Disquiet at Albany (3 page)

7

A Room at the Inn

Clambering over the five-barred gate across the lane, we trudged with difficulty across a claggy, arable field of root crops, trusting to link with a footpath that led eventually through a group of trees to the hamlet of Great Melchett. The stack of the old sail-less windmill beside the waterway was now a dark silhouette on the low horizon. As evening fell, I heard a locomotive whistle and was reminded of our two-coach train from Norwich from which we had alighted, and the little halt with its crossing gates and box a mile or so distant.

‘I must say, Holmes, the fatty tissue of the thigh appeared to me to have been gnawed to the bone. The victim's stomach was clawed open, leaving the intestines exposed.'

‘Ah, we are onto anatomy, eh? Well, old man, the throat was clean ripped out,' Holmes declared as we turned onto our footpath.

See the old manor house at the end of the lane? Fifteenth century, I'll wager. It has gabled windows and pedimented stone arches. I wonder who owns such a place. There's a walled kitchen garden and various grades of glass house visible.'

We ordered our beer and boiled mutton in the snug of the Duck and Drake, a most charming country inn with a low timbered ceiling, brownish yellow walls well seasoned by generations of smokers, heavy oak furniture, horse brasses and a homely log fire crackling in the settle of an enormous stone fireplace. We commented on the old manor and it turned out that Foxbury Hall, the property of Lord Astor, was, for the winter months, from September to March, rented out to, of all people, Ethby Sands, who before his illness had been M.P. for Norwich. Nothing had been seen of him. The valet Garson was more sociable, particularly with the ladies, but this season nothing much had been seen of him either. A landau was parked out front on the gravel drive and remained unused.

‘Mr Sands is very ill, gentlemen,' said the landlord. ‘I've heard reports he is nearing the end and has not long to live. He weakens daily. I believe our local builder is preparing a coffin. That'll be twopence apiece for the beer and fourpence halfpenny for the dinner. Thankee kindly, gents.'

‘Thank you landlord. Have you any tobacco, perchance? A strong mixture?'

‘Help yourself from the jar, sir. Do you require a clay churchwarden? The tobacco is on the house.'

‘My charred old briar will be adequate for my needs, thank you landlord, but I think another pint of your excellent “Old Worthy” is in order.'

We were about to return to the snug to enjoy our ale, smoke our pipes and take stock of events, when a clergyman looking most perplexed and out of sorts wandered into the hostelry. ‘Dear me,' he snorted, ‘I fear this wretched unknown artist who holds the rodent population in such high esteem has struck again!'

‘Aye,' said the landlord, wiping a pewter tankard behind the bar. ‘I 'ears Miss Morley the spinster at Crystal Cottage reported her front door had been defaced, besmirched by black paint. Someone unseen and unknown, the culprit.'

‘How long must this sorry state of affairs continue? Another murder I hear over at Potters Ditch and we have barely buried the first victim, poor George Flemps. It just won't do. To be decapitated like that.'

‘Was the head ever found, vicar? They dredged the channel using nets the week afore last.'

‘No, Isiah, but dear me, please spare the gruesome details. I see we have two gentlemen present.'

‘Please sit down, padre,' said Holmes kindly, striking a vesta to light his pipe. ‘Might I order you a glass of sherry, or something stronger? A cherry brandy? The air is so damp and chill at this time of day.'

‘Most kind. I am the incumbent here, the Rev. Marsden-Lee. I shall have a cherry brandy if you don't mind. Oh dear me, this wretched outbreak of graffiti in our Christian, law-abiding community has left me quite irritable and put out. Still, these things are sent to test one's faith, I suppose.'

‘Perhaps I could be of assistance,' said Holmes, surrounded by a blue-tinged wreath of tobacco smoke. ‘I have some small experience concerning the dealings of petty crime.' He chuckled, nudging me in the ribs as I drank the dregs of my Old Worthy. ‘I'm quite the puzzle-solver, you know.'

‘Well, I would be glad of some help, sir. It concerns the wall of my vestry.'

8

A Puzzle of Graffiti

‘Your marshland church is “decorated and perpendicular” – late medieval I should wager,' remarked Holmes as we crossed to the churchyard and passed beneath the venerable old lychgate.

‘Oh, indeed, we are fortunate enough to possess a much later painted window of thirty-four panels, its original glass preserved.'

We traipsed round the side of the church by means of a path, and were thereafter presented with a round-headed arch above an old oak door, weatherworn by centuries of lashing rain and mists seeping off the marsh of waterways and islands known as The Broads. Not long after, we were stood in the vestry over by a cupboard where they kept surplices, appraising a caricature of a large rat boldly painted on the room's whitewashed wall.

‘I am at a loss where to begin,' exclaimed the clergyman.

‘A puzzle easily enough solved. The mystery is already partly cleared up, at least,' said my colleague with a bored air.

‘Solved? You mean you have some idea who is actually responsible? Gentlemen, I am witness to a miracle. Pray, what on earth has prompted you to declare so easy a victory?'

‘Here on the stone paving, padre, and over there by the left of your desk – ah, and also beneath the encased vestry window, lie the dog-ends of cigarettes. It may interest you to know I have written a small monograph concerning one hundred and forty known varieties of tobacco. The ash I refer to. We are presently looking for a person addicted to hand-rolled cigarettes.'

‘Yes, I'm with you.'

‘Liquorice paper – so distinctive.'

‘Indeed, brown is the colour.'

‘Cork filters. Mark you, slightly stained with blood. Our quicksilver artist suffers from a chaffed, prominent upper lip, else bleeding gums. I rest my case. Do you, padre, recognise to whom I refer? If so, we have solved the identity of the graffiti artist in – let me see – under four minutes.'

‘Good heavens. I know to whom you refer. I'm positive. I recall the boy's incessant wilful smoking and loitering about the graves on Tuesday last with some other youths. Tommy Weekes. His gums are sensitive and bleed so that on occasions his front teeth appear bloodied and revolting. I must away to tell his mother of her son's disgraceful behaviour.'

‘Stay your hand for the present, padre. He is talented, I'll say that much for him.'

‘Talented! Really, sir, sacrilegious is how I should describe his scribblings. Oh, I realise the carvings and defacings do have a certain flair for the absurd. The giant rat drawn on Mrs Lacey's front door in her own image comes to mind. But he must be punished. A breach birth as a newborn, he was delivered by forceps and this has left him a little dull-witted. His behaviour is eccentric at times. Now I must depart and prepare to deliver the news to Mrs Weekes – that her son must go round with a cloth and pail and remove these images of rats from people's property. The carvings of rodents must for the time remain.'

‘One moment, vicar,' said Holmes in a concerned way. ‘I should like as reward to be the first to interview the boy and his mother. I would be interested, during a private interview, to witness his reaction to being found out. I promise all will remain confidential and I shall report my findings to you later this evening.'

‘That sounds fair. He lives with his mother at Thornycroft Cottage, a little way up the lane from my church. May I heartily congratulate you on solving this community matter with such élan and obvious professionalism. Your names, sirs, so that I might recall this moment for posterity.'

‘Doctor Watson,' said I.

‘Mr Sherlock Holmes at your service.'

‘Good grief – not the Sherlock Holmes?'

‘Just so.'

‘Gentlemen, come to my rectory across the way at once. I must force a sherry on you both. I declare I am an out-and-out devotee of the Strand magazine and follow your articles avidly, – oh, and this evening you must join me for supper, I insist on it.'

9

Tommy Weekes's Undoing

After a short stroll up the lane, banked on either side by tall hedgerow trees, we came across the lighted window of a cottage of thatched roof and cob, set some distance from the road. The vicar had loaned us his bull's-eye lantern, for by now it was completely dark and visibility, due to the lack of street lamps in these out of the way country places, very sporadic, causing me to narrowly avoid tripping into a chicken coop as we approached the front door through the garden.

‘Do come in, sirs. Would you like tea? There's plenty in the pot.'

‘Thank you madam. A hot drink is most welcome on a bitter, rainy night such as this. We are new to the Broads and enjoying a bird-watching holiday. We stay at the Duck and Drake further down.'

‘I will have a biscuit, thank you,' said I, warming to the lady at once. She made us feel splendidly at home and seldom have I encountered such openness and genuine hospitality.

The labourer's cottage belonging to Mrs Weekes, a washerwoman by trade, who supplemented her modest income by the sewing and mending of lace and fabrics, consisted of a front parlour that, although cramped and smoky from the coal range, was kept trim and tidy and there was a homely, welcoming atmosphere to the place. Tommy, unaware that he was about to be unmasked and suffer reprimand for his art's sake, chomped on a thick wedge of crusty loaf smothered in dripping.

‘Well sirs, what can I do for thee?' asked the chubby matron, beaming with goodwill, her face lit up by the oil lamp above. ‘Help your'sels to more tea.'

‘We have just come from the rectory,' said Holmes, taking out his pipe and tobacco pouch and placing them upon the chequered table cloth, ‘where, before taking sherry, we were given a tour of the vestry by your most courteous and engaging clergyman, the Rev. Marsden-Lee. He was anxious to show us a new portrait he had recently acquired – somewhat simplistic and yet altogether a most well orchestrated caricature. The face with its twitching whiskers stood out most particularly.'

The boy, who was by now supping tea from his mug, went very bright red in the face and managed to spill scalding hot liquid down the front of his smock.

‘Look at you, Tommy, you silly nitwit. What's come over you? Drink they'se tea properly like a young gentleman, like I'se always taught you as a good ma.'

‘I b'aint a nitwit,' he fumed. ‘I'se cans't knock up a coffin, can't I, shave the planks, French polish the elm to a grand finish?'

‘Course you can dear, now don't get riled so. I know'st Simkins our local builder and undertaker is very pleased with your standard of work and he makes all the coffins for the villages hereabouts. He is of the opinion you are a skilful, worthy craftsman, but, like I says, don't slop tea everywhere.'

‘A craftsman in wood should be able to use a pen-knife else a sharp chisel most effectively. Perhaps that old windmill at Potters Ditch could do with a plank or two pegged into place,' remarked Holmes.

This time the lad visibly tensed. Once more his cheeks flushed, a quivering, nervous tic evident beneath his left eye. He scowled at my colleague, no doubt wishing he would disappear in a cloud of smoke up the chimney. He held his tea mug in a vice-like grip, so hard I thought his wrap-around fingers would crack the enamel.

‘I shall be brief and entirely to the point, Tommy. I think you have considerable artistic talent and will go far. But the church vestry is hardly the best backdrop for your “free-fall” masterpieces. Neither should you go round defacing headstones, else daubing paint on doors. You have left a trail of etched graffiti in your wake, my dear fellow. Youthful angst, a need to express oneself by defacing property, is hardly a new phenomenon. You are not the first young man to rebel!'

Tommy Weekes's jaw dropped. A withering sigh escaped his parted lips revealing diseased gums with a potential to bleed. He sat at table entirely undone, his shameful secret exposed.

‘Fear not, the most you shall receive from this interview as punishment is washing down and re-whitewashing the vestry wall. Neither Doctor Watson nor myself have any inclination to cause either yourself or your dear mother the slightest embarrassment or harm. That said, I shall rest my case only when I have got to the bottom of why, on every occasion, you choose to strike. The image is the same every time – a rat! An extremely large and ferocious rat! Apart from the matter of whitewashing the vestry wall at ten tomorrow morning, which you will perform as just penance to appease the wrath of the vicar, why I ask does the same restive image dominate your graffiti art? I put it to you, young man, something has recently upset you, some recent event has infected your creativity. I believe you know who, or what, was responsible for killing the first victim, George Flemps, up by the barn.'

‘A rat!' he cried, bursting into sobs. ‘I see'd a giant rat sir, honest I done. I see'd it swummin along the Broads wi' my own eyes. I bared witness to it. I did see a giant rat wi' the head of George Flemps in its jaws, I did so.'

10

Foxbury Hall

By the time we had trudged up the lane to enquire at the hall over Mr Sands's health, it was pitch black and raining heavily. Fending off the worst of the inclement weather with umbrellas borrowed from the vicar's stock of ‘lost and found', brollies forgetfully mislaid on pews of a Sunday by parishioners over the years, we wondered whether the ex-M.P. might have come down here on the train from London to take up residence for the winter season, forgetting to inform the porters at Albany of his whereabouts, perhaps with the use of a basket chair, a hired invalid carriage, causing him to leave behind his usual wheeled chair at the apartment. Holmes was pretty certain this was the case, and anyhow, the Norfolk murders were of more concern and we had a full day ahead of us attending the autopsy and making more enquiries as to the violent deaths locally. The exact whereabouts of Ethby Sands was really of secondary consideration.

We came to a set of gateposts surmounted by a pair of winged gryphons and thus continued up the path until the venerable old clay-brick Norfolk mansion came into view. Foxbury Hall was, I was sure, in the sunlight of an autumn morning, an elegant home full of character and charm. Earlier I had judged the architecture to be of the Elizabethan period and the gables, diamond-pane windows and tall herringbone brick chimney stacks gave the house an air of imposing grandeur.

Once inside the porch I tugged the bell-pull and, aware of the dripping, gurgling sound of rainwater pouring off the guttering, we waited expectantly beneath the hornbeam lantern for the front door to be opened.

Soon after, a genial fellow in a frock coat, striped trousers and black tie greeted us. ‘My name is Garson, sirs. How can I help? The weather at this time of year is most uncongenial and bothersome. I used to always prepare my master's hot toddy at this hour and make sure he was comfortably seated by the fire with a shawl wrapped round his shoulders.'

‘Is Mr Sands at home by any chance?' asked my colleague. ‘I perceive you are his valet. We were just passing and wished to convey our good wishes. He is in, presumably?'

‘I regret to say, gentlemen, condolences are in order, for my master passed on at six of the clock this morning. The wasting illness from which he had suffered interminably for the last year finally claimed his life. He just had no energy left to fight it, sir. I trust you will respect the fact that the body of my master yet still resides in the house and we are all of us in a state of deep mourning. Goodnight, gentlemen, and Lord bless you for enquiring after Mr Sands at this sad time.'

‘That just won't do,' my colleague remarked, showing grim fortitude as we walked back down by the shrubbery, hastening to the rectory to keep our appointment. ‘A chronic invalid should not be subjected to a lengthy journey from the heart of Piccadilly to north Norfolk during autumn when the air is damp and chilly, the region steeped in marsh mist and prone to continuous drizzle. Switzerland or the Italian Alps are understandable, but East Anglia – really my dear fellow, as a doctor would you subject your patient to such unhealthy climes?'

‘Absolutely not,' said I, in full agreement. ‘In summer the Broads offer sailing and boating to one's heart's content, genial hours spent at the tiller exploring the channels, but at this time of year bronchial infections, stiffening of the joints – a patient's chest in particular should be most susceptible to pneumonia. If they are already weakened and not able to eat properly, such as Ethby Sands would be, no – the vaporous, tangy air of the wetlands for a long-term sufferer such as he, I should class as positively injurious to health.'