Rivals of Sherlock Holmes, The (8 page)

  'But what if there had been no Mr Hatch outside to help?'

  'Every prisoner has one friend outside who would help him escape if he could.'

  'Suppose – just suppose – there had been no old plumbing system there?' asked the warden, curiously.

  'There were two other ways out,' said The Thinking Machine, enigmatically.

  Ten minutes later the telephone bell rang. It was a request for the warden.

  'Light all right, eh?' the warden asked, through the 'phone. 'Good. Wire cut beside Cell 13? Yes, I know. One electrician too many? What's that? Two came out?'

  The warden turned to the others with a puzzled expression.

  'He only let in four electricians, he has let out two and says there are three left.'

  'I was the odd one,' said The Thinking Machine.

  'Oh,' said the warden. 'I see.' Then through the 'phone: 'Let the fifth man go. He's all right.'

C
ATHERINE LOUISA PIRKIS began writing fiction in the 1870s and the majority of her novels are melodramatic romances in the loose tradition established by Wilkie Collins and other 'sensation' novelists of the previous generation.
The Experiences of Loveday Brooke
, a collection of stories which first appeared in
The Ludgate Monthly
in 1893, was not only her only venture into the detective genre but also her last published fiction. In the mid-1890s, she gave up writing to devote her time to charitable work. She and her husband became leading activists in the anti-vivisection movement and in the National Canine Defence League, of which they had been founding members in 1891. Loveday Brooke is one of the earliest and most interesting of the female detectives of the period. A professional who works for a Fleet Street Detective Agency, she shows resourcefulness when she is sent under cover (as she is in several of the stories) and confidence in her own ability to discover the truth about the crimes she is investigating. The adventures in which she is embroiled often share some of the melodramatic plot contrivances common in the kind of novels Pirkis wrote in her earlier career but they remain well worth reading for their depictions of a woman making her way successfully in a world usually the preserve of men.

'G
RIFFITHS, OF THE Newcastle Constabulary, has the case in hand,' said Mr Dyer; 'those Newcastle men are keen-witted, shrewd fellows, and very jealous of outside interference. They only sent to me under protest, as it were, because they wanted your sharp wits at work inside the house.'

  'I suppose throughout I am to work with Griffiths, not with you?' said Miss Brooke.

  'Yes; when I have given you in outline the facts of the case, I simply have nothing more to do with it, and you must depend on Griffiths for any assistance of any sort that you may require.'

  Here, with a swing, Mr Dyer opened his big ledger and turned rapidly over its leaves till he came to the heading 'Troyte's Hill' and the date 'September 6th'.

  'I'm all attention,' said Loveday, leaning back in her chair in the attitude of a listener.

  'The murdered man,' resumed Mr Dyer, 'is a certain Alexander Henderson – usually known as old Sandy – lodge-keeper to Mr Craven, of Troyte's Hill, Cumberland. The lodge consists merely of two rooms on the ground floor, a bedroom and a sitting-room; these Sandy occupied alone, having neither kith nor kin of any degree. On the morning of September 6th, some children going up to the house with milk from the farm, noticed that Sandy's bed-room window stood wide open. Curiosity prompted them to peep in; and then, to their horror, they saw old Sandy, in his night-shirt, lying dead on the floor, as if he had fallen backwards from the window. They raised an alarm; and on examination, it was found that death had ensued from a heavy blow on the temple, given either by a strong fist or some blunt instrument. The room, on being entered, presented a curious appearance. It was as if a herd of monkeys had been turned into it and allowed to work their impish will. Not an article of furniture remained in its place: the bed-clothes had been rolled into a bundle and stuffed into the chimney; the bedstead – a small iron one – lay on its side; the one chair in the room stood on the top of the table; fender and fire-irons lay across the washstand, whose basin was to be found in a farther corner, holding bolster and pillow. The clock stood on its head in the middle of the mantelpiece; and the small vases and ornaments, which flanked it on either side, were walking, as it were, in a straight line towards the door. The old man's clothes had been rolled into a ball and thrown on the top of a high cupboard in which he kept his savings and whatever valuables he had. This cupboard, however, had not been meddled with, and its contents remained intact, so it was evident that robbery was not the motive for the crime. At the inquest, subsequently held, a verdict of "wilful murder" against some person or persons unknown was returned. The local police are diligently investigating the affair, but, as yet, no arrests have been made. The opinion that at present prevails in the neighbourhood is that the crime has been perpetrated by some lunatic, escaped or otherwise, and enquiries are being made at the local asylums as to missing or lately released inmates. Griffiths, however, tells me that his suspicions set in another direction.'

  'Did anything of importance transpire at the inquest?'

  'Nothing specially important. Mr Craven broke down in giving his evidence when he alluded to the confidential relations that had always subsisted between Sandy and himself, and spoke of the last time that he had seen him alive. The evidence of the butler, and one or two of the female servants, seems clear enough, and they let fall something of a hint that Sandy was not altogether a favourite among them, on account of the overbearing manner in which he used his influence with his master. Young Mr Craven, a youth of about nineteen, home from Oxford for the long vacation, was not present at the inquest; a doctor's certificate was put in stating that he was suffering from typhoid fever, and could not leave his bed without risk to his life. Now this young man is a thoroughly bad sort, and as much a gentlemanblackleg as it is possible for such a young fellow to be. It seems to Griffiths that there is something suspicious about this illness of his. He came back from Oxford on the verge of
delirium tremens
, pulled round from that, and then suddenly, on the day after the murder, Mrs Craven rings the bell, announces that he has developed typhoid fever and orders a doctor to be sent for.'

  'What sort of man is Mr Craven senior?'

  'He seems to be a quiet old fellow, a scholar and learned philologist. Neither his neighbours nor his family see much of him; he almost lives in his study, writing a treatise, in seven or eight volumes, on comparative philology. He is not a rich man. Troyte's Hill, though it carries position in the county, is not a paying property, and Mr Craven is unable to keep it up properly. I am told he has had to cut down expenses in all directions in order to send his son to college, and his daughter from first to last, has been entirely educated by her mother. Mr Craven was originally intended for the church, but for some reason or other, when his college career came to an end, he did not present himself for ordination – went out to Natal instead, where he obtained some civil appointment and where he remained for about fifteen years. Henderson was his servant during the latter portion of his Oxford career, and must have been greatly respected by him, for although the remuneration derived from his appointment at Natal was small, he paid Sandy a regular yearly allowance out of it. When, about ten years ago, he succeeded to Troyte's Hill, on the death of his elder brother, and returned home with his family, Sandy was immediately installed as lodge-keeper, and at so high a rate of pay that the butler's wages were cut down to meet it.'

  'Ah, that wouldn't improve the butler's feelings towards him,' ejaculated Loveday.

  Mr Dyer went on: 'But, in spite of his high wages, he doesn't appear to have troubled much about his duties as lodge-keeper, for they were performed, as a rule, by the gardener's boy, while he took his meals and passed his time at the house, and, speaking generally, put his finger into every pie. You know the old adage respecting the servant of twenty-one years' standing: "Seven years my servant, seven years my equal, seven years my master". Well, it appears to have held good in the case of Mr Craven and Sandy. The old gentleman, absorbed in his philological studies, evidently let the reins slip through his fingers, and Sandy seems to have taken easy possession of them. The servants frequently had to go to him for orders, and he carried things, as a rule, with a high hand.'

  'Did Mrs Craven never have a word to say on the matter?'

  'I've not heard much about her. She seems to be a quiet sort of person. She is a Scotch missionary's daughter; perhaps she spends her time working for the Cape mission and that sort of thing.'

  'And young Mr Craven: did he knock under to Sandy's rule?'

  'Ah, now you're hitting the bull's eye and we come to Griffiths' theory. The young man and Sandy appear to have been at loggerheads ever since the Cravens took possession of Troyte's Hill. As a schoolboy Master Harry defied Sandy and threatened him with his hunting crop; and subsequently, as a young man, has used strenuous endeavours to put the old servant in his place. On the day before the murder, Griffiths says, there was a terrible scene between the two, in which the young gentleman, in the presence of several witnesses, made use of strong language and threatened the old man's life. Now, Miss Brooke, I have told you all the circumstances of the case so far as I know them. For fuller particulars I must refer you to Griffiths. He, no doubt, will meet you at Grenfell – the nearest station to Troyte's Hill – and tell you in what capacity he has procured for you an entrance into the house. By-the-way, he has wired to me this morning that he hopes you will be able to save the Scotch express to-night.'

  Loveday expressed her readiness to comply with Mr Griffiths' wishes.

  'I shall be glad,' said Mr Dyer, as he shook hands with her at the office door, 'to see you immediately on your return – that, however, I suppose, will not be yet awhile. This promises, I fancy, to be a longish affair?' This was said interrogatively.

  'I haven't the least idea on the matter,' answered Loveday. 'I start on my work without theory of any sort – in fact, I may say, with my mind a perfect blank.'

  And anyone who had caught a glimpse of her blank, expressionless features, as she said this, would have taken her at her word.

  Grenfell, the nearest post-town to Troyte's Hill is a fairly busy, populous little town – looking south towards the black country, and northwards to low, barren hills. Pre-eminent among these stands Troyte's Hill, famed in the old days as a border keep, and possibly at a still earlier date as a Druid stronghold.

  At a small inn at Grenfell, dignified by the title of 'The Station Hotel', Mr Griffiths, of the Newcastle constabulary, met Loveday and still further initiated her into the mysteries of the Troyte's Hill murder.

  'A little of the first excitement has subsided,' he said, after preliminary greetings had been exchanged, 'but still the wildest rumours are flying about and repeated as solemnly as if they were Gospel truths. My chief here and my colleagues generally adhere to their first conviction, that the criminal is some suddenly crazed tramp or else an escaped lunatic, and they are confident that sooner or later we shall come upon his traces. Their theory is that Sandy, hearing some strange noise at the Park Gates, put his head out of the window to ascertain the cause and immediately had his death blow dealt him; then they suppose that the lunatic scrambled into the room through the window and exhausted his frenzy by turning things generally upside down. They refuse altogether to share my suspicions respecting young Mr Craven.'

  Mr Griffiths was a tall, thin-featured man, with iron-grey hair, cut so close to his head that it refused to do anything but stand on end. This gave a somewhat comic expression of the upper portion of his face and clashed oddly with the melancholy look that his mouth habitually wore.

  'I have made all smooth for you at Troyte's Hill,' he presently went on. 'Mr Craven is not wealthy enough to allow himself the luxury of a family lawyer, so he occasionally employs the services of Messrs. Wells and Sugden, lawyers in this place, and who, as it happens, have, off and on, done a good deal of business for me. It was through them I heard that Mr Craven was anxious to secure the assistance of an amanuensis. I immediately offered your services, stating that you were a friend of mine, a lady of impoverished means, who would gladly undertake the duties for the munificent sum of a guinea a month, with board and lodging. The old gentleman at once jumped at the offer, and is anxious for you to be at Troyte's Hill at once.'