to say that it may be stomach cramps and to prescribe a powder, but I have formed my own conclusions. It is poison you see, the cause of the deaths of several in our village, but I know not from whence it comes.”
“And this is what has brought you to us?” Holmes enquired.
Our visitor glanced from my friend to me, and back again, looking confused.
“You are Mr Sherlock Holmes?” he ventured.
“Indeed I am, and this is Doctor John Watson before whom you may speak as you would to me. When you are feeling better, pray take a moment to consider all that you have to tell us and begin at the beginning without omitting the slightest detail. Be assured that we will do all that we can to help you.”
The man began to breathe more steadily, and drained his glass before pausing to collect himself.
“I am Mr Ahab Rampling,” he began in his unsteady voice. “I hold the position of farm manager on the estate of Sir Trevill Bertram, near the village of Drewhampton, which is not far from the Surrey border. Recently a plague has descended upon our village, or at least that is what most folk there believe, but I am certain that there is evil afoot. I am quite sure that someone, for reasons I cannot imagine, has in some way introduced a substance that continues to claim the lives of some of the villagers. I believe also that this is the cause of my present state.”
Holmes had been listening intently, with his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
“Have the victims been both men and women,” he asked.
“They have. Two men and two women have died.”
A few moments passed and both Mr Rampling and I glanced towards the window, attracted by the curses of a cab driver whose anger was apparently directed at someone obstructing the passage of his vehicle.
“Have you made your suspicions known to the local force?”
Our client smiled painfully, as if the suggestion was ludicrous. “The nearest police station of any size is in Guildford, more than forty miles away. Constable Jessop, who serves our village and works out of tiny premises with a single cell, is as puzzled as everyone else. Until now, you see, the most serious crime that has ever taken place there was when Albert Crawley allowed his horse to gallop down the high street and frighten the children outside the school.”
“An admirable record,” Holmes acknowledged. “But tell me. Sir, is there anyone who you, yourself, suspect as the cause of these unfortunate deaths?”
Mr Rampling endured a fit of coughing, for which he apologised profusely, before replying. “I confess that there is not. However there is an unfounded opinion among the villagers that the landowner, Sir Trevill Bertram, is to blame. He is a rather bohemian figure, and it is believed, I understand, that he visits a witch after dark, to obtain substances and spells.”
“But what possible reason would he have? I presume the victims are among his tenants?”
“Some of them are, sir, and the story has no sense to it. That is why I am here, Mr Holmes, to clear Sir Trevill’s name in the eyes of our village.”
Holmes lapsed into a silence that lasted so long that Mr Rampling, like many before him, looked to me to confirm that my friend’s attention was still with us. I made a reassuring gesture and our client nodded.
“Mr Rampling, do you know of any person in your village who has travelled abroad, particularly to the tropics in, let us say, the past year?” Holmes asked suddenly.
Our client shook his head. “I am certain that there is no one. Such an absence would have been considered an unusual event, and certainly remembered.”
“As I would have expected.” Holmes turned to me. “In view of the prevailing warm weather, I think a trip to Surrey would be rather pleasant, Watson, if you would care to accompany me.”
I assented at once, of course.
“It may be a day or two, I regret we are unable to visit your no doubt charming village sooner, but we will certainly look into this.” Holmes rose and, seeing that the interview was at an end, our client did likewise. “And so, we will bid you good-day, Mr Rampling. We trust your health will be much improved when we see you in Drewhampton.”
#
Mrs Hudson happened to be on the stairs wielding a brush and dustpan, and so Holmes and I were left undisturbed as she assumed the task of showing our client out.
My friend’s expression had deepened and he appeared asleep or lost in thought for several minutes, before his eyes opened and he shifted his thin frame in his chair.
“We can, of course, immediately discount any involvement with witchcraft or wizardry,” he murmured, “although I would like to know, given these circumstances, what association Sir Trevill Bertram has with such supposed practices.”
“What then, could be the cause of these deaths?” I asked him. “Mr Rampling’s symptoms, such as I was able to see, could be indications of anything from a failing heart to a fever.”
Holmes turned to me with a glint in his eyes. “Oh, I believe our client to be quite correct, Watson, this is almost certainly a case involving poison of some sort. The mystery here is the identity of the perpetrator and, of course, why he is conducting this apparent vendetta against the village.”
“That is why you asked Mr Rampling whether anyone local had recently travelled abroad – you suspected that any such person might have brought back some exotic and deadly herb?”
“Precisely, but I will form a more accurate impression when we arrive in Drewhampton. As it is, I delayed bringing my attention to this affair because it suddenly struck me that I am now in a position to bring to a close a case I undertook some months ago which appeared to have no motive or solution.” He rose from his chair and wandered to the window, and I saw his posture alter as he looked down into the busy street. “In addition, I see that our friend Inspector Lestrade has just emerged from a hansom and is walking briskly to our door. Doubtlessly he has need of our help, so it is as well that we did not promise our services to Mr Rampling immediately.”
As it was, the inspector’s request took up an unexpected amount of Holmes’ time. It was, in fact, fully four days before we found ourselves alighting from a local train which set us down in Drewhampton after a short journey.
“How unfortunate,” he remarked as we emerged from the station into a short and tree-lined lane, “that we were unable to procure a trap or cart. Ah, but perhaps such a conveyance is unnecessary, since I see that the outskirts of the village begin at the end of this avenue of elms. Do you see, Watson, there is the inn, between the grocer’s shop and the bakery.”
“I hope they have room for us,” I replied.
“Have no fears on that score, old fellow. I took the precaution of wiring ahead to reserve our accommodation.”
We were shown to two fine rooms overlooking the street. At luncheon, which comprised of chicken pie followed by a rather over-sweet gooseberry fool, Holmes mentioned his observation that the manager and staff seemed rather crestfallen.
“There is to be a funeral today, sir,” our waiter said in answer to my friend’s enquiry. “The deceased was a man known to all of us here in the village.”
“I am exceedingly sorry to hear of this. May we know the poor fellow’s name?”
“Of course, but it is unlikely that you will have encountered him, seeing as you are London gentlemen. He was Mr Ahab Rampling.”
The shock from this news of the death of our client quickly passed, as I remembered his unhealthy appearance. Holmes’ expression was unaltered, as he replied:
“I have indeed met Mr Rampling, in fact it is because of a business arrangement with him that we are here today. I recall that he mentioned a number of unexpected deaths hereabouts when I spoke to him last, and expressed some concern regarding them. Do you, by any chance, recall the names of these unfortunates?”
The man gave us a slow, suspicious look. He brushed a stray lock of grey hair from his forehead.
“Mr Rampling was the manager of Sir Trevill Bertram’s farm, sir. Sir Trevill owns most of the property around here, and I don’t know that he would like me spreading our village affairs to outsiders.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows. “I had no idea that he was so secretive. Ah well, no matter. I shall be seeing Sir Trevill later, so I expect he will tell me then.”
“I didn’t realise that you were acquainted with him, sir.” The waiter’s face reddened slightly, I noticed. “As far as I can recollect, three men and two women have passed away within the last month or so, including Mr Rampling. There was Thomas Leary, Matthew Collet, and Ben Trafford’s wife as well as Arthur Edmond’s sister. We thought at first that a plague had come upon us, but now it seems as if something in our food is the cause.”
“Were that so, would not the deaths be more widespread?”
“Who knows, sir? Doctor Walgrave seems unable to discover the cause. Many of us are worried that we or our families will be the next to be struck down.”
“Let us hope that both the cause and cure will be identified soon,” I said. The waiter murmured his agreement and collected our coffee cups before leaving us.
“I think a word with Doctor Walgrave would be in order,” Holmes said as we left the inn.
After asking directions from a passer-by we made our way up the High Street, past a number of shops and the church, turning into a narrow lane which rose steadily with occasional houses scattered around open fields. We had not walked far when we came to a thatched cottage surrounded by an array of colourful flowers. Holmes opened the white-painted gate and we approached the front door. As he raised his stick it swung open, to reveal a stern-looking woman, probably a secretary or receptionist I thought, who peered at us silently.
“Good afternoon,” Holmes began, for it was past mid-day by now. “We would like to see Doctor Walgrave, if it is at all possible.”
“I have not seen either of you before,” she said haughtily.
“That is because we have not been here before. We are visitors.”
“So you are not Doctor Walgrave’s patients?”
“We are not.”
“Are you in pain?”
“We are not,” Holmes said again, in his most patient voice.
“Then what is your business here?”
“That is for the doctor and ourselves to discuss. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am in your charming village in response to a summons from the late Mister Ahab Rampling.”
She looked from Holmes to me and back, clearly undecided as to whether to disturb the doctor.
“I, also, am a doctor,” I added. “Kindly inform your employer that our purpose is of the utmost urgency.”
“Very well.” She vanished into the dim interior, leaving the door ajar.
Holmes glanced at me with raised eyebrows. He smiled faintly but said nothing.
“The doctor will see you. Come in,” the woman said as she reappeared.
We allowed ourselves to be led along a short corridor and into a small room, lined with ancient books and containing a worn desk and chairs. The receptionist announced us and quickly retreated. Behind the desk stood an elderly man of distinguished appearance with hair and beard of pure white. His eyes were clear, as was his voice.
“I have heard of you and your companion, Mr Holmes. As you are a consulting detective, I assume you are here at the late Mr Rampling’s bidding to attempt to discover the cause of our recent unexplained deaths, for he mentioned to me that he proposed to take some action. That is the case, is it not?”
“It is indeed, sir. I am told that it was first assumed that a plague had come upon the village.”
“That was quickly disproved. At least as far as any plague that I am aware of is concerned.” He gestured towards the chairs. “Let us sit, gentlemen.”
We settled ourselves, the aged leather creaking under us. Doctor Walgrave sat hunched in his chair shaking his head hopelessly. After a moment, he looked up.
“I truly hope that you will be more successful than I. When I discounted plague from the possibilities, I turned to poison. I still believe that to be the cause, but I cannot identify it. My tests for arsenic and all other common substances of the kind have provided no answer, save that of elimination. This evening I shall take the train to Guildford, where I hope to consult a colleague who has spent some years in India. He has encountered many practices and cures that are strange to us, and may well be our last hope.”
“If I may ask,” I said, “what are the usual symptoms?”
“The patient appears extremely pale, as if drained of blood. A constant trembling, both of the body and voice, which rises and falls in its intensity. Speech becomes slow and uncertain and movement is maintained with increasing effort. The condition worsens within a few days, culminating in the ceasing of respiratory and kidney functions. Do you know of any poison that produces such effects, Doctor Watson?”
After brief consideration, I replied: “None that produce all of those symptoms. In Afghanistan, I recall, several preparations that produced similar effects were common among the natives but the paleness, especially, eludes me as to its source.”
“Then we are no further advanced.”
“Not as yet,” Holmes acknowledged. “But tell me, do you know of any new cases in the village?”
“None have been reported to me since that of Mr Rampling.”
My friend nodded. “Thank you, Doctor Walgrave, for allowing us to take up some of your valuable time.” He rose abruptly. “I wish you well in Guildford, and with your further investigations.”
“As I wish you, in yours,” the doctor said.
#
We descended the hill with Holmes in deep thought. He walked with his head upon his chest and I said nothing until we were about to emerge into the High Street.
“Do you think that our friend the doctor will discover anything of worth in Guildford, Holmes?”
He gave a slight shrug. “I cannot answer such a question, because we do not know the nature of the poison or where its antidote is to be found. There is another way to solve this affair however, and that is to identify the poisoner and extract the information from him.”
I was about to reply when Holmes touched my arm silently and pointed. A hearse had appeared, pulled by two black mares that seemed, from their slowness of movement, as downcast as the small procession of mourners who followed. We stood still, removing our hats and bowing our heads respectfully until the procession has passed. It had but a short distance to carry the coffin, which was visible within the brass rails of the bier, until it came to the churchyard further along the street.
Holmes looked especially grim.
“Cheer up, old fellow,” I said by way of encouragement. “Though Mr Rampling has passed on, I have every hope that you will solve the problem he brought to you.”
“I wonder, Watson, would he still be alive if I had begun to work on this case at once?”
I shook my head. “On that you can set your mind at rest, Holmes. Nothing that you, or I for that matter, could have done would have saved him. He had the appearance of a man at death’s door. I fear that the poison is quite potent, even if its full effects are not felt immediately.”
We continued our walk along the High Street in silence. Some of the shops were closed, doubtlessly because of the funeral, but the blacksmith was busy at his anvil. From behind us we heard running footsteps, and a moment later a large and surly-looking fellow who I recognised from the funeral procession caught up with us.
“Are you the detective from London?” he asked breathlessly.
“I am,” my friend answered. “My name is Sherlock Holmes.”
“Well, I am here to save you some trouble. I know that you are trying to find the cause of the deaths we’ve had hereabouts lately, but I can tell you here and now who is responsible.”
“In that event, you will have solved the case for me. Pray tell me the identity of this murderer, for that he truly is.”
The heaving of the man’s massive chest began to subside. “It is my employer, Sir Trevill Bertram! He has been seen at night on his way to visit a witch, and has paid her to curse our village.”
“But, even if that were possible, why would he do such a thing? Does Sir Trevill not own most of the village? It makes little sense to suppose that a man would deliberately bring about the end of some of his own tenants, surely.”
“That may be so, but I know it. We all know it.”
“Who are you, sir?”
“I am Roland Dender, the new farm manager. Sir Trevill appointed me on the day that Mr Rampling died.”
“He is evidently not slow in managing his affairs, and this seems a curious way to show gratitude.”
Mr Dender’s eyes narrowed. “I told him months ago that it is I who should take care of things on the farm. Mr Rampling was slow with everything.”
“You were not a friend of Mr Rampling’s, then?”
“We had our disagreements.”
“That is largely inevitable, when men work closely together for some time.”
“Well, we fought once.” Mr Dender was becoming uncomfortable I saw, now that he realised that he had not convinced Holmes. “I must go now. I have work to do.”
With that he resumed his run, and was soon lost to our sight.
“It occurs to me, Holmes,” I said as we resumed our walk, “that it could be that fellow who is at the root of this. He strikes me as rather insensitive, and he is clearly ruthlessly ambitious. He assumes Mr Rampling’s position at the drop of a hat, so who is to say that he would flinch from taking over the entire farm? As he seems determined to throw suspicion upon Sir Trevill, to whom he should be grateful, it may be that there is some way, perhaps a clause in the landowner’s will, that will enable him to achieve this.”
“Certainly, that theory is worth considering,” Holmes allowed, “and it may be that we will be forced to do so before this affair reaches its conclusion. However, I am inclined to believe that there is more to this.” He stopped to examine a sign-post. “I see that the farm of Sir Trevill Bertram, whose name repeatedly confronts us, is only a mile or so further along this road. We will have a rather pleasant walk to there, I think, in the morning.”
With that we returned to the inn. We sat in a quiet corner, where Holmes lit his pipe and maintained a thoughtful silence. I contented myself with a local newspaper until the hour for dinner arrived. My friend ate with more enthusiasm than usual, attacking his lamb and sprinkling it liberally with mint sauce. Our stewed apple dessert attracted less of his interest, but on completing our meal he called for two pints of good ale.
We returned to our former seats in the corner, and I noticed at once that he avoided any mention of or reference to our current investigation. This was a certain sign that Holmes had formed a theory, or perhaps more than one, and was testing them in his agile mind against the known facts. After a while he smiled and we reverted to discussing some of our old adventures, and to wondering what had befallen a few of our former clients. During our conversation our glasses had become empty and I made to signal the landlord, but my companion declined, saying that it was best that we retired a little early to be at our most alert in the morning.
I slept dreamlessly and woke to the loud crowing of a cock. By the time I had prepared myself and dressed I had heard movement outside my door, so I was not surprised to find that Holmes and one or two other guests were already taking breakfast as I entered the dining-room.
He greeted me cheerfully. “Good morning, Watson. I can recommend the kippers, if you are so disposed. Two of these and some toast should satisfy even your appetite until the time arrives for luncheon. As for me, I need nothing more except another pot of this strong coffee. Sit down, dear fellow, and I will summon the waiter.”
This he did, and I ate heartily. On finishing our coffee he rose at once. “I think we will enjoy a pleasant walk to Sir Trevill Bertram’s farm, as it is a bright and sunny morning. By now word of our presence will certainly have reached his ears, and I am curious as to the sort of reception we will receive.”
As my friend had observed the previous day, it was little more than a mile from where the High Street became a tree-lined country lane to the entrance to the farm. We were then confronted with an uneven path that boasted the impression of many cart-wheels, with fields to either side in which villagers busily picked crops. Pigs, cows and sheep looked up from feeding to peer at us as we passed, and other, more distant, fields contained goats and several fine horses. The path continued past a group of outbuildings, one of them appearing to be a dairy, until it brought us to bushes fashioned to the shapes of animals spaced around a circular lawn. Beyond that a Tudor mansion stood, almost engulfed in ivy to the extent that the windows appeared as eyes staring from behind a mask.
“This is a strange place, Watson,” Holmes remarked. “Observe the flags of many countries draped across most of the windows. I doubt if many men have travelled to such an extent. Also the suits of armour are, I would have thought, of too much value to a cultured man to be left outside to rust.”
I glanced about me, around the courtyard and the front of the house. “Mr Rampling, I recall, mentioned his employer’s bohemian ways, but this is not so much a home, as a museum.”
The door opened before we reached the top of the steps to reveal a smiling butler, a tall man most of whose hair had been sadly lost, who welcomed us.
“Good morning, gentlemen. You are here to see Sir Trevill, of course. He is not at home now, but is expected back soon. Allow me to show you to the drawing-room, where I will serve port while you wait.”
At his invitation we preceded him. He guided us to a room in which curtains hung half-drawn across tall windows and the furniture appeared fashioned from thick upholstered cane.
“Sir Trevill is evidently an explorer,” Holmes remarked.
“Ah, Mr Holmes, you have noticed that the chairs are from foreign parts, and some of the trophies suggest this, perhaps. He has travelled much over the years, unlike myself who has yet to leave these shores.” The butler bowed courteously. “My name is Morgan, gentlemen. If I can serve you in any way in my master’s house, you have only to mention it.”
“You know me, then?”
“Who has not heard of your most commendable fight against lawlessness?” He looked at me with kindly approval. “And of your excellent portrayal of these adventures, Doctor Watson. I confess to reading them as soon as they are published.”
“I am glad that you find them entertaining,” I replied.
“Oh, much more than that,” he paused as he heard the clatter of horse’s hooves from the courtyard. “But Sir Trevill has returned! He will be with you in a moment, I am sure, and I will serve drinks immediately.”
“A rather familiar butler, wouldn’t you say, Holmes?” I said when the man had left the room.
“He seems most content in his work, and lacks the aloofness that we are accustomed to.”
“Quite. He is certainly well informed as to our activities.”
“Doubtlessly your over-dramatic accounts of them have ensured this.”
I scowled my disapproval of this most out-of-place and unnecessary remark, as our host arrived. He did not immediately greet us, but stood still and silent in momentary appraisal. At the same time I made my own assessment of the man, concluding that he was of a most bohemian nature as we had been told. His riding clothes were of a colourful tweed, such as you would not expect to be used for that purpose, and his greying hair touched his shoulders. His moustache was of an unusual style, his beard unkempt and his thick eyebrows gave him an almost menacing appearance. Quite suddenly, he smiled and approached us.
“Mr Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson! Morgan informed me, a moment ago, that you were here. I have just returned from a ride around the farm. Please sit, and tell me how I can assist you.”
As we sank into two rather uncomfortable chairs, the butler entered with a tray. He filled three crystal glasses from a heavy decanter, handed them to us and departed. We sipped, and I tasted port of the finest quality.
“We have been summoned here by your late employee, Mr Ahab Rampling,” Holmes began. “He reported several suspicious deaths in the village, and was convinced that they were not accidental. If you, yourself, have any opinions on this, or any additional information, it would be of immense help in our investigation.”
Sir Trevill stroked his beard. “Rampling was an imaginative fellow, I often thought, but there has indeed been a surfeit of deaths hereabouts. As far as I am aware, neither Doctor Walgrave or Constable Jessop have found anything amiss, but the village is alive with rumours. Sometimes, one has difficulty in separating the truth from hearsay.”
“So I understand, sir. We have heard mention of witchcraft and curses, hereabouts.”
“Oh, that,” our host dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand, and replaced his glass on the tray. “Those stories have been circulating here since the area first became a settlement, I shouldn’t wonder. In particular, Barnabas Leary, the brother of one of the victims, is quite convinced of their veracity. In your place, gentlemen, I would discount such a consideration from my enquiries. The cause of the deaths of these poor unfortunates will probably become known in time, and will prove to be of a nature that is quite unexceptional.”
Holmes and I put down our glasses and rose as one.
“My thanks to you for your time and hospitality,” my friend said.
Sir Trevill smiled. “I fear I cannot have been of much help, but this interview I found most interesting. Pray feel free to visit my house again, should you acquire any insight on the situation that you feel you can share. Good morning, gentlemen.”
Morgan appeared at the drawing-room door as if summoned by magic, and showed us out. Outside, as we were about to descend the steps, he confided to us:
“You gentlemen have doubtlessly heard of the stories surrounding Sir Trevill, commonly discussed in the village. It seems to me that there are some ungrateful souls in the area, when consideration is given to the employment he has provided, as well as the produce from the farm that he has distributed freely.”
I was rather shocked by the man’s references to his employer, although they were in no way derogatory. Holmes, however, maintained a thoughtful expression, saying only:
“Rumours are an unreliable basis on which to build opinions or theories, I have found. I perceive that you are content with your duties here, and that Sir Trevill appears satisfied with you. A mutually satisfactory situation, evidently.”
The butler smiled and bowed as we turned away, and we soon found ourselves retracing our steps to Drewhampton.
“Sir Trevill seems like an amiable fellow after all, Holmes,” I said when we had left the farm behind.
“So it would doubtless have appeared, had he not lied.”
I slowed my pace and turned to him, aghast. “Whatever can you mean? I saw no deceit in the man.”
“As always, Watson, you saw as I did, but you did not observe. You will recall his mention of riding around his estate.”
“The farm, I believe he said.”
“Quite so. You will doubtless recall that the entire area, the farmland and the land surrounding the house, was composed of a reddish soil, possibly because of a heavy clay content.”
I nodded. “Indeed.”
“Then it is difficult to see how one of Sir Trevill’s boots could have had a fresh piece of black mud adhering to its sole, unless he had extended his ride a little further. When I add to this the rather defensive look he adopted as he explained his absence from the house, what am I to conclude, other than that he wishes to keep his wandering secret?”
“An assignation, perhaps? Possibly with one of the village girls?”
“That is certainly a possibility, but I dispensed with it because, to begin with, Sir Trevill must be in his late fifties. Also, he is aware of the dim view that some villagers have of him because of his supposed connection with witchcraft, even though no one can suggest a reason why he would wish harm to them. Why then, would he risk additional scandal that could cause some or all of his employees to seek positions elsewhere? Superstition is a powerful motivation, and I would wager that there are more than a few in the village that would prefer a longer journey to their work rather than the employment of a man they perceive as a wizard, let alone if he were also suspected of over-familiarity with their daughters. If sufficient resentment were caused, the farm could well face ruin.”
“What then, do you believe that he is concealing?”
We had by this time almost reached the inn. A cart, piled high with hay, made its way past slowly.
“That, we may discover tonight,” Holmes replied as we crossed the road opposite the entrance. “But, as it is time for luncheon, let us now eat and refresh ourselves. This afternoon we will seek additional information about Sir Trevill’s conduct from another source.”
#
During our meal I noticed that my friend’s eyes were now filled with a look that I was long familiar with. He had, I knew, begun to piece together the disparate elements of this case, recognising clues that were quite beyond me. After our long association I should have become accustomed to his ways, but there were still many times when I felt in awe of his intellect.
“What is it that you intend for this afternoon?” I enquired as we finished our meal.
He glanced around the dining-room to confirm that we could not be overheard. “You will recall, Watson, that Sir Trevill mentioned the brother of one of his tenants, Barnabas Leary. I am inclined to seek this man’s viewpoint on the deaths in the village, and on the reason for his suspicions.”
We rose then and made to leave, but Holmes waited until the waiter appeared. He asked the fellow a question, to which the answer was quickly forthcoming.
“So, Watson, we now know that Mr Leary resides at 9, Wheatsheaf Copse,” he explained. “In a small village such as this it is certain that a person’s business, and indeed where he may be found, is known to almost everyone. As with most destinations hereabouts, ours is within walking distance.”
A fifteen minute walk, in the opposite direction to that we had set out upon that morning, brought us to a lane that was awash with wild flowers. I wondered, for a moment, if this was the place we sought, but my friend confirmed this by peering beneath the heavily-leafed branches that obscured a sign-post.
“But there are no houses to be seen, Holmes. There are nothing but fields and animals within our sight.”
He viewed our surroundings. “Then we have no alternative than to follow this most scenic thoroughfare until we come upon some signs of habitation. Do not despair, old fellow, I have every expectation that around this bend will be the house that we seek.”
In no more than a minute, he was proven correct. After a short but brisk walk that took us around a long curve, the trees and flowers gave way to a cluster of about a dozen small dwellings. At our approach Holmes inspected the cottages and, finding no numbers, he counted from the first before rapping on a rather dilapidated door.
Presently it opened a few inches, and an eye peered out from the gloom within.
“Mr Barnabas Leary?” enquired Holmes. “My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my associate, Doctor John Watson. We would be grateful if you would spare us a few minutes of your time, sir.”
“What is this about?” The door opened further.
“As well as expressing our condolences regarding your brother, we would like to ask you about the owner of the farm hereabouts, Sir Trevill Bertram. He has featured greatly in our investigation into the sudden deaths that have occurred in the village of late, and we are given to believe that you hold that he is some way responsible. ”
Now the door opened wider, revealing a short elderly man with wild hair and a sullen expression.
“That man is a servant of the devil!” He exclaimed. “Who else can be the cause of Thomas’ death and of Ben Trafford’s wife’s passing, or that of Arthur Edmond’s sister, not to mention Mr Rampling and Matthew Collet? I tell you, three men and two women, all good and sturdy folk, have been taken from us.”
By now it was apparent that we were not to be invited into Mr Leary’s home but this, if it occurred to him at all, did not deter Holmes in his questioning.
“Pray enlighten us as to your reason for this accusation.”
“Thomas worked on the land for more than twenty years,” the old man growled, “and he always swore that Sir Trevill went out every evening to consort with a witch or to visit some sort of cult that worships the devil. He never told me how that became known or who confided it to him, but it’s been common knowledge around here for a long time and that usually means it’s the truth. I can tell you that there’s any number of folk who would leave his employ if they could but there’s no other estate within miles, and work on the land is all they know.” His tone calmed slightly. “In fairness though, I don’t think the wages would be as good, anyway.”
Holmes nodded thoughtfully. “And you cannot tell us how such a suspicion began?”
“There was a story that was heard in the village for a little while, some years ago,” Mr Leary remembered. “It was told by an animal doctor who was called to the farm to treat some sick cows. The way he put it, as he arrived one evening he walked from the station and, not being familiar with the village, went out of his way. Soon he saw a man enter the house of an old and evil-looking woman over on the Guilford Road. From what he said, it appeared as if they knew each other and acted quite familiar. The doctor stayed at the inn that night, where he related his experience to other customers who he had struck up a friendship with. The next morning he arrived at the farm and found, to his surprise, that the man he had seen the previous evening was none other than Sir Trevill!
“Now, Mr Holmes, when he was working late it didn’t take Thomas long to realise that his employer strode off in that direction every evening at about the same time, which was about eight o’clock. I know that us village folk are said to be simple and superstitious, but if you add to what I’ve just said to the well-known fact that Sir Trevill never is anything but prosperous, regardless of the richness of the harvest or anything else, and then you remember the saying that the devil looks after his own, it’s easy to see, isn’t it, how his reputation came to be?”
“Indeed, there is no mystery about it,” Holmes said wryly. “I thank you, Mr Leary. Your information has been most helpful. I would not be surprised if Sir Trevill’s activities were not clear to all, in the very near future. Good day to you, sir.”
We retraced our steps with Holmes saying little. He walked with his head upon his chest, as he always did when pondering the facts and inferences of a current case. When he began to give his attention to his surroundings, at first to the colourful variety of plants and flowers and then to the passers-by in the street, I ventured to interrupt his thoughts.
“I take it, Holmes, that you have dismissed Mr Leary’s viewpoint on this matter. It seems to me that he believes the superstition that has been attached to Sir Trevill, which appears to be little more than local gossip. I do not feel that we have learned much, here.”
Holmes nodded slowly. “Gossip, yes, although I do not always dismiss this a source of information. I think Watson, that we will return to the inn to spend an hour or two smoking peacefully, before dinner. Then we will set about ascertaining the true reason for Sir Trevill’s nightly excursions. I feel we must clarify his intentions before proceeding further, although I do not expect them to be in any way the cause of the villagers’ deaths.”
“You are quite certain that he is in no way connected with these occurrences, then?”
“I have been, almost from the first. Despite all opinions to the contrary I can see no reason for such actions, despite the mud on his boots that I noticed previously. However, our exercise tonight will either confirm or deny my suppositions”
I can recall making but one remark to Holmes, during a quite acceptable dinner which he regarded with little interest.
“There appear to be no hansoms around the village, but perhaps we can hire a cart for the evening.”
He laced his long fingers together, after pushing his half-empty plate away.
“Why ever should we do that, old fellow?”
“To follow Sir Trevill, of course.”
“That will not be necessary, I think.” He folded his napkin and placed it before him. “You will recall that Mr Barnabas Leary related that his brother often watched his employer as he strode off, on his nightly travels. From this we can expect that the journey is a short one. I’ll wager that the Guildford Road is quite near at hand.”
So it proved to be. We had hardly finished our coffee, before Holmes stood up with an expression of anticipation upon his face.
We set up a brisk pace as the light faded quickly, and by the time we had reached the farm darkness was complete. The place presented no difficulty as to our entry, for the wide gate was secured only by a latch that was within easy reach. We kept to the shadows, watching for any workers who might still be nearby, and hearing only the murmur of animal sounds and the sighing of the slight wind among the trees. When the house was in sight, my friend silently guided me away from the path.
“If Sir Trevill wishes to keep his excursions secret, he will doubtlessly leave by a back door,” he whispered.
Accordingly, we settled ourselves in the concealment of a thick bush that grew near both a rear entrance and the path that led further into the estate. Fortunately, the night was warm enough for us to be comfortable, and very soon we heard the faint chimes of the church clock in the village. I took out my pocket-watch and saw that the next fifteen minutes would bring us to eight o’clock.
Sir Trevill was indeed a punctual man, for he appeared exactly as the clock struck the hour. We crouched still as statues, holding our breath as his indistinct form marched past with the gravel crunching beneath his boots.
“Not yet, Watson. Wait.” My friend placed a restraining hand on my shoulder as I made to rise. When all sounds had ceased we rose slowly and I followed Holmes to the rear of the estate in close pursuit. The shadowy figure of Sir Trevill strode unhesitatingly ahead, and not once did he look back. Under the trees the darkness was dense, but Holmes seemed to see ahead with much more clarity than I. It was in far less time than I expected that we came upon a low fence, and after crossing a rather dilapidated stile found ourselves in a field edged by a narrow footpath.
We halted abruptly as Sir Trevill paused, for fear of becoming close. The cry of an owl, no doubt surprised at our sudden appearance, and the rustle of leaves intruded briefly into the silence. Then he continued until another stile confronted him, before crossing into the deserted Guildford Road.
Holmes held up a hand in a silent gesture, and we halted to watch Sir Trevill walk a final few yards to where a small cluster of cottages stood in darkness. We hesitated while he approached, and it was only as the door of the nearest of them was answered to his knock that we emerged.
“Good evening, Sir Trevill,” my friend called as we drew nearer.
The landowner turned towards us quickly. “Good heavens! Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson.” Then his expression clouded, as he was struck by realisation. "Did you follow me here, sirs?” He asked angrily.
Before either Holmes or myself could reply, the figure standing in the shadow of the doorway spoke softly to Sir Trevill. He answered soothingly, before returning his attention to us.
“I imagine that you gentlemen seek confirmation of the absurd rumours that circulate among my tenants. I know of the things that the villagers say about me but I have yet to discover their reason, if it is other than primitive superstition. Very well then, you shall have your explanation.” He paused and in that instant the shape before him moved, so that the meagre light from the candle within revealed a very elderly lady whose skin appeared yellowed and wrinkled like ancient parchment. Despite her obviously painful condition, she smiled at us as she was introduced as Miss Gwendolyn Stirk.
We replied courteously, and Sir Trevill continued.
“This lady is no witch, gentlemen. She is, in fact, my aunt. Her unfortunate condition is the result of nursing the poor in India, where she was for many years attached to a religious order. She has been a good and charitable women for all of her life, but now is in need of my help in order to survive. She chooses to live a lonely existence because she fears that the disease she carries might be passed to others, although I have attempted many times to persuade her otherwise since I am unaffected. Far from taking offence at the locals’ accusation, she finds them amusing. I, however, do not.”
An expression that I have rarely seen crossed Holmes’ face, to quickly disappear.
“Sir Trevill,” he said then, “I cannot but apologise for this intrusion, to both Miss Stirk and yourself.” He paused as I mumbled my concurrence. “But you will, I am certain, appreciate that my work demands that every avenue in question should be explored. By way of restitution I will, if you both agree, arrange for Sir James Saunders, the London dermatologist, to visit you, Miss Stirk, to make a thorough examination. I have some slight acquaintance with Sir James, and it is certain that this would take place before too long, and that he would quickly ascertain whether or not your fears are justified. I beg that you consider this.”
Sir Trevill looked to his aunt who, after some hesitation, nodded silently.
“Very well,” he said again. “We will discuss your proposition. If you would be so good as to call on me in the morning, I will tell you of our decision.” His long hair glinted in the poor light. “Goodnight to you gentlemen.”
#
We retraced out steps rather more slowly. I felt relieved to be back among the trees and surrounded by silence.
“I am afraid we have committed a cardinal error there, Holmes,” I said presently.
“Much to the contrary, old fellow. Everything has worked out exactly as I expected.”
I turned to him in surprise, hardly able to distinguish his shape in the gloom. “I cannot see how that can be.”
“It is really quite simple. As you know, I give no credence to the supernatural, so the elderly woman featured in the various reports concerning Sir Trevill’s night time visits seemed to me most likely to be either infirm or in some way ill. I could not of course define the exact circumstances, but I was reasonably certain that I would be able to offer assistance in the shape of one or other of the London specialists that have become known to me over the years. Had they declined my help I would have found some way to insist, and if they had made an immediate decision I would have suggested they sleep on it, for it was imperative that Sir Trevill invite us to call at his home tomorrow.”
I stopped, a little breathless, and placed my hand against a sturdy oak for support. “But what can we hope to discover? Is there more to Sir Trevill’s part in this, after all?”
“No, Watson.” Holmes stood a few feet away and lit his pipe, but you will recall the butler, Morgan.”
“Rather a forward fellow, I thought.”
“That is as may be, but did you notice the tattoo on his right wrist?”
I thought for a moment. “I seem to remember the mathematical symbol, known as “pi”, and concluding that he may have at some time been a teacher of that subject.”
“Not so, old fellow, but almost correct. In fact you have mistaken the Greek letter for a Mandarin character. In spite of his assertion that he has never left this land, this shows clearly that Morgan has at some time visited China.”
“But that design could have been applied to him anywhere. There are establishments in Limehouse that specialise in such things.”
“Indeed there are, but his tattoo came from the Orient.”
I smiled, but yet I knew that he would never joke about his observations.
“Holmes, how could you know that?”
“You will disappoint me, Watson, if you tell me that you have forgotten a previous client, Mr Jabez Wilson. If you remember, from my previous study of tattoos I was able to identify his as Chinese by its distinctive colouring. The same is true of that of Morgan. Examples from elsewhere have a lighter colour.”
“Yet he mentioned, for no apparent reason, that he has never been there, or to any other country for that matter. Yes, I see.”
“That is why, old friend, for the purpose of confirmation we will visit the tiny library that I observed next to that rather luridly-painted tea shop just off Drewhampton High Street. If we set off immediately after breakfast, we should still be able to reach Sir Trevill’s house quite early.”
In the library the following morning Holmes selected and began to pore over a volume about ancient Chinese medicine, while I contented myself with a back issue of a medical journal. Less than half an hour had passed before he stood up, closing the book and returning it to its place. Quietly, we thanked the librarian for his help in directing us to our chosen subjects, and immediately set off for our appointment with Sir Trevill.
“Did you find what you expected, Holmes?” I enquired.
“Exactly that. Everything is now clear to me. It remains only to send a wire from the Post Office, and my case is complete.”
We said little until we reached our destination. I knew better than to ask my friend about his discoveries in the library, or about his deductions. He would reveal all at the appropriate time, and that could not be far away.
Morgan positively radiated good humour as he admitted us.
“Welcome again, gentlemen. Sir Trevill forewarned me of your visit, and instructed me to see that you are comfortable until he returns from his ride. He will not be long. I would say no more than half an hour.”
We thanked him and allowed ourselves to be led into the drawing room as before.
“The truth is, Morgan, that on this occasion we are here to see you, as much as Sir Trevill,” Holmes said as we seated ourselves.
The butler’s expression went blank, suddenly. “Me, sir? How could that possibly be?”
“That I will explain presently. For now I will prevail upon you to bring to us the telegram that will arrive at any moment.”
Morgan bowed. “Of course, sir. Meanwhile I will bring porter and some of the seed cake that our village is famous for. I trust that will be acceptable?”
“Most certainly,” I answered, as Holmes nodded.
As soon as we were alone Holmes inclined his head to listen, I perceived, for the retreating footsteps of the butler.
“At all costs, Watson,” he whispered, “touch nothing. Do not eat as much as a crumb, nor drink a drop.”
I was about to reply when Morgan reappeared. He placed a laden tray before us, containing generous quantities of cake and port.
“I am most curious,” he said to Holmes, “as to what it is that you wish to speak of to me. I believe – but there is the door-bell ringing. Doubtlessly it is the telegraph boy.”
He left us again, and returned in moments. Holmes tore open the envelope held out to him on a tray.
“Now I will tell you,” he looked straight at Morgan with triumph in his face. “that I have concluded my investigation. There is but one unanswered question, which only you can settle.”
Some of the geniality had left the butler’s face. “Whatever could that be?”
“The reason why you have poisoned three men and two women in the village of Drewhampton.”
If we expected this to be received with some excitement, we were disappointed.
“I did not think of any of this as humorous, sir,” Morgan said calmly. “Allow me to cut you a piece of this seed cake, to sustain you until Sir Trevill’s return.”
“I imagine you knew,” Holmes continued, “from your travels in China, that the gu poison is obtained from venomous snakes which are imprisoned with lethal scorpions in a jar. The survivor of the resulting fights is used to obtain the substance which you have employed. No doubt you were a member of a cult that disposes of its victims in this way, either for revenge or money. I confess that I had no indication of this, until I eventually realised the significance of your tattoo.”
Morgan glanced at his wrist. “Surely you are mistaken.”
“The discovery that the same device has been the symbol of the cult from ancient times makes this unlikely, I think.”
“Gentlemen,” the tray was held within easy reach of both of us, “do try this cake. I find it quite delicious.”
To my amazement Morgan then took a slice and consumed it before us, a highly unusual liberty for a servant but, I suspected, intended to demonstrate that the cake was free of poison. It flashed across my mind that it could have been the act of a guilty man cheating the hangman, but he seemed unaffected.
“I will, I think, forego that pleasure,” Holmes answered.
At that moment several things occurred. Morgan’s expression changed as he accepted defeat. The mask slipped. The good humour vanished in an instant, to be replaced by the grim countenance and soulless eyes of a man who feels no remorse. Behind him I saw the drawing-room door open to admit Sir Trevill, who was accompanied by another. I started as I recognised Inspector Lestrade.
Morgan became very still as he realised that we were no longer alone. He turned his head slowly, and then his body seemed to sag before us.
“Good morning, Sir Trevill!” Holmes cried jovially. “I do hope you intend to accept my offer of last night. Ah, I see that Lestrade accompanies you! You have arrived remarkably quickly, Inspector. I commend you.”
Sir Trevill nodded but said nothing, as Morgan squirmed visibly under his condemning stare.
“I came as soon as I could, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade said. “Just managed to catch the morning train. I consulted the archives at the Yard, and had one of my men wire the Chief Constable of Surrey as you suggested.”
“I was right, then?” My friend enquired.
“Oh, you were, sir. It’s been five years now, but I soon uncovered the truth.”
“As I knew you would, Inspector. I take it that you happened to meet Sir Trevill on your way from the station, and recognised him from my description.”
“That I did. I explained to him some of what has been going on hereabouts, and he brought me here at once.”
“Capital! Perhaps you would care to elaborate on your findings, for the further understanding of Sir Trevill and Doctor Watson.”
Lestrade acknowledged me courteously, before he spoke. “The Northern Landworkers Bank robbery, of five years or so ago, was a dreadful affair. An official was shot dead, as were two police officers who attempted to arrest the robbers. The gang, five of them, fled south from Northumberland with the intention of taking a boat to escape to France. When this proved impossible because of the nation-wide manhunt and days of bad weather, they hid in various towns, always on the move, until they finally settled in Drewhampton.”
“Attracted by its quietness and because it is situated off the beaten track, so to speak,” I remarked.
“Exactly, Doctor. Each of the robbers found lodgings in the village, intending to remain here until things settled down. I regret that I have been unsuccessful in discovering whether any of the villagers concerned knowingly harboured the fugitives in exchange for money. This state of affairs might have continued for much longer had not a certain Mrs Molly Wixted somehow discovered the truth about them. She was a married woman from Kent, who had taken refuge here from a violent husband. One of the gang is thought to have murdered her, for she was found strangled after their departure.”
Holmes turned to Sir Trevill. “Was it not about this time when Morgan took up his position with you?” he asked.
“It was,” the landowner looked at Morgan through narrowed eyes. “His predecessor, Boone, had disappeared, failing to return from a short visit to his relatives in Bristol. After several days Morgan presented himself, explaining that he was a cousin of Boone who had died suddenly from a weak heart. I have not doubted this, until now. Morgan claimed that he, like several members of Boone’s family, was experienced in the profession, and so I accepted him on a trial basis at first, as a replacement. His references were impressive.”
“Forged, doubtlessly,” Lestrade said.
Holmes nodded. “Tell us then, Inspector, of the connection of Morgan to this affair.”
“This Mrs Wixted was his sister, and revenge for her death was the sole reason for his presence in the village, and for taking up employment with Sir Trevill. My enquiries have revealed that the first villager was murdered on the fifth anniversary of her death.”
“Thank you, Inspector,” Holmes said. “So you, Morgan, allowed a year to elapse for each intended victim. That, I imagine, was in order that your activities would not be connected to the events of five years ago. I am aware that you have travelled in the Orient where you became familiar with gu, a local poison much used by criminals thereabouts but unknown otherwise. How, by the way, did you administer it?”
Morgan raised his head from his chest, sullen-faced. “Since you and the inspector seem to have become acquainted with my plan, Mr Holmes, it can do no harm to tell you. One of my duties as Sir Trevill’s butler was to take messages and instructions to the farm and the adjoining dairy. It was a simple matter to ascertain which milk churns were to be delivered to the villagers who had harboured those robbers, and whose actions had led to my sister’s death, and then to add a little powder before they were sealed.”
“But two of your victims were women!” Sir Trevill exclaimed.
“They were incidental,” Morgan said contemptuously. “How was I to know if it was the man or the woman of the house who had allowed those murderers to remain there? To me, their punishment was equally satisfying.”
“You may yet cheat the hangman. It may be an asylum for you.” Lestrade murmured.
Morgan smiled crookedly, an expression that made his madness evident. “But you will prove none of this, in court. I have enough money saved for the services of the best lawyers in the land. What is my confession? A fairy tale that I invented to amuse you. Nothing more.”
“There is, I think, one piece of evidence that cannot be explained away easily,” Holmes asserted.
“Impossible! My plan was perfect.”
My friend went to the tray containing the seed cake. “It did not escape my notice that you were excessively anxious, as soon as you realised that I had identified you as the murderer of the villagers, to ensure that I consumed some of this cake.” He withdrew the knife that had sliced the confection and handed it to Lestrade. “I will wager, Inspector, that it will be found that the blade is smeared with the very poison that we have been discussing.”
“But Holmes, Morgan himself ate some of it.” I pointed out.
“It is a very old trick, Watson, dating as far back as the Borgias unless I am much mistaken. Only the unfortunate who partakes from some of the food is affected. The blade, you see, is coated on one side only.”
“Devilishly ingenious,” Sir Trevill gasped.
Lestrade stepped forward and firmly handcuffed Morgan’s wrists. “Come on, my lad. It’s the local lock-up for you, until the next train to London arrives.”
“That should be in precisely two hours and twenty minutes, Inspector,” Holmes said after consulting his pocket-watch.
“Thank you, Mr Holmes and Doctor Watson, for your assistance.”
“We are always glad to be of service. However, Watson, I perceive that you are about to mention that the time for luncheon approaches, and the inn is serving a particularly well-seasoned partridge. Perhaps, after your visit to the local station, you would care to join us, Inspector?”
