The Adventure of the African Prospector
From a reference in ‘The Blanched Soldier’.
I looked at my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes the consulting detective, curiously. He did not lift his eyes from the morning edition of The Standard, but adjusted his position in his armchair while blowing out a cloud of fragrant smoke. That did not prevent him from noticing my interest, however.
“I take it that it is my new pipe that has attracted your attention, Watson?”
“I was certain that I had not seen it before now.”
He looked up slowly, and from the other side of the empty fireplace I could see a glint in his eyes, or it could have been a reflection of the early summer sunlight.
“I received it in the first post, before you presented yourself for breakfast. It is a gift from someone who was of great assistance to me during my time in Montague Street. You may have seen mention of Sir James Saunders in the dailies from time to time.”
“The famous dermatologist? I recall that he had some success with identifying that outbreak in the northern counties, several years ago. But why would he have sent you a gift? Has the pipe some special significance?”
Holmes smiled. “No, old fellow, only that I once mentioned to him that I have a small collection. It was the accompanying letter that was of interest.”
“He requires your services, then?”
“Precisely, and I shall be glad to aid him in any way that I can, to discharge the debt that I owe him. It is a case of double-murder that he mentions.” He extracted his pocket-watch from his waistcoat and looked at it briefly. “I am to catch the mid-morning train for Gorhampton Priors within the hour. Pray pack an overnight bag, if you would care to accompany me.”
Having complied with this, I stood next to my friend on a rather crowded platform in Fenchurch Street Station within the hour. While in the hansom that had conveyed us from our lodgings I had noted that, as often on such occasions, he had brought no visible baggage. His requirements, he stated on more than one occasion previously, were no more than a clean collar and a toothbrush.
Our wait was short. Holmes had no sooner purchased our tickets than the train came to rest before us with a squeal of brakes and surrounded by wreathes of smoke. We were fortunate in finding a compartment to ourselves in the first smoker we approached, and I contained my curiosity with difficulty until the outskirts of the capital were left behind.
“I think, Holmes, that there is time for you to tell me something of what we are about to undertake, before we reach our destination,” I said then.
He settled himself in the seat opposite mine and produced his pipe, which he lit. I refrained from doing likewise, as I was more interested in discovering the nature of the task before us.
“The letter from Sir James was quite extensive,” he began as smoke swirled above him. “You may have wondered, Watson, why I did not show it to you. The reason is that I was uncertain of your participation after your recent bout of influenza, which I know taxed your strength severely.”
I have never doubted my friend’s concern, but I could not help wondering whether the nature of Sir James’ assistance, years ago, was a secondary reason why the letter had been withheld from me. Holmes had been unusually vague, as to the specifics of it.
“Pray do not concern yourself. I am fully recovered.”
“Excellent! My work would be of lesser satisfaction to me, without my Boswell.”
“Holmes,” I said as the train rattled over the points and took a new direction. “What is it that has caused Sir James to consult you?”
“Two of his guests have been murdered. The local force is mystified, and have concluded that the perpetrator is a vagabond who has been seen in the surrounding villages. They have therefore concentrated their enquiries in that direction and Sir James has indicated that he is grateful for that since he views the official detective, Inspector Winster Soames who I have never made the acquaintance of, as an incompetent idiot. It was after forming this opinion that he recalled my profession.”
“Were the visitors killed at the same time?” I asked, after considering for a moment.
“The murders occurred on the same afternoon, at a garden party held by Sir James.”
“When was this?”
“Three days past.”
“How were they committed?”
“It was arsenic poisoning, according to the police pathologist, administered in the wine that was served.”
“Did Sir James mention any additional features, or anything of peculiar significance?”
“He did indeed, and it is the reason why he could not confide completely with Inspector Soames.”
I raised my eyebrows. “What was it, then?”
“The element that attracted me at once. You see, Watson, Sir James is an excellent fellow, but he has always been possessed of a strong fear of becoming the subject of ridicule. When an event such as this occurs at his home it is disturbing enough, but when the perpetrator appears to be a younger brother who has long been thought dead, the resulting scandal to the family seems to him unendurable.”
“Did he actually see the murderer?”
“It appears that one of the victims saw a man looking down from a window. She spoke his name and pointed as she expired.”
“Was he seen by any of the others present?”
“Apparently only Sir James. Everyone else saw only a blank window.”
“Possibly it was a reflection or an illusion. It is known that this happens to death-bed cases occasionally before they pass from this life, although that does not explain what Sir James saw. At any rate, Holmes, this cannot be the truth of it. How often have you proved that so-called supernatural incidents are nothing but trickery?”
“Quite so, old fellow, and I fully expect the result of this investigation to be similar. However, I see from my pocket-watch that we have scarcely ten minutes left before we arrive at Gorhampton Priors Station, so I suggest that we continue this discussion later.”
He had made no mention of it, but Holmes must have telegraphed Sir James to indicate the time of our arrival, since a shining landau awaited us. The driver, who apparently had long been in service there, lost no time in cheerfully conveying us through a succession of leafy lanes until we came upon the open fields that surrounded Darkly Grange, Sir James’ ancestral home.
We soon found ourselves upon a wide gravel path, with tall bushes on either side. Someone with extensive knowledge of the art of topiary had shaped them expertly into various animal species.
The house was not at all as I had imagined. Holmes had mentioned that it dated from the time of the Tudors, but it was not typical of that style. Both wings appeared to have succumbed to the ravages of time and been removed, with obvious repairs to the main structure. What remained was a building of three storeys, the upper two boasting fifteen windows each and the ground floor bisected by an arch that was the entrance to the courtyard.
The driver brought the landau to a halt and we alighted. Before it had disappeared beneath the arch the massive iron-studded door swung open and a middle-aged man of average height descended the steps, obviously pleased to see us.
“Mr Holmes,” he shook my friend’s hand vigorously, “how good of you to come.”
“I am very glad to make your acquaintance once more, Sir James.” Holmes disengaged himself and gestured in my direction. “Allow me to introduce my friend and colleague, Doctor John Watson.”
Our host seemed equally glad of my presence, and quickly ushered us into the house. It was like many I had seen before, with oak-panelled walls surmounted by ancestral portraits and crossed swords. Suits of polished armour stood sentry-like in corners and niches. After being shown to our rooms by a butler who seemed unfamiliar with the configuration of the place, we joined Sir James for luncheon.
Our host proved to serve an excellent table, and chatted enthusiastically throughout the meal. I could sense that Holmes was growing tired of this prevarication and had, as was usual for him, consumed little.
“I understand, Sir James,” he said as our host paused to drink, “that you are experiencing some difficulty, the precise details of which you have not yet informed me. If you would care to elaborate, Watson and myself will be pleased to render what assistance we can.”
Sir James replaced his glass, suddenly more serious. “I have indeed found these last few days most trying, as has everyone here. Indeed, I can remember no time to compare.”
“Your letter mentioned the murders of two of your guests.”
“That was three days ago, at Lady Anne’s garden party. I still call it that, though my good lady passed on five years past. Mrs Margaret Feldeane, a widowed lady from the village, and her son, barely eighteen, keeled over and died near that bush you see there.” He gestured through the high window, across the lawn to a topiary shape of a hen. “Poor young fellow, about to enter the army too. Would have made a great name for himself, I’m sure.”
“It was arsenic poisoning, according to the police pathologist?”
“That was his conclusion. Fortunately, if I may put it so, only Mrs Feldeane and her son drank from the bottle. The wine was an Alsace vintage, known to be a favourite of hers and ordered specially. It was a startling and sad affair, but the strangest thing occurred after the poor lady collapsed.” He shook his head, incredulously. “You gentlemen cannot know it, but I had a younger brother, Gilbert, who was at one time engaged to Mrs Feldeane before he embarked upon an expedition to prospect for gold in Africa. Apparently she forced him to choose between her and the voyage and he chose, unwisely in my opinion, to depart. That was years ago, and he has long since been lost and given up for dead. The relevance is that she looked up at the house as she died, and cried out, ‘Oh, it is you, Gilbert!’ as she expired.”
“It is not unusual, Sir James,” I said then, “for the dying to experience visions of those they have known. I do not think we should place too much credence on the incident.”
He appeared no less perplexed, and hesitated before continuing. “I could accept that Doctor, indeed I heard as much from Inspector Soames, fool that he is. But I was with Mrs Feldeane and immediately turned to where she stared in her last moments.” He hesitated again. “It seems that I saw what no one else except she had noticed. For an instant I perceived but faintly, the face of my brother grimly observing us. Then it was gone.”
Holmes nodded slowly. “Did this – apparition, shall we call it? - appear to say anything, to gesticulate or move?”
“Not at all. It had vanished before I had realised what I was seeing.”
“Do you recall the window where it appeared?”
“Later, when some of the shock had passed, I returned to the garden and looked again at the back of the house. I would swear that the window where I had seen the vision is the ninth from the left side, on the second floor. Together with the groom and my new butler, Melhuish, I examined every room on both the first and second stories. Most of that part of the house lies unused, has done for a considerable time, but I can assure you that we discovered nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Has anything else of an unusual nature occurred in your household, Sir James?” Holmes asked after a moment. “Pray be precise as to details, however insignificant they may seem.”
Sir James pushed away his empty plate. “Now that you mention it, Mr Holmes, I suppose you could say that there has been rather a lot of activity at Darkly Grange recently. Usually, you know, we live quiet lives here, but I suppose everyone has their ups and downs.”
“Kindly elaborate,” my friend requested with a trace of impatience.
“Well, let me see. About two months ago I acquired a magnificent Cezanne. It is a self-portrait of the artist, but quite different from the famous one, as it shows him as a younger man. I have always collected art, and I consider this my crowning achievement. My cousin, Mr Erasmus Bartley was rather jealous, but that was not unexpected. He is a collector also, somewhat more fanatically so than myself. When I invited him to view the picture he offered to buy it, but it is not for sale.”
“I would be delighted to see it,” Holmes said surprisingly.
“Of course.” Our host continued, “Shortly afterwards, Rowens died suddenly. He was my butler for many years, and our local doctor thought it was his heart since it had troubled him previously. I had another visit from Erasmus about then, to repeat his offer. He lives not far away, a couple of miles over the hill at Mortley Manor, and this time he did me a bit of good. Poor Rowens was not yet cold, if you will forgive me for putting it like that, before Courtney replaced him at my cousin’s recommendation. It saved me the trouble of consulting an agency, references and all that. I was grateful to Erasmus at the time, but I’m not so sure now.”
“Courtney proved unsatisfactory?” I presumed.
“Not in his work. The fact is, he left Darkly Grange just before the garden party. I recall that it was the night after Mrs Feldeane and her son arrived. I intended them to stay for a day or two.” He spread his hands in an incredulous gesture. “The fellow just let himself out and went in the early hours!”
“Curious,” Holmes commented as the dessert arrived.
“I thought perhaps he had received word of a dying relative or something of the sort, but he could at least have informed me.”
“One would have expected so,” said I.
There was silence between us while we ate, my friend sparingly, until Sir James put down his spoon in conclusion.
“That, I believe, is all I can tell you. Except that Melhuish was subsequently supplied to me by the agency that I should have used in the first place. Oh, and there was the kitchen maid Alice, who I had to dismiss.”
Holmes leaned forward in his seat, his interest aroused further. “May I ask why?”
“I cannot tolerate dishonesty. Food and wine was missing from the kitchen four or five times. It wasn’t as if I didn’t pay the girl enough.”
My friend said little more as we drank our coffee.
“Sir James,” he began when our cups were empty. “There are clear indications that whoever is responsible for the deaths of Mrs Feldeane and her son is familiar with both your house and your visitors. Otherwise how, for example, did he know which window would best enable his victims to see him, and how was he able to identify the wine which Mrs Feldeane preferred? There are also other indications. It would be as well, I think, if I examined the back of the house from the exact spot where you and she stood at the moment of her passing, but first I would appreciate it if you would describe the other guests.”
“Since my wife passed, fewer of our former guests have attended. They are mostly my own friends now, such as Captain Tebbitt and his wife and Mr Jonathan Strider. Mrs Georgina Gough was also present, and Miss Crowther. Some of them brought friends with them who are unknown to me, as they have always been free to do. All of these reside either in the north of the country or, in the case of Mr Strider, in Plymouth. They usually stay for a night after the party and then return to their homes. I fear that the tradition will not be continued henceforth.”
We adjourned then to the garden as Holmes had suggested. Sir James indicated the place near the topiary hen where he had stood when he glimpsed the face at the window, and from there my friend examined the rear of the building. I saw the faintest smile pass over his face, but then he shook his head and I knew he had reached no definite conclusion.
“Very well,” he said then. “Perhaps, Sir James, you will now allow Watson and myself to see the Cezanne. I have always maintained an interest in art, at least since I was fortunate enough to see a Da Vinci when I travelled through Italy a few years ago.”
“Of course!” Our host’s face lit up at the mention of the subject that was so beloved to him. “Come this way, gentlemen.”
He led us back into the house and along a corridor that ran the entire length of the building. Before we had progressed halfway he stopped before a sturdy door and produced a key. We entered a dark and spacious room.
Sir James lit an oil lamp near the door, and then another, and we saw that we were surrounded by portraits of unsmiling gentlemen in various styles of attire.
“Your ancestors, presumably?” Holmes asked.
“They are, though the exhibition is incomplete.” Our host ushered us along the room until we were confronted by a large portrait that was unlike the others. “Here it is, my Cezanne. Magnificent, isn’t it?”
Holmes scrutinized it for several minutes. “The brushwork is exquisite. The detail, both in the features and the background, is unmistakeably his work. Many a collector, and indeed public galleries, must envy you this, Sir James.”
“Undoubtedly this is so, but while it remains in my possession it will not leave this room. I have considered leaving it to a museum upon my death, but for the moment the matter is undecided.”
“A noble thought, indeed.”
I, without Holmes’ enthusiasm, examined the collection as we retraced our steps. I reflected that his knowledge of art was yet another side of my friend that I had been unaware of until now. Over the years I had learned something of many of the facets of his personality, but evidently he could still surprise me.
“Are any of these portraits in the likeness of your brother Gilbert?” he enquired of our host as we returned along the aisle.
Sir James shook his head. “As far as I am aware there is but one picture of him as an adult in existence, commissioned a few months before Gilbert undertook the African expedition by Erasmus. It is still part of his collection.”
“Excellent! Would it be possible for us to accompany you on a visit to your cousin tomorrow? I have a mind to view his collection also.”
Our host looked rather taken aback at this unexpected request, but readily agreed. “You will find him an interesting fellow, though rather boorish in some of his ways. Do you know, Mr Holmes, he ran away and joined a circus before he was seventeen years old. When he eventually returned to the family it was as a man who had experienced many adventures. What a life he must have had!”
I caught a glance that told me that my friend had formed a theory, but knew he would say nothing until he felt the time was right.
“I wonder from where his love of art developed.”
“Perhaps it was inherited, as was mine. He used to tell us stories of his exploits. Once, when he had indulged in too many glasses of port, he related to Lady Anne and myself a saga of his involvement with a gang of art thieves in Paris during the circus’s visit there, but of course we never took him seriously. I am quite sure that many of his stories were exaggerated.”
We remained in that room for a considerable time, so that I became depressed by the closeness of its windowless walls. My two companions seemed unaffected, and the discussion continued with my occasional contributions. At last we emerged into the corridor, and Sir James consulted his pocket-watch remarking that, to his surprise, dinner would be served in little more than an hour.
“How time speeds by when you are absorbed,” he observed.
“Will tomorrow afternoon be convenient for our visit to your cousin?” Holmes asked him then.
“Oh, there is no need to make an appointment. Erasmus turns up here whenever the mood takes him, so he can hardly complain if we do the same.”
“Thank you, Sir James. I am confident that I will have some news for you afterwards.” He ignored our host’s look of pleasant surprise. “There is one more question I must ask you, if you would be so kind.”
“I am at your service.”
“It concerns Mrs Feldeane. Since you mentioned that your brother was once engaged to her, I presume that she once lived near here.”
“That is so. She grew up near the village. It could have been that she and Gilbert married in our local church on his return from Africa but, as you know, it was not to be.”
“And so, when he was declared dead she married another?”
He nodded. “After a respectable time had passed she wed Mr Andrew Feldeane, and moved to his family home in Northumberland.”
“But during her early life, did she have a close friend or confidante?”
Sir James looked puzzled for a moment, then: “Yes, of course. Miss Janet Crenthorpe. She is unmarried, and still lives near the village.”
“Then that is where me must go in the morning, if you will kindly furnish us with the address.”
Dinner was an elaborate and, for me, very satisfying meal. Holmes, as was usual for him, ate only a small proportion. This, I observed, was not only because of his poor appetite, but also because of his responses to Sir James’ enquiries regarding our past adventures. My friend was polite, as always, but guarded in his revelations. This continued further into the evening, when we smoked and drank brandy with Sir James in the library. Earlier than was our custom, we left our host in a jovial mood and retired.
We breakfasted alone, Melhuish having informed us that his master had risen early in order to supervise the repairs to stock fencing in the north pasture. He had not returned as we finished our meal and set off for Miss Crenthorpe’s house.
The village was near the edge of the estate, but easily within walking distance. Sir James had furnished us with precise directions and we came upon a group of thatched cottages near the vicarage, as he had described. At the end of the long wall of the Reverend’s garden stood a tiny house, white with black beams and a tall chimney. Holmes knocked lightly upon the door, which opened to reveal a woman of prim appearance with pince-nez perched on an aquiline nose.
“Good morning,” he began cheerfully. “I hope you will forgive this intrusion. My name is Sherlock Holmes, I am a consulting detective and would be grateful for a few minutes of your time.”
She gave us a worried look which softened quite suddenly.
“Why yes, I believe I have read of you.”
“My companion,” he indicated me, “Doctor John Watson, is fond of exaggerating my trifling successes in print.”
“It is an honour to meet you sir, but what brings you to me? Have I unknowingly committed a crime?”
“Nothing of the sort,” Holmes smiled. “We are making enquiries on behalf of Sir James Saunders, regarding the recent deaths at Darkly Grange. I believe you knew one of the victims, Mrs Margaret Feldeane, and it is she about whom we are seeking information.”
The pince-nez glinted as she nodded her bird-like head.
“My poor friend. We were close when she was Margaret Derrow, it is true, but I have seen little of her since her marriage. However, come in gentlemen, and I will try to assist you.”
We thanked her and entered into a narrow corridor leading to a spotless sitting-room. I saw at once that the furniture was perfectly positioned around the fireplace, and the tiny desk in the corner shone from much polishing. I concluded that, being unmarried, she poured her energies into maintaining an immaculate home, and possibly into service at the nearby church also.
When we were seated she offered refreshments, which we refused as we had not long eaten breakfast. She arranged herself upon a chair that faced us both with an expectant expression.
“Can you remember anything of Mrs Feldeane that could aid us in our investigation?” Holmes began. “For example, do you know of anyone who had reason to dislike her, or harbour hatred? I understand that this is an unusual request but, as you will appreciate, whoever is responsible for her death did not become so without reason.”
Miss Crenthorpe spent a few moments in thoughtful concentration, before shaking her head slowly. “Throughout our childhood and after, I can recall but one occasion when Margaret was involved in a heated exchange. We had walked a long way into the countryside and realised quite late in the day that we would not be able to return before dark. Margaret, after some thought, led us through the forest on Lord Northingham’s estate because that would shorten the distance by a few miles. We had the misfortune to meet the gamekeeper, Grimforth, always an unpleasant fellow, who was quite rude. Margaret told him what she thought of his attitude in no uncertain terms, and after the oaths he directed at us he troubled us no further. Apart from that incident, her disposition was always calm and placid, inviting no animosity from anyone.”
“Was there anything about her behaviour that might have caused offence to her friends or neighbours, however accidentally?”
This time Miss Crenthorpe needed no time to consider.
“Nothing,” she answered immediately, “and as she grew older that became less likely still.”
“Why do you say that, Miss Crenthorpe?”
“Because of her health. She became prone to seizures, which would strike when she grew anxious or excessively concerned.”
“Was the cause ever identified?” I asked.
“Not with any certainty. She saw several physicians over the years. One concluded that her heart was defective, another that the blood supply to her brain was periodically interrupted. Still others put forward opinions that were less conventional.”
I glanced at my friend and saw understanding written on his face. After several more questions and a short but friendly conversation we thanked Miss Crenthorpe and left. We had walked almost to the edge of Sir James’ estate when I broke the silence between us.
“I cannot see that we learned much Holmes, except for a little of Mrs Feldeane’s life that seems unconnected to our investigation.”
“Much to the contrary, old friend. Until now the purpose of the apparition had eluded me, but no more. As each piece of the puzzle presents itself, the picture becomes clearer.”
He then launched into a detailed description of some of the habits of the birds who flittered among the trees around us, which I knew was his way of deflecting more of my questions. When we reached Darkly Grange we were ushered into the sitting-room by Meluish, to find Sir James awaiting us.
“Gentlemen,” he said as we entered, “I have good news. A telegram from Inspector Soames has arrived, in advance of his intended visit tomorrow morning. It seems the fellow who killed poor Mrs Feldeane and her son has been arrested in Braintree. Perhaps I misjudged the inspector, after all.”
Holmes accepted a glass of port as I had done, and we settled ourselves in comfortable armchairs.
“I regret that I am unable to agree, Sir James. However, the inspector’s visit will be most timely, since I expect to have the real villain in readiness for him by then.”
“Are you certain, Mr Holmes?” our host put down his glass wearing an incredulous expression.
“There can be no doubt of it.”
“But that means that this poor fellow who Soames has arrested is innocent.”
Holmes nodded. “He is, in fact, the second innocent to suffer in this affair.”
“Who is the other unfortunate then?” I enquired.
“The maid who you dismissed for stealing food, Sir James. She was quite blameless.”
The dermatologist appeared totally shocked. He attempted a few words, but then gave up and drained his glass before he was able to respond.
“I am not usually such a poor judge of character. Again I ask if you are confident in your conclusions.”
“They are simple enough to verify. I take it that your cook is at present engaged in preparing luncheon?”
“Of course. It will be served in less than an hour.”
“If you will summon her, I will not detain her for long.”
“Very well.” Sir James rang for Melhuish, who was promptly despatched to the kitchen. After a few minutes a stout but pleasant woman appeared, with all the indications of one who is both hot and busy.
“You called for me, Sir James?” She said, with respect.
“Yes, Martha. Pray answer a question or two from Mr Holmes.”
She turned to us, and Holmes spoke in a kindly voice.
“Pray do not be alarmed, Martha. You are aware that the maid, Alice, was dismissed for stealing food?”
“Yes sir.”
“But since then, is food still disappearing?”
She looked nervously at Sir James, then at the carpet at her feet. “It is. Sir.”
“Then why have you not reported this?”
“I did not wish to be blamed sir, as Alice was.”
“You need have no fear, Martha,” Sir James said then. “It appears I have some restitution to make, since I have punished an innocent girl.”
Our host was unusually quiet during luncheon, doubtlessly regretting his recent treatment of Alice or speculating who was likely the guilty party. When the meal was over he called for the landau to take us to Mortley Manor. The conversation during the journey was almost exclusively between Sir James and myself. Holmes sat beside me brooding, or perhaps reviewing the facts he had gleaned from his observations. He was oblivious, I knew of old, to the beauty and freshness of the fields, flowers and trees around us.
Quite suddenly, our driver turned our conveyance into a grove of tall oaks. These screened out the afternoon sunlight, so that the only illumination was from the remaining narrow strip of sky directly overhead. I saw deer watching us cautiously from concealment, and squirrels scampering along leafy branches. Further afield, sheep were dotted about the landscape.
The landau came to rest before a sturdy door that opened at once. A tall man, remarkably young, I thought, to occupy his position, stood waiting. We alighted and Sir James approached him.
“Good afternoon, Farquar. I have brought these gentlemen, who share the interest of your master and myself, here to see his collection. If you would be so good as to announce us.”
The butler frowned. “I can do nothing but apologise, sir. The master is away.”
“I am surprised. Do you know when he will return?”
“He did not say, he indicated only that he could be away for a week at most.”
I glanced at Holmes, and saw an expression that told me that he had anticipated this.
“Did he mention his intended destination?” asked Sir James.
“Not to me, sir,” Farquar adopted a mildly conspiratorial tone, “but I did chance to hear him mention to the cook that he had some legal business to attend to. He did not say where, however.”
“I understand,” our host said. “Look, will you allow us to see Erasmus’ collection in his absence? I am quite certain that he would raise no objection.”
Farquar hesitated.
“It would be a pity to have come so far to see such splendid work, only to be disappointed,” my friend remarked sadly.
The butler made his decision, smiling. “I am sure the master would be glad to accommodate you gentlemen. Please come in. I will take you to the gallery.”
In contrast to Sir James’ collection, the portraits here were displayed openly along a wide corridor. Holmes peered at each as we passed.
“Many of these are ancestral, as are your own, Sir James. Some of the subjects are the same.” He reached the end of a long display, and stood thoughtfully. “Others are unknown to me. Pray indicate the likeness of your brother, Gilbert.”
Sir James stood back and looked along the wall and back, then did so again. “I cannot see it, Mr Holmes. I imagine that Erasmus has sent it away for restoration or cleaning.”
“Yes, of course. It must be that.”
We spent a further forty minutes in the gallery, during which my friend surprised me by putting his face to the wall several times in order to see beneath the ornate frames. When we were once more aboard the landau, the driver, who was noticeably less talkative than on our arrival, set off at once.
Holmes said nothing, but I detected an air of satisfaction about him as the green fields again sped by. I sensed Sir James’ expectancy increase, as did my own, until he could bear the silence no longer.
“Well, Mr Holmes, did you learn anything from our visit?”
“Nothing that I did not expect to find, Sir James.”
“Such a pity that your cousin was absent,” I remarked to our host.
Holmes smiled faintly. “I would have been surprised to find him in residence.”
“He did not inform me of his intention to be away.” Sir James looked perplexed at Holmes’ remark, but did not pursue it. “What will you do now?”
Holmes consulted his pocket-watch. “I must examine the second floor of Darkly Grange with your permission, Sir James. There is, I think, time enough for that before dinner.”
So it was that, half an hour or so later, Holmes and I stood alone in a dusty corridor.
“You will see, Watson, that the floor tells us of recent habitation here, although some effort has been made to conceal the footprints in the dust. Now,” he produced a measuring-tape from his pocket, “if we count nine rooms from the right, or the left as it was when viewed from the garden, we will see what can be learned.”
He then sank to his knees and crawled four doors to the left of the selected position, and then four to the right, always measuring the distance between them. Finally, he got to his feet and put away the tape before brushing the dust from his clothes.
“What have you discovered?” I enquired, having noted that the open doors revealed that the rooms were empty.
“It really was most skilfully done,” he said after a moment. “The intricate pattern all along the walls within is an effective additional concealment. I imagine the original intention was to hide priests from the wrath of reigning monarchs who disagreed with the religion of this household.”
“You are referring to some concealed space?”
He pointed to the skirting-board. “You see, Watson, the width of every window is slightly less than that of its neighbour. This is so much so that, at this point, there is sufficient left-over space for another narrow room. There is no indication of that from here, but an additional window looks out upon the garden.”
“If you are correct, Holmes, then where is the entrance to this hidden chamber?”
He went into the rooms at either side of the chosen position and rapped upon the walls. After a moment he returned.
“Somewhere nearby is a sliding panel or trapdoor. It must be of substantial construction, since testing the walls brings no result. However, the time has arrived for dinner, I think. Sir James will be curious as to our absence.”
In fact, both Sir James and I said very little throughout an excellent dinner of locally-caught bream, and I considered that this was because some sort of explanation from Holmes was expected but not forthcoming. I knew that it was my friend’s custom not to reveal his conclusions until he was ready, but Sir James had no such familiarity with him. Holmes seemed to sense this, and after the dessert of strawberries and cream was served he spoke to our host in a calming voice.
“Have no fear, Sir James. I confidently expect to put this matter to rights before another day dawns. You may depend upon it.”
Sir James nodded agreeably, doubtlessly remembering from his previous encounter that Holmes was invariably as good as his word. From that moment the atmosphere seemed to lighten somewhat, and after coffee we sat for a while smoking cigarettes. The evening drew on until midnight was little more than an hour away, and it had long been dark before we finally rose to retire.
The servants had extinguished most of the lights as we approached our rooms. I had my hand on the door-handle, but Holmes shook his head.
“Not for us yet, Watson. We have work to do.”
I followed him to the stairs and we crept to the second floor. Our footfalls made no noise as we groped our way to our earlier position and waited silently in the darkness.
On many of our previous adventures, I have accompanied my friend on a vigil such as faced us now. Because of the darkness and silence, and much against my will, these interludes are a constant fight against falling asleep. The cramp that sets into my war wound from long immobility is a difficulty also. Holmes, however, always appears immune from both. His stillness is that of a statue, and his breathing I cannot hear. When he speaks it is in the lightest whisper, and very infrequently.
We were able to seat ourselves upon the long empty chest that stood opposite the yawning darkness of the open doors. I sensed that Holmes was fully alert and constantly shifting his attention from one room to the next. By my estimation at least an hour had passed, during which the only sounds had been the faint ringing of a bell that I presumed emanated from a distant monastery or convent, and an occasional scuttling of rats somewhere within the house. I found myself battling against a persistent drowsiness, until I was startled by words spoken so quietly that they were hardly more than an intake of breath.
“Did you hear it, Watson? It came from the room on your right.”
I had heard nothing, but Holmes’ sharp ears had not failed him. Seconds later, I heard a scraping noise, as of an ill-fitting door opening.
“Keep your hand on your weapon,” he whispered then. He rose and entered the room like a shifting shadow, and I followed.
An entire section of the wall we faced moved slowly and horizontally out of sight. The cavity exposed was almost the height of the room, and the dim glow from within was extinguished immediately. We stood still and silent, our weapons drawn as a vague figure stepped out and moved unknowingly towards us. Holmes opened his dark lantern, startling the man who was revealed.
“Make no attempt to escape,” my friend commanded, “we are both armed.
The figure was still at once, but made no sound.
“Watson, enter the secret room and light the oil lamp that our friend here extinguished a moment ago, then tell me what you see in there.”
I complied at once. The lamp was easily found atop a stool near the entrance. I lit it with a vesper and was at once surprised, as the room was of much greater size than I had imagined.
“There is dust everywhere,” I began, “but I see the remains of several meals scattered across the floor together with wine bottles that appear to be full of water. A portrait is propped against the wall near the window.” I held up the lamp. “The section of wall that formed the concealed entrance is of solid wood, and was manipulated by a system of pulleys. Oil has been applied recently.”
“That will do, old fellow. I seem to have been correct in my suppositions, although there is still much to learn from this man. Come out of there and we will find a more convenient place to question him.”
I left that evil-smelling place and held our prisoner at gunpoint while Holmes secured his hands with police handcuffs. Descending to the ground floor was slow and uncertain, I preceded the restrained man and Holmes held his revolver at the ready behind him.
“In here.” Holmes opened a heavy door in the corridor. It led into a small room that contained nothing but an ornate table and three chairs. I realised that he must have foreseen the situation and possibly described it to Sir James. I guarded our prisoner while Holmes lit two oil lamps and extinguished his dark lantern.
“Sit there, Mr Erasmus Bartley.” Holmes directed him to the single stiff-backed chair positioned on one side of the table, as we took our seats opposite. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am a consulting detective and my companion is Doctor John Watson.”
“He is Sir James’ cousin?” I queried with astonishment.
“Who else could he be, Watson, when everything is considered? When I learn that the tormentor and murderer of Mrs Feldeane knows of the concealed room in this house, is familiar with its history and her former engagement to Sir James’ brother and is in possession of a portrait of him, what other conclusion can there be?” He placed his weapon upon the table, but near his hand, and looked sternly at our prisoner.
“Since you have spoken not a word since we encountered you emerging from your hiding place, I presume you intend to maintain your silence?”
Mr Bartley said nothing and avoided Holmes’ steely stare, fixing his eyes upon the table-top.
“Very well then, since you will reveal nothing of this affair, I will relate it to you as I see it. You are at liberty to correct me, if I stray from the truth.”
Holmes and I glanced at each other. Our prisoner did not move.
“Firstly, you knew of the forthcoming garden party well in advance,” Holmes began, “although it was not your custom to attend. You had made your plans. I am aware that you were responsible for the death of Rowens, Sir James’ butler, though I have yet to discover how. You then recommended Courtney, who was yourself in disguise, to replace him.”
“How is that possible?” I asked.
Holmes allowed himself a brief smile. “Observe the traces of theatrical make-up remaining on Mr Bartley’s face, Watson. He has had no opportunity to remove them, and you have surely noticed that his clothes are those of a butler. You will recall Sir James mentioning that his cousin once joined a circus, where he doubtlessly learned the art of changing his facial appearance.”
“He also impersonated Mrs Feldeane’s former fiance, Mr Gilbert Saunders, then?” I ventured.
“Not so, old friend. Having poisoned the wine that he knew she would drink, he realised that he had no means of determining when she would take it. The delicate balance of her health was known to him. He therefore arranged for an appearance of her former fiance to induce a seizure such as she suffered when shocked or suddenly startled. This was achieved by a momentary display of Mr Gilbert’s portrait at the window, but he was not quite quick enough in removing it since Sir James also glimpsed the image.”
I stared hard at Erasmus Bartley. “That was callous, sir. I hope you are now suitably ashamed.” The obvious question then occurred to me. “But why was it necessary to kill Mrs Feldeane and her son? What harm could they have done to you?”
He made no response, other than to lower his head further so that only his crown was visible to us.
“The answer to that question is a simple one,” Holmes explained. “You will recall that Sir James stated that his guests were mostly from afar. Mrs Feldeane and her son then, were the only ones likely to recognise ‘Courtney’ as, in truth, his cousin.”
“And the portrait was from his collection at Mortley Manor, and the true reason for our visit there,” I realised.
“Precisely. He was careful enough not to leave an empty space among his pictures upon the wall, but by looking beneath them I saw marks suggesting that one had recently replaced a portrait of a slightly smaller size. That, and the fact that he had been absent for a while, confirmed the supposition that I had formed.”
“But,” I objected, “all this means that three people have died in order to allow and preserve this man’s impersonation of a butler in his cousin’s house. Holmes, what can be the reason behind this?”
“Have you not realised yet? It is the Cezanne. Sir James would not sell it, so his cousin devised a rather elaborate means to obtain its possession.”
Erasmus Bartley raised his head, and stared at us with eyes that held a strange expression. His blunt, unshaven features held no hint of fear or regret, but a crafty smile lingered upon his lips.
“I have always known,” he began in a hoarse and indifferent voice, “that it was likely that the hangman would end my life.” He stared directly at Holmes. “You, sir, are a man of some ability, to have reconstructed my actions and intentions with such accuracy. As you may know, I never married, for that would have satisfied neither of the two passions that have always dominated me. The first, as you have deduced, is art. I crave for the exquisite works of the Masters as some men crave gold, and have pursued their possession with no less determination. In my home there are far more examples than those you have seen, and well hidden. Oh yes, I have stolen, blackmailed and killed to acquire those sources of satisfaction and fulfilment. Some would refer to my enthusiasm as obsessive. I consider it as of no account that it is my cousin who is the owner of that wonderful portrait. Such an accident of birth in no way alters my intent. I would have taken the Cezanne without harm to him or the others hereabouts if that were possible, but otherwise…..”
“You would have murdered your cousin?” I asked as he paused.
“Is that not your second passion?” enquired Holmes. “Murder?”
The furtive expression intensified. “The killing of my fellow man, or woman, on occasion? Yes, it has always filled me with a joy and satisfaction that I could not describe to you. As a young man I joined a circus because I felt the county police were getting close to discovering that I was responsible for several deaths that occurred in the area, and of course my travels as a clown or acrobat provided many opportunities abroad. As for Rowens, who you were concerned about, a fine needle inserted in the base of his skull produced his unexpected demise rather more quickly than I would have liked, but then it was experimental. I always enjoyed trying new methods, especially those of my own invention.” He raised his manacled hands to brush away a lock of lank hair. “But, make no mistake, gentlemen, I have suffered for my extravagances. Awaiting my chance in that hidden room that I had known about since a childhood exploration, breathing the foul air and creeping about this place to take food from the kitchen in the early hours was not the least of it. But it was necessary, and but for you I would have taken a prize to be the pinnacle of my collection.”
I was about to remark that the future held for him, at best, the remainder of his life in an asylum, when the door opened. Our heads turned to see Sir James, wearing a dressing-gown over his nightshirt and holding a lantern, framed in the entrance.
“Mr Holmes, I could not sleep so….” He stopped abruptly as he saw our prisoner. “Good heavens! Erasmus, why are you restrained” Then the truth of the situation became obvious to him, and he groaned heavily. “Oh, my God, no.”
“I regret, Sir James, that this is indeed the outcome of my investigation,” my friend replied. “When he arrives, Inspector Soames will have little to do, other than make the arrest and accompany Mr Bartley to the local police station. As for the African prospector that Mrs Feldeane and yourself glimpsed at the window that day, I am afraid that he remains lost to you.”
