Authors: Donald Thomas
Tags: #Private investigators, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction, #General, #Holmes; Sherlock (Fictitious character), #Detective, #Mystery, #Detective and mystery stories; English, #England, #Suspense, #Private investigators - England, #Fiction - Mystery, #Watson; John H. (Fictitious character), #Mystery fiction, #Traditional British, #Short Stories, #Mystery & Detective - Traditional British, #Mystery & Detective - Short Stories
Sherlock Holmes and the King's Evil: And Other New Tales Featuring the World's Greatest Detective (2 page)
BOOK: Sherlock Holmes and the King's Evil: And Other New Tales Featuring the World's Greatest Detective
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“Unless there be fraud or coercion of some kind,” said Holmes gently, “I doubt whether I am the right person to approach. Dr Watson, on the other hand ...”
“What if it should touch upon crime?”
“That, of course, is a quite different matter.”
“What if he should burgle, by night, the houses of his own family? What if he should do it to no purpose? It is not only his eccentricities, though they are bad enough, but a growing oddity and perhaps criminality of conduct which brings me here.”
Holmes straightened in his chair.
“I think, my lord, that you had better explain that a little.”
Lord E3lagdon seemed to bow increasingly under the weight of his concern.
“Last Friday, Mr Holmes, a week ago precisely and in the middle of the night, Lord Arthur came secretly to the grounds of Priorsfield. He opened a sash-window of the library on the ground floor, pushing back the catch with a blade of some kind. He must than have climbed over the sill, which is easy enough, and walked through the lower level of the house to the north drawing-room. The chief feature of this room is a full-size Louis Phillippe display-case, containing the finest items of porcelain in the Priorsfield collection. One of the housekeepers had heard the window being opened and had gone to investigate. She was in time to see Lord Arthur entering the drawing-room. He did not see her. Because he is sometimes a visitor to Priorsfield, she did not challenge him at once but alerted my valet, who in turn woke me.”
“I take it that your brother was a regular guest at Priorsfield but not on this occasion? If he wished to visit the house, he had only to ask?”
“Of course. He could treat it as his home for, in a sense, it was. That is why such incidents have made his conduct so disturbing for some time. I came downstairs quietly in order to observe him without attracting his notice. I watched him open the cabinet. It took him a moment or two and I cannot tell you whether he picked the lock or merely turned a key which he had had made. He may have taken an impression on one of his visits and had a key cut.”
“We shall be able to determine that,” I said quickly but Holmes frowned me into silence.
“He did not need to turn on the electric light,” Lord Blagdon continued, “having chosen a night of full moon through open curtains. I could not see precisely what he was doing for his back was towards me. However he was facing the display of Sèvres vases, jardinières, dishes and boxes, with the door of the cabinet partly open. These items are glazed in royal blue or pink, picked out in gold, inset with garden scenes of
fetes galantes
or Classical mythology. He struck a match very briefly, as he stood there, and seemed to find what he wanted at once. His movements were quick, though quiet. Indeed, I heard nothing all the time he was there and I cannot tell you whether he moved or opened any of the pieces, though I believe he must have done.”
fetes galantes
or Classical mythology. He struck a match very briefly, as he stood there, and seemed to find what he wanted at once. His movements were quick, though quiet. Indeed, I heard nothing all the time he was there and I cannot tell you whether he moved or opened any of the pieces, though I believe he must have done.”
“What did he take?” I asked.
Lord Blagdon swung round to me.
“Nothing, Dr Watson! Nothing! If the housekeeper had not heard the library window being opened, we should never have suspected that he had been there.”
“Whereupon,” Holmes interposed, “he closed and locked the display cabinet, passed from the drawing-room to the library, left by way of the window, closed it after him, but could not lock it?”
“Quite correct, Mr Holmes. I was dismayed when I first saw him because I feared he had got himself into money trouble and was robbing his own family to pay off his debts. What if he was in such trouble and was robbing us at the command of criminals? You see?”
“Indeed I do. But has the window been found unlocked since then?”
“Never. It has been examined every morning.”
“Excellent. And where did he go when he left the house on the night in question?”
“I can only assume that he walked across the garden, along the road to the village and waited for the first morning train from Priorsfield Halt.”
“That is good to know. It suggests that he had no accomplices and was probably not working on the orders of anyone else. Of course, he might have been examining the objects in order to facilitate a robbery by some other person. However, I think not. He could have done that more easily while he was a guest in the house. In any case, he has not returned in the past week.”
“I lad I known that he wanted to, he would have been welcome to come to the house and examine the porcelain to his heart’s content. That is what makes it so disturbing. As it is, he did no harm that I could see. I thought it best to observe but say nothing.”
“You did quite right, my lord” said Holmes reassuringly.
“The curious thing is that he did not wear gloves that night.”
“Surely he had no need to,” I said, “Chief Inspector Henry at Scotland Yard can read finger-prints like a book. But who would look for prints without evidence of a crime? Had the housekeeper not seen him, there would have been neither evidence nor suspicion.”
Lord Blagdon shook his head.
“You misunderstand. For the past six months, Lord Arthur has worn gloves, invariably out of doors and frequently at other times. He says nothing of this, will not discuss it, but we infer that he suffers from a rash or some such ailment.”
There was a note of scepticism in Holmes’s reply.
“Does he wear gloves when he plays the piano?”
Lord Blagdon bridled a little at this.
“Of course not but he has largely given up his music.”
“Or at the dinner table?”
“Once or twice. Of late, when he has been our guest, he has taken meals in his room. That is the least of his eccentricities.”
“And when did you last hear him play the piano—without gloves, as you say?”
“About four weeks ago. It was in the afternoon with only a few family members present—and they were not paying much attention during their game of whist. He played one of the Schumann
Carnaval
pieces, just the first one. Then he stopped, closed the lid of the piano keyboard, folded his hands together and left to go to his room.”
Carnaval
pieces, just the first one. Then he stopped, closed the lid of the piano keyboard, folded his hands together and left to go to his room.”
“An accomplished musician indeed,” said Holmes graciously, “Since you were present, did you see any obvious marks or disfigurement of the hands?”
“No,” said Lord Blagdon, “I was, however, sitting at a little distance and naturally saw only the backs of his hands. I did not see a rash of any kind.”
“Let us conclude, then, that whatever causes Lord Arthur to wear gloves, it did not do so while he was playing Schumann. And has the instrument been played since?”
“No, the lid is closed and locked when it is not in use.”
“Has the keyboard been dusted?”
“I think not. It was locked as usual and I do not recall Mrs Rowley the housekeeper asking for the key since then.”
“Excellent!” said Holmes, “In that case, I believe we may take a first step towards the resolution of your difficulty.”
When we were alone together, Holmes jotted two or three words on the back of his shirt-cuff as an
aide-memoire
and then looked up.
aide-memoire
and then looked up.
“I confess, Watson, that this promises to be one of the most intriguing cases to come our way for a little while. First of all however, by his lordship’s leave, I think we must examine the locus in
quo
as the lawyers call it—the scene of this little mystery.”
quo
as the lawyers call it—the scene of this little mystery.”
2
S
o it was that three days later, on Monday morning, we stepped down from our train at the quiet wooden platform of Priorsfield Halt to find a pony and trap waiting for us. It was that time of year when the riverside elms were in full leaf. The broad stretch of the Thames sparkled in sunlight, carrying an occasional pleasure steamer rippling upstream to Oxford from Windsor.
o it was that three days later, on Monday morning, we stepped down from our train at the quiet wooden platform of Priorsfield Halt to find a pony and trap waiting for us. It was that time of year when the riverside elms were in full leaf. The broad stretch of the Thames sparkled in sunlight, carrying an occasional pleasure steamer rippling upstream to Oxford from Windsor.
Priorsfield House was huge and empty after a weekend party, the gardens were deserted and the patter of water spilling from a triton’s conche in the grand basin was audible across the main lawn. The housekeeper received us, in the temporary absence of her employer, and we were conducted at once to the north drawing-room. The windows had been orientated to avoid strong sunlight damaging the fabrics of furniture. With a small key she unlocked the display case.
“The piano too, if you please,” said Holmes courteously.
She puffed herself up, cock-robin style, and clasped her hands. One look at her had been enough to assure me that she would never let drop tittle-tattle about Lord Arthur Savile’s unorthodox visit to the house.
“Lord Blagdon left no instructions as to the piano.”
Sherlock Holmes sighed.
“I fear we shall have wasted his lordship’s time, as well as our own, if we are denied an opportunity to examine the keyboard. In that case, I must decline to proceed further with the investigation.”
There was only a brief pause before this contest of wills was decided. Our chatelaine walked across and unlocked the lid of the fine black-lacquered Bozendorfer grand piano, folding it back on its polished brass hinges and laying bare an immaculate keyboard.
“It seems,” said Holmes to me from the corner of his mouth, “that the housemaids here have been as careless as in most establishments when it comes to the matter of dusting. I daresay I should be so myself, in their situation. A good deal too much fuss is made about dust—which settles again almost as soon as it is brushed off.”
The housekeeper had walked silently from the room, though we could feel that her eyes were still upon us from some vantage point just beyond the door. Holmes turned to the piano. He had come equipped with a black Gladstone bag that might more properly have belonged to a doctor. From this he took an instrument case, laid it on the table and opened it. He chose two camel-hair brushes, such as a painter might have used for fine work. To these he added two small bottles. The first contained dark powder, which was graphite of much the kind used for lubricating locks. The second was his own preparation, two parts of finely powdered chalk and one part of metallic mercury. These little bottles were accompanied by two insufflators to allow each powder to be blown gently on to any surface. In his waistcoat pocket, as usual, a folded magnifying-lens was readily available.
For the next twenty minutes, Sherlock Holmes worked patiently and intently, his features drawn in a slight frown of concentration. He began with the light coloured powder of chalk and mercury, puffing it gently but accurately on to the black keys of the piano. Then he removed a little surplus with a camel-hair brush. When this was done, he took the graphite and the second insufflator, applying the darker powder to the white ivory of the piano keys. It settled like a thin drift of snow—and like snow it revealed the contours over which it lay, in this case those slight ridges imprinted by the exudations of the human skin.
He took a little mirror from his pocket and angled it to catch the light from the windows. Then there began his long examination of each piano key in turn. I knew better than to interrupt him. It was half an hour before his back straightened and he stood up, the sharp profile animated and eyes glittering. He put down the little mirror into which he had been staring, seeking the best angle. The powders had now left on the polished ivory of the keys what I can only describe as a slight and brittle encrustation which a sweep of the hand would remove.
“Of one thing we may be sure, Watson. The last person to touch this keyboard played upon it the ‘Préambule’ from the set of pieces entitled
Carnaval,
by the late and sublime Robert Schumann. It has not been dusted nor touched since then.”
Carnaval,
by the late and sublime Robert Schumann. It has not been dusted nor touched since then.”
He seemed a little too pleased with himself for my liking.
“How can you possibly say that?”
“Very easily, my dear fellow. To begin with, we are only concerned with the last person to touch the instrument. I can assure you that all these prints belong to the same pair of hands. Only one person has played upon it since it was last dusted.”
“Lord Arthur?”
He raised a finger.
“Look at the two topmost octaves of the keyboard in the right hand. No prints appear on the four highest keys. That is to say, G, A, and the raised notes of F and G. They are very often not required. We can safely forget them. But five other notes are also free of prints. Those are significant.”
“Of what?”
He sighed tolerantly.
“Significant in your case, my dear Watson, of hours wasted in concert halls, fighting back sleep when the air was shimmering with the genius of Rubinstein or Paderewski. Before our little outings to the Wigmore Hall, I like to read the scores of the pieces to be played. Consequently I may tell you that in the right-hand of Robert Schumann’s ‘Préambule’ there are only five other keys—black or white—which are not touched. All are in the same two topmost octaves. They include the upper D flat and, in both octaves, the keys of E natural and B natural. Now you may study the keyboard of this splendid instrument and tell me for yourself which of those five keys have produced no finger-prints.”
He was right, of course. I tried to salvage as much dignity as I was able.
“Hardly conclusive proof of anything but Lord Arthur playing Schumann. Not much to go on.”
BOOK: Sherlock Holmes and the King's Evil: And Other New Tales Featuring the World's Greatest Detective
8.94Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
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