A Farewell to Baker Street (10 page)

I smiled and could not help interrupting. “A question similar to the one I asked of Holmes only half an hour ago, Inspector! Cuneiform is a type of symbolic alphabet I'm told.”

There was a loud knock on the door and all three of us turned sharply. Brendan Stevens entered the room and announced, apologetically, that a local doctor had arrived to examine the body. Lestrade took it upon himself to leave the room and explain to the doctor that his services would not be required after all. While he was absent, Holmes was candid in his observations. “I do not know what conclusions you may have drawn, Doctor, but for me, the case seems straightforward until we get to the question of these two notes in the wallet.”

I agreed wholeheartedly and added, “Yes, this does not strike me as any sort of suicide. It is quite clear that he cracked his head on the edge of the desk. There is a mark and a few strands of hair still on the desk to indicate where he fell and I would say that he has broken bones down his right side which suggest that he fell with some force. Do you think he could have been pushed?”

“Not a chance, Watson. You are right - he did fall heavily against the desk. In fact, he fell from the height of the chair. I would suggest that he lost his balance while on the chair and fell backwards.”

“He was on the chair?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes, in the process of swatting a bee. Hence the reason he had his lecture notes rolled up in his hand. And it appears that he was successful.” He withdrew from his pocket the small matchbox he had used earlier. Inside I could see the crushed dead body of a honey bee.

“Remarkable! Perhaps he suffered from the effects of bee and wasp stings,” I added. “I seem to remember that last year two physiologists, Paul Portier and Charles Richet, wrote papers describing the phenomenon of
anaphylaxis
, or the allergic - sometimes life-threatening - reaction that humans can have to foreign proteins they are exposed to. If he did suffer from it, his fear of bees would have been exaggerated. But why would he have fallen? He looks to have been physically fit and of no great age, and I am sure that his archaeological fieldwork would have kept him active. Would he really have lost his balance?”

Holmes was quick to respond. “Yes, Watson. All of what you say is likely to be true, but then you are forgetting the curious feature we both noted earlier.”

“The carpet slippers?”

“Indeed. Now, why would he choose such footwear, not just to travel in, but to deliver a high profile public lecture?”

“It can only be for want of comfort,” I replied, seeing where he was heading.

“Exactly! Now, let us examine his feet to see what may have been ailing him.”

Responding to Holmes' lead, I knelt once more beside the body and carefully removed the black carpet slippers and the thin pair of black socks underneath. Looking at the two bare feet alongside each other, it was readily apparent that Dr Canham-Page did indeed have a foot condition. While his left foot showed no apparent deformities, the top of his right foot was swollen to an extent which rendered it much larger than the other.

“Interesting, Holmes. See the prominent bump along the top of the arch? Our man was suffering from
saddle bone deformity
. A condition caused by the excessive growth of bone material on the top of the foot. There is a gradual onset of the deformity which can afflict sufferers from their mid-twenties. Of itself, the condition does not produce much sensitivity, but the excessive rubbing of the skin on the top of stiff shoes would be extremely painful. Looking at the extent of this growth, I would say that Canham-Page has suffered with this for many years, and can only wear loose or soft-fitting footwear.”

“So, potentially, the tightening of the slippers on his feet as he reached up and out to swing at the bee would have been excessively painful, causing his legs to buckle underneath him.”

“I would say that is entirely possible.”

At that point Lestrade re-entered the room and looked at us quizzically. “Now, now, Mr Holmes. You have that look on your face which suggests that you know something I don't. What have you discovered in my absence?”

Holmes chortled. “There is no keeping anything from you, Lestrade. I was just saying that I am firmly of the belief that this death was an accident. Dr Canham-Page appears to have fallen from the chair while in the process of killing a bee. Watson was suggesting that he may have had a deep-seated fear of bee stings and possibly even a severe medical reaction to them.”

Lestrade looked unconvinced. “I see. But I thought we were talking about a possible suicide. What about this suicide note? It looks pretty convincing to me.”

“Inspector, it strikes me that falling off a chair backwards in an attempt to hit one's head on the edge of a desk is just too far-fetched for anyone contemplating suicide. And as for the note, I think it has some other meaning or significance which has not yet become clear. I have studied the list of cuneiform symbols and the first in particular. I am not an expert, but this appears to be an obscure offshoot from the primary list of symbols developed over time by the Sumerian people. From the one or two symbols I do recognise, this looks to be a simple list of the key ingredients required for a good harvest - water, barley, long days and warm sunshine.

On listening to this my curiosity was aroused. “Could I see the notes?” I asked.

“Certainly,” replied Lestrade, and passed both across to me. I laid them out on the desk. The first was the note containing the handwritten list of symbols. It read:

“I take it that this is Canham-Page's handwritten copy of some of the Mesopotamian cuneiform we would have heard about this evening?”

“Yes,” said Holmes, “the ink is the same as that used on the supposed suicide note, which is actually signed by him and addressed to a Dr Eversley. It appears to make some reference to the first cuneiform symbol, as if that may have been some sort of key to unlock a wider academic mystery.”

I turned my attention to the second note, again laying it out on the desk. This one read:

Dear Dr Eversley,

I have checked the first cuneiform as you suggested, and it does appear to be the key to the mystery. I know I can't go on like this. At times, the pain is just too acute. Action must be taken.

Yours,

Dr Henry Canham-Page

I smiled broadly as I read the note. “My dear Holmes. For once, I think I can solve this particular mystery for you! This is not a suicide note at all. I thought I recognised the name. Dr Colin Eversley lives and works not half a mile from Baker Street. He is a doctor, but not in an academic sense. Like me, he is a medical practitioner. But, unlike me, he has chosen to concentrate on a very specific area of treatment. Dr Eversley is a chiropodist and has taken a lifelong interest in the treatment of feet. Before his lecture this evening, Dr Canham-Page had clearly penned a quick note to Eversley. The pain he refers to is the result of his
saddle bone deformity
which has got to the point where treatment is necessary. Dr Eversley had obviously suggested a quick check prior to his client's first consultation. If I tell you that the medical name for the condition is
metatarsal cuneiform exostosis
, I think all will become clear.”

Holmes beamed at the pronouncement. “Watson, you have excelled yourself! So, the ‘first cuneiform' referred to has nothing to do with the second note or any ancient symbolism?”

“Nothing whatsoever. The medial cuneiform - also known as the
first cuneiform
- is the largest of the foot bones. It is situated at the medial side of the foot, to the front of the navicular bone and at the base of the first metatarsal.”

“Well I never! bellowed Lestrade. “So a case of bad feet caused him to fall off a chair.”

“So it would seem, Inspector - and no great mystery, after all. That said, I think Dr Watson deserves full credit. I was saying earlier that there is no shame in admitting to a lack of knowledge in a specialist subject. Watson's extensive medical training is way beyond my layman's understanding and has proved to be conclusive in this case.”

“Hear, hear!” echoed Lestrade. “And thank you, gentlemen. Once again you have helped me to sort out what could have been a tricky case. I will explain to the library staff what has occurred and arrange for the body to be taken away. I am sorry you both missed out on your lecture this evening.”

“There is no need to be concerned, Inspector. It is still early and I feel that Watson deserves a decent meal and a bottle of the finest red Bordeaux. I think we will therefore retire to the
Café Royal
for some French cuisine. If you are able to finish your shift at a reasonable time this evening, you are more than welcome to join us.”

“That is kind of you, Mr Holmes, but I fear I have a long night ahead. Not that I will be having many more of those beyond this month. It seems only fair to tell you that I am retiring in a few days' time. I have been with Scotland Yard since I was sixteen and it is now time to call it a day. Mrs Lestrade and I have purchased a small cottage down in Kent, close to her relatives, so I think a country life beckons.”

Both Holmes and I were surprised to hear the news, but pleased for the hard-working detective. We wished him the very best in his retirement and thanked him for his assistance in the many cases we had enjoyed together over two decades.

That evening, as we sat in the elegant interior of the
Café Royal
, Holmes proposed an unexpected toast. “To Inspector Lestrade - a fine officer and one who will be sorely missed.”

I raised my glass at the worthy tribute. It was just another sign that time was marching on and none of us were getting any younger.

5.
The Trimingham Escapade

Many of you will know that Sherlock Holmes lived out the final few years of his extraordinary existence well away from the hubbub of London and tending to his beloved bees on a quiet smallholding on the South Downs in Sussex. What is less well known is that he did, with occasional outbursts of energy and enthusiasm, continue to employ his talents on a small number of the more baffling and challenging criminal cases that were still being presented to him on a regular basis. One of these was a convoluted commission which Holmes took on in 1926 at the age of seventy-two. It was the last case we worked on together, so I have always looked on it with some affection. As such, it seems fitting that I should now record the details of what occurred that particular summer.

As had often been the case, my involvement in Holmes' investigation occurred more by accident than design. I had been visiting my dear friend on a radiant sunny day, having decided to take my new 3-litre Bentley touring car on its first excursion outside the capital. With little risk of rain and a full tank of petrol, I had cruised through the picturesque landscape of lowland heath, ancient woodlands and chalk grasslands to reach Holmes' modest farm near Saddlescombe in time for a light luncheon of salad and home-grown new potatoes.

Holmes was overjoyed at my visit, telling me about his new-found love of astronomy and his recent purchase of a powerful telescope, enabling him to explore for the first time the wonders of the solar system. Like a child with a new toy, he insisted on being taken for a spin in the Bentley and marvelled at its speed and comfort. I had rarely seen him more spirited. Yet, when we returned to the farm to find a black Austin Twelve parked outside his humble cottage, his countenance changed immediately.

“I fear our fraternal excitement is about to be rudely dampened by the long arm of the law, Watson. I recognise the number plate. It seems we have a visit from Chief Inspector Wattisfield of Scotland Yard - a capable fellow, but a man without humour. As you know, I have no telephone, so he has clearly made some effort to track me down. No doubt he has a perplexing case and is seeking some guidance. I hope you will linger a while longer and hear what the good man has to say?”

My response was immediate and heartfelt. “I wouldn't miss it for the world, Holmes!”

Wattisfield was brusque but amiable and, like Holmes, not one for irrelevancies and idle chit chat. When seated in Holmes' farmhouse kitchen, he went straight into the nature of his dilemma: “Mr Holmes. I have myself a very impenetrable murder mystery. Earlier this morning, we were called to Trimingham Manor in Surrey where the dead body of a solicitor named Barrington Henshaw was discovered in a locked room of the house. He appears to have fallen back against a stone fireplace and died of the head injuries he sustained. On the basis that the key to the room could not be found, I can only conclude that we are dealing with a case of potential murder or manslaughter. And given that we have not, as yet, ascertained the whereabouts of one of the household staff - a valet by the name of Heinz Descartes - I would suggest that he may have something to tell us about the nature of this unpleasant episode. We understand the man to be a German national, who has only recently come to this country, and I have alerted all ports and airports as to his identity to block any attempt he may make to escape to the continent.”

Holmes was quick to pick up the baton. “Chief Inspector, I would be grateful if you could furnish me with some basic facts about the inhabitants of the house. I profess, I have never heard of Trimingham Manor.”

The Chief Inspector nodded. “That does not surprise me, Mr Holmes. The house was restored only a few years back, when it was bought by David Harker, a wealthy gem dealer. He and his wife and child moved into the property in 1921 having previously lived in Holland. Sadly, both of the adults died earlier this year in a mining accident in South Africa, leaving their six-year-old son Gerald as the heir to the estate. It seems that Barrington Henshaw - legal advisor to the late David Harker - had been appointed as both the executor of his client's will and the legal guardian of young Gerald. Harker had left clear instructions that Henshaw was to find a good boarding school for the boy and to appoint a suitable personal valet for him at the earliest opportunity, to mentor his son during the school holidays when he returned home to the manor.”

“The missing valet you referred to, I suppose?” said I.

“Yes, Doctor. Heinz Descartes was appointed in May this year. He had previously worked as some sort of butler at a French chateau, but hails originally from Hamburg. And by all accounts he was well-liked by young Harker and the two other inhabitants of the manor, Reggie and Elizabeth Dawson, gardener and housekeeper respectively. They had some admiration for the valet, who was described as being no older than about twenty-five years of age. He had doted on Gerald and, within a matter of weeks, they had seen a positive response from the boy, who once more had a smile on his face and was positive about the prospect of going off to boarding school.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “I see. Well, perhaps we can return to Descartes a little later. What was your view of the Dawsons, Wattisfield?”

“Solid, dependable, working folk, Mr Holmes - came to work for Mr Harker with impeccable credentials. They had previously completed twenty years' unblemished service at the vicarage in Shalford, less than three miles from Trimingham. A couple in their mid-seventies, with three grown-up children, who are said to have been devastated by the loss of the Harkers and who have, according to the few neighbours that knew of the family, acted like grandparents to the boy. None too keen on the solicitor, Henshaw, though...”

“Really?” Holmes was quick to interpose. “So, what do we know about the dead man, I take it that he didn't live at the manor?”

“No, his legal practice was in Guildford and he originally acted for David Harker in the purchase of Trimingham. Lived in the village of Chilworth, a stone's throw from the manor and was well-known among the local hunting and shooting fraternity. Reggie Dawson suggested that Henshaw was a bit of a social climber. He was forty-two and engaged to be married to Verity Ainsworth, the wealthy and well-connected daughter of a local squire. With the appointment of the new valet, he had been spending less and less time at the house. But this morning he had arrived just before breakfast and came in through the back entrance.”

“Something, I take it, that he hadn't done before, Wattisfield?” queried Holmes.

“Indeed. Mrs Dawson had just served Heinz Descartes a cooked breakfast and had earlier packed up a few sandwiches for Gerald Harker, who had gone off early by taxi to visit the new boarding school in Guildford which Mr Henshaw had arranged for him to attend. She was surprised to see Henshaw entering the back door to the kitchen with a briefcase, as it was his usual practice to drive up to the front entrance and enter the main door of the manor. He seemed flustered on seeing Mrs Dawson and asked hurriedly if he could join Mr Descartes for breakfast, having been told that the valet was still in the dining room, but planning to go out for a walk later that morning.”

“And where was Mr Dawson at this time?” I enquired eager to know the whereabouts of all the key players.

“He had gone with Gerald to the boarding school. While Heinz Descartes had initially thought that he would accompany the boy in the taxi, Barrington Henshaw had asked specifically for Reggie Dawson to go with him, as he felt that the gardener's fatherly instincts might be better suited to the task.”

“Well. We must now turn to the death itself, my good man. Perhaps you could outline the key facts as you see them?” asked Holmes.

The detective was keen to oblige and opened up his pocket book. “The room in question was used as a ground floor study by the late David Harker. Since his death, it has been kept locked, with Henshaw retaining the only key. The solicitor insisted on keeping the curtains to the room closed and would not allow anyone to enter the study. When he visited the manor he treated the room as his own, working at the desk and tapping away on a small typewriter he had brought with him from his office in Guildford. Mrs Dawson was not even permitted to clean the room.”

“Very suggestive,” mused Holmes, before nodding to encourage Wattisfield to continue with his narrative.

“At around eight-fifteen this morning, as Mrs Dawson was washing up the breakfast plates and cutlery, she heard the front door of the manor bang shut. Having come out into the hallway, she then watched through a window as Heinz Descartes ran off down the drive carrying a rucksack. At the time, she thought only that he must have been in a desperate hurry to get out for his walk, but was surprised, as she thought he had already left the house a short while earlier. She then remembered that she had not seen or heard Barrington Henshaw depart, so walked across to the door of the study and knocked as she always did when he was working. Getting no response, she tried the handle and found the door to be locked. By her own admission, she then knelt down and looked through the keyhole...”

I stifled a laugh at this point, bemused by the actions of the indomitable Mrs Dawson, as Holmes cast a disparaging glance in my direction. “Please carry on, Wattisfield, this is most enlightening,” he intoned.

“...She realised that there was a light on in the room and was greeted with a dreadful sight. Through the spyhole she could see Henshaw lying on his back on the plush carpet, his feet pointed in her direction and his head close to the grate of the fireplace. She could also see a large pool of blood welled within the grate. Being alone and fearing the worst, she could see no way of breaking down the heavy oak door, so used the telephone in the hallway to call for both the police and an ambulance. A local constable arrived at the scene some fifteen minutes later, followed closely by an ambulance crew. Between them they used what tools they could find to take the door off its hinges and gain entry to the room.”

Holmes cut in at this point. “And you said earlier that no key could be found?”

“That is correct. No key in the door or anywhere in the room, which suggests that it must have been locked from the outside. The local constable also did a quick search of Heinz Descartes' bedroom and was unable to find any such key.”

Holmes responded a tad impatiently. “Quite so, Wattisfield. But what of this local constable? I trust he didn't start rearranging the furniture or tampering with the contents of either room?”

Wattisfield managed a strained smile. “You do not appear to have much faith in the modern police service, Mr Holmes. In point of fact, PC Curtis' conduct was exemplary. Having realised what he was dealing with, the young officer took every step to preserve the scene. His telephone call back to Surrey Police Headquarters prompted a request for Scotland Yard to be called in to assist. When I arrived at the manor close to midday, I found the diligent officer guarding the open entrance to the study.”

“Splendid! My sincere apologies, Chief Inspector - you must realise that I have infrequent contact with many rural forces these days. I recognise that the police service must have moved on in leaps and bounds since the old days when Watson and I would often have cause to comment on the ineptitude of many a uniformed officer.”

The detective shifted uneasily in the face of Holmes' barbed compliment, and returned to his notebook. “The manner of the death seems straightforward enough. Henshaw was well dressed in a tightly-cut tweed suit, white shirt and yellow tie. He appears to have cracked the back of his head on the fireplace as he fell. I travelled out to Trimingham with one of our pathologists, who insisted on having the body removed for further forensic examination. He persuaded the ambulance crew, who were still at the scene, to take him and the body back to London, although he did say he was fairly certain that it was the knock to the head which had killed Henshaw, rather than the blood loss. I can only apologise, Mr Holmes - I know that you would have preferred to see the body
in situ
.”

I smiled instantly at the Chief Inspector's presumption that Holmes was likely to want to visit the scene any time soon.

“And we have still to ascertain whether he just fell in some way or was pushed. There were no obvious or visible signs of any assault on the body other than the head injury, so I retain an open mind on that one. But alongside the mystery of the locked door, we now come to the other fact which is baffling me, Mr Holmes. Prior to his death, Henshaw appeared to have been in the process of emptying a large quantity of cash from a hidden safe on the wall. Some of the money had been placed inside Henshaw's briefcase, which lay on the floor close to the desk, while the remainder lay in neat bundles within the safe. We have not, as yet, attempted to move or count the money, but I would say that it amounts to many thousands of pounds.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Holmes. “At last we are getting to the heart of this particular conundrum.” His outburst surprised the Chief Inspector, who was momentarily lost for words.

“Does that mean you will be happy to assist us in our enquiries then, Mr Holmes? I confess to being at a loss to know how to proceed on this one. I feel certain that we can apprehend Mr Descartes at some point, but until we are able to question him, I fear we have little to go on.”

Holmes was emphatic in his response. “Why yes - we would both be happy to take a trip across to the manor this afternoon, would we not, Watson? And as for further clues, I anticipate that we will discover lots more before we get any closer to finding the enigmatic Heinz Descartes. Time is of the essence, my good man, I have just to shut up my chickens and we can then make the trip to Trimingham.”

***

As had happened so often in the past, Holmes had managed to get me embroiled in one of his cases against my better judgement. My plans to return to London that evening for a piano recital in Peckham were shelved instantly and I found myself wedged into the back seat of the police car, hurtling along tiny country lanes, listening to Holmes expound the virtues of home-reared pork over intensively-farmed pig meat. But it felt great to be back in his company on an active case which had so clearly stimulated his interest. After an hour or so, we were driving up the half-mile track which led us to Trimingham Manor.