The Adventure of the Plated Spoon and Other Tales of Sherlock Holmes (15 page)

It was some three hours later that we alighted at a small wayside station. The snow had ceased, and beyond the roofs of the hamlet the long desolate slopes of the Derbyshire moors, white and glistening under the light of a full moon, rolled away to the skyline. A stocky, bowlegged man swathed in a shepherd's plaid hurried towards us along the platform.

“You're from Scotland Yard, I take it?” he greeted us brusquely. “I got your wire in reply to mine and I have a carriage waiting outside. Yes, I'm Inspector Dawlish,” he added in response to Gregson's question. “But who are these gentlemen?”

“I considered that Mr. Sherlock Holmes's reputation—” began our companion.

“I've never heard of him,” interposed the local man, looking at us with a gleam of hostility in his dark eyes. “This is a serious affair and there is no room for amateurs. But it is too cold to stand arguing here and, if London approves his presence, who am I to gainsay him? This way, if you please.”

A closed carriage was standing before the station, and a moment later we had swung out of the yard and were bowling swiftly but silently up the village high street.

“There'll be accommodation for you at the Queen's Head,” grunted Inspector Dawlish. “But first to the castle.”

“I shall be glad to hear the facts of this case,” stated Gregson, “and the reason for the most irregular suggestion contained in your telegram.”

“The facts are simple enough,” replied the other, with a grim smile. “His lordship has been murdered and we know who did it.”

“Ah!”

“Captain Jasper Lothian, the murdered man's cousin, has disappeared in a hurry. It's common knowledge hereabouts that the man's got a touch of the devil in him, a hard hand with a bottle, a horse, or the nearest woman. It's come as a surprise to none of us that Captain Jasper should end by slaughtering his benefactor and the head of his house. Aye, head's a well-chosen word,” he ended softly.

“If you've a clear case, then what's this nonsense about a guidebook?”

Inspector Dawlish leaned forward while his voice sank almost to a whisper. “You've read it?” he said. “Then it may interest you to know that Lord Jocelyn Cope was put to death with his own ancestral guillotine.”

His words left us in a chilled silence.

“What motive can you suggest for that murder and for the barbarous method employed?” asked Sherlock Holmes at last.

“Probably a ferocious quarrel. Have I not told you already that Captain Jasper had a touch of the devil in him? But there's the castle, and a proper place it looks for deeds of violence and darkness.”

We had turned off the country road to enter a gloomy avenue that climbed between banked snowdrifts up a barren moorland slope. On the crest loomed a great building, its walls and turrets stark and grey against the night sky. A few minutes later, our carriage rumbled under the arch of the outer bailey and halted in a courtyard.

At Inspector Dawlish's knock, a tall, stooping man in butler's livery opened the massive oaken door and, holding a candle above his head, peered out at us, the light shining on his weary red-rimmed eyes and ill-nourished beard.

“What, four of you!” he cried querulously. “It b'aint right her ladyship should be bothered thisways at such a time of grief to us all.”

“That will do, Stephen. Where is her ladyship?”

The candle flame trembled. “Still with him,” came the reply, and there was something like a sob in the old voice. “She hasn't moved. Still sitting there in the big chair and staring at him, as though she had fallen fast asleep with them wonderful eyes wide open.”

“You've touched nothing, of course?”

“Nothing. It's all as it was.”

“Then let us go first to the museum where the crime was committed,” said Dawlish. “It is on the other side of the courtyard.”

He was moving away towards a cleared path that ran across the cobblestones when Holmes's hand closed upon his arm. “How is this!” he cried imperiously. “The museum is on the other side, and yet you have allowed a carriage to drive across the courtyard and people to stampede over the ground like a herd of buffalo.”

“What then?”

Holmes flung up his arms appealingly to the moon. “The snow, man, the snow! You have destroyed your best helpmate.”

“But I tell you the murder was committed in the museum. What has the snow to do with it?”

Holmes gave vent to a most dismal groan, and then we all followed the local detective across the yard to an arched doorway.

I have seen many a grim spectacle during my association with Sherlock Holmes, but I can recall none to surpass in horror the sight that met our eyes within that grey Gothic chamber. It was a small room with a groined roof, lit by clusters of tapers in iron sconces. The walls were hung with trophies of armour and mediaeval weapons, and edged by glass-topped cases crammed with ancient parchments, thumb rings, pieces of carved stonework, and yawning man-traps. These details I noticed at a glance, and then my whole attention was riveted to the object that occupied a low dais in the centre of the room.

It was a guillotine, painted a faded red, and, save for its smaller size, exactly similar to those that I had seen depicted in woodcuts of the French Revolution. Sprawling between the two uprights lay the body of a tall, thin man clad in a velvet smoking jacket. His hands were tied behind him and a white cloth, hideously besmirched, concealed his head, or rather the place where his head had been.

The light of the tapers, gleaming on a blood-spattered steel blade buried in the lunette, reached beyond to touch, as with a halo, the red-gold hair of the woman who sat beside that dreadful, headless form. Regardless of our approach, she remained motionless in her high, carved chair, her features an ivory mask from which two dark and brilliant eyes stared into the shadows with the unwinking fixity of a basilisk. In an experience of women covering three continents, I have never beheld a colder nor a more perfect face than that of the chatelaine of Castle Arnsworth, keeping vigil in that chamber of death.

Dawlish coughed.

“You had best retire, my lady,” he said bluntly. “Rest assured that Inspector Gregson here and I will see that justice is done.”

For the first time, she looked at us, and so uncertain was the light of the tapers that for an instant it seemed to me that some swift emotion more akin to mockery than grief gleamed and died in those wonderful eyes.

“Stephen is not with you?” she asked incongruously. “But, of course, he would be in the library. Faithful Stephen.”

“I fear that his lordship's death—”

She rose abruptly, her bosom heaving and one hand gripping the skirt of her black lace gown.

“His damnation!” she hissed, and then, with a gesture of despair, she turned and glided slowly from the room.

As the door closed, Sherlock Holmes dropped on one knee beside the guillotine and, raising the blood-soaked cloth, peered down at the terrible object beneath. “Dear me,” he said quietly. “A blow of this force must have sent the head rolling across the room.”

“Probably.”

“I fail to understand. Surely you know where you found it?”

“I didn't find it. There is no head.”

For a long moment, Holmes remained on his knee, staring up silently at the speaker. “It seems to me that you are taking a great deal for granted,” he said at length, scrambling to his feet. “Let me hear your ideas on this singular crime.”

“It's plain enough. Sometime last night, the two men quarrelled and eventually came to blows. The younger overpowered the elder and then killed him by means of this instrument. The evidence that Lord Cope was still alive when placed in the guillotine is shown by the fact that Captain Lothian had to lash his hands. The crime was discovered this morning by the butler, Stephen, and a groom fetched me from the village, whereupon I took the usual steps to identify the body of his lordship and listed the personal belongings found upon him. If you'd like to know how the murderer escaped, I can tell you that too. On the mare that's missing from the stable.”

“Most instructive,” observed Holmes. “As I understand your theory, the two men engaged in a ferocious combat, being careful not to disarrange any furniture or smash the glass cases that clutter up the room. Then, having disposed of his opponent, the murderer rides into the night, a suitcase under one arm and his victim's head under the other. A truly remarkable performance.”

An angry flush suffused Dawlish's face. “It's easy enough to pick holes in other people's ideas, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he sneered. “Perhaps you will give us your theory.”

“I have none. I am awaiting my facts. By the way, when was your last snowfall?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“Then there is hope yet. But let us see if this room will yield us any information.”

For some ten minutes we stood and watched him, Gregson and I with interest and Dawlish with an ill-concealed look of contempt on his weather-beaten face, as Holmes crawled slowly about the room on his hands and knees, muttering and mumbling to himself and looking like some gigantic dun-coloured insect. He had drawn his magnifying glass from his cape pocket, and I noticed that not only the floor but the contents of the occasional tables were subjected to the closest scrutiny. Then, rising to his feet, he stood wrapped in thought, his back to the candlelight and his gaunt shadow falling across the faded red guillotine.

“It won't do,” he said suddenly. “The murder was premeditated.”

“How do you know?”

“The cranking-handle is freshly oiled, and the victim was senseless. A single jerk would have loosed his hands.”

“Then why were they tied?”

“Ah! There is no doubt, however, that the man was brought here unconscious with his hands already bound.”

“You're wrong there!” interposed Dawlish loudly. “The design on the lashing proves that it is a sash from one of these window-curtains.”

Holmes shook his head. “They are faded through exposure to daylight,” said he, “and this is not. There can be little doubt that it comes from a door-curtain, of which there are none in this room. Well, there is little more to be learned here.”

The two police agents conferred together, and Gregson turned to Holmes. “As it is after midnight,” said he, “we had better retire to the village hostelry and tomorrow pursue our enquiries separately. I cannot but agree with Inspector Dawlish that while we are theorizing here, the murderer may reach the coast.”

“I wish to be clear on one point, Gregson. Am I officially employed on this case by the police?”

“Impossible, Mr. Holmes!”

“Quite so. Then I am free to use my own judgment. But give me five minutes in the courtyard, and Dr. Watson and I will be with you.”

The bitter cold smote us as I slowly followed the gleam of Holmes's dark lantern along the path that, banked with thick snow, led across the courtyard to the front door. “Fools!” he cried, stooping over the powdered surface. “Look at it, Watson! A regiment would have done less damage. Carriage wheels in three places. And here's Dawlish's boots and a pair of hobnails, probably a groom. A woman now, and running. Of course, Lady Cope and the first alarm. Yes, certainly it is she. What was Stephen doing out here? There is no mistaking his square-toed shoes. Doubtless you observed them, Watson, when he opened the door to us. But what have we here?” The lantern paused and then moved slowly onwards. “Pumps, pumps,” he cried eagerly, “and coming from the front door. See, here he is again. Probably a tall man, from the size of his feet, and carrying some heavy object. The stride is shortened and the toes more clearly marked than the heels. A burdened man always tends to throw his weight forward. He returns! Ah, just so, just so! Well, I think that we have earned our beds.”

My friend remained silent during our journey back to the village. But, as we separated from Inspector Dawlish at the door of the inn, he laid a hand on his shoulder.

“The man who has done this deed is tall and spare,” said he. “He is about fifty years of age with a turned-in left foot and strongly addicted to Turkish cigarettes, which he smokes from a holder.”

“Captain Lothian!” grunted Dawlish. “I know nothing about feet or cigarette holders, but the rest of your description is accurate enough. But who told you his appearance?”

“I will set you a question in reply. Were the Copes ever a Catholic family?”

The local inspector glanced significantly at Gregson and tapped his forehead. “Catholic? Well, now that you mention it, I believe they were in the old times. But what on earth—!”

“Merely that I would recommend you to your own guidebook. Good night.”

On the following morning, after dropping my friend and myself at the castle gate, the two police officers drove off to pursue their enquiries further afield. Holmes watched their departure with a twinkle in his eye.

“I fear that I have done you injustice over the years, Watson,” he commented somewhat enigmatically, as we turned away.

The elderly manservant opened the door to us, and as we followed him into the great hall it was painfully obvious that the honest fellow was still deeply afflicted by his master's death.

“There is naught for you here,” he cried shrilly. “My God, will you never leave us in peace?”

I have remarked previously on Holmes's gift for putting others at their ease, and by degrees the old man recovered his composure. “I take it that this is the Agincourt window,” observed Holmes, staring up at a small but exquisitely coloured stained-glass casement through which the winter sunlight threw a pattern of brilliant colours on the ancient stone floor.

“It is, sir. Only two in all England.”

“Doubtless you have served the family for many years,” continued my friend gently.

“Served 'em? Aye, me and mine for nigh two centuries. Ours is the dust that lies upon their funeral palls.”