The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters (21 page)

And then she was up on her tip-toes whispering some more. After perhaps a minute, which is a long time to be whispering, she danced a few steps back and paused, and Faulting blushed. Blushing has quite gone out of fashion now, but it was quite the thing for both men and women back in the seventies. Although how something that is believed to be an involuntary physiological reaction can be either in or out of fashion demands more study by Dr Freud and his fellow psycho-analysts.

Crisboy gathered himself and leaped to his feet. “Stay on your own side of the street!” he yapped at Andrea Maples, which startled both her and the young gamesmen, two of whom rolled over and stared up at the scene, while the other three or four continued doing push-ups at a frantic pace, as though there was nothing remarkable happening above them. After a second Mrs Maples laughed and thrust the plate of pastries out at him.

Professor Maples turned to stare at the little group some twenty feet away from him and his hands tightened around his walking stick. Although he strove to remain calm, he was clearly in the grip of some powerful emotion for a few seconds before he regained control. “Now, now, my dear,” he called across the lawn. “Let us not incite the athletes.”

Andrea skipped over to him and leaned over to whisper in his ear. As she was facing me this time, and I had practiced lip-reading for some years, I could make out what she said: “Perhaps I’ll do you a favour, poppa bear,” she whispered. His reply was not visible to me.

A few minutes later my wanderings took me over to where Sherlock Holmes was sitting by himself on one of the canvas chairs near the French windows looking disconsolate. “Well,” I said, looking around, “and where is Miss Lucy?”

“She suddenly discovered that she had a sick headache and needed to go lie down. Presumably she has gone to lie down,” he told me.

“I see,” I said. “Leaving you to suffer alone among the multitude.”

“I’m afraid it must have been something I said,” Holmes confided to me.

“Really? What did you say?”

“I’m not sure. I was speaking about—well…” Holmes looked embarrassed, a look I had never seen him encompass before, nor have I seen it since.

“Hopes and dreams,” I suggested.

“Something of that nature,” he agreed. “Why is it that words that sound so—important—when one is speaking to a young lady with whom one is on close terms, would sound ridiculous when spoken to the world at large? That is, you understand, Mr Moriarty, a rhetorical question.”

“I do understand,” I told him. “Shall we return to the college?”

And so we did.

* * * *

The next afternoon found me in the commons room sitting in my usual chair beneath the oil painting of Sir James Walsingham, the first chancellor of Queens College, receiving the keys to the college from Queen Elizabeth. I was dividing my attention between my cup of coffee and a letter from the Reverend Charles Dodgson, a fellow mathematician who was then at Oxford, in which he put forth some of his ideas concerning what we might call the mathematical constraints of logical constructions.

My solitude was interrupted by Dean McCuthers, who toddled over, cup of tea in hand, looking even older than usual, and dropped into the chair next to me. “Afternoon, Moriarty,” he breathed. “Isn’t it dreadful?”

I put the letter aside. “Isn’t what dreadful?” I asked him. “The day? The war news? Huxley’s Theory of Biogenesis? Perhaps you’re referring to the coffee—it is pretty dreadful today.”

McCuthers shook his head sadly. “Would that I could take the news so lightly,” he said. “I am always so aware, so sadly aware, of John Donne’s admonishment.”

“I thought Donne had done with admonishing for these past two hundred years or so,” I said.

But there was no stopping McCuthers. He was determined to quote Donne, and quote he did: “‘Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind,’” he went on, ignoring my comment. “‘And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.’”

I forbore from mentioning that the dean, a solitary man who spent most of his waking hours pondering over literature written over two thousand years before he was born, was probably less involved in mankind than any man I had ever known. “I see,” I said. “The bell has tolled for someone?”

“And murder makes it so much worse,” McCuthers continued. “As Lucretius puts it—”

“Who was murdered?” I asked firmly, cutting through his tour of the classics.

“Eh? You mean you don’t know? Oh, dear me. This will come as something of a shock, then. It’s that Professor Maples—”

“Someone has murdered Maples?”

“No, no. My thought was unfinished. Professor Maples has been arrested. His wife—Andrea—Mrs Maples—has been murdered.”

I was, I will admit it, bemused. You may substitute a stronger term if you like. I tried to get some more details from McCuthers, but the dean’s involvement with the facts had not gone beyond the murder and the arrest. I finished my coffee and went off in search of more information.

Murder is a sensational crime which evokes a formidable amount of interest, even among the staid and unworldly dons of Queens College. And a murder
in mediis rebus,
or perhaps better,
in mediis universitatibus
; one that actually occurs among said staid dons, will intrude on the contemplations of even the most unworldly. The story, which spread rapidly through the college, was this.

* * * *

A quartet of bicyclists, underclassmen from St Simon’s College, set out together at dawn three days a week, rain or shine, to get an hour or two’s cycling in before breakfast. This morning, undeterred by the chill drizzle that had begun during the night, they went out along Barleymore Road as usual. At about eight o’clock, or shortly after, they happened to stop at the front steps to the small cottage on Professor Maples’ property.

One of the bicycles had throw a shoe, or something of the sort, and they had paused to repair the damage. The chain-operated bicycle had been in existence for only a few years back then, and was prone to a variety of malfunctions. I understand that bicyclists, even today, find it useful to carry about a complete set of tools in order to be prepared for the inevitable mishap.

One of the party, who was sitting on the cottage steps with his back up against the door, as much out of the rain as he could manage, indulging in a pipeful of Latakia while the damaged machine was being repaired, felt something sticky under his hand. He looked, and discovered a widening stain coming out from under the door.

Now, according to which version of the story you find most to your liking, he either pointed to the stain and said, “I say, chaps, what do you suppose this is?” Or he leapt to his feet screaming, “It’s blood! It’s blood! Something horrible has happened here.”

I tend to prefer the latter version, but perhaps it’s only the alliteration that appeals to me.

The young men, feeling that someone inside the cottage might require assistance, pounded on the door. When they got no response, they tried the handle and found it locked. The windows all around the building were also locked. They broke the glass in a window, unlocked it, and they all climbed through.

In the hallway leading to the front door they found Andrea Maples, in what was described as “a state of undress,” lying in a pool of blood—presumably her own, as she had been badly beaten about the head. Blood splatters covered the walls and ceiling. A short distance away from the body lay what was presumably the murder weapon: a mahogany cane with a brass duck’s head handle.

One of the men immediately cycled off to the police station and returned with a police sergeant and two constables. When they ascertained that the hard wood cane belonged to Professor Maples, and that he carried it about with him constantly, the policemen crossed the lawn to the main house and interviewed the professor, who was having breakfast. At the conclusion of the interview, the sergeant placed Maples under arrest and sent one of the constables off to acquire a carriage in which the professor could be conveyed to the police station.

* * * *

It was about four in the afternoon when Sherlock Holmes came banging at my study door. “You’ve heard, of course,” he said, flinging himself into my armchair. “What are we to do?”

“I’ve heard,” I said. “And what have we to do with it?”

“That police sergeant, Meeks is his name, has arrested Professor Maples for the murder of his wife.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“He conducted no investigation, did not so much as glance at the surroundings, and failed to leave a constable behind to secure the area, so that, as soon as the rain lets up, hordes of the morbidly curious will trample about the cottage and the lawn and destroy whatever evidence there is to be found.”

“Did he?” I asked. “And how do you know so much about it?”

“I was there,” Holmes said. At my surprised look, he shook his head. “Oh, no, not at the time of the murder, whenever that was. When the constable came around for the carriage to take Professor Maples away, I happened to be in the stables. The hostler, Biggs is his name, is an expert single-stick fighter, and I’ve been taking lessons from him on occasional mornings when he has the time. So when they returned to the professor’s house, Biggs drove and I sat in the carriage with the constable, who told me all about it.”

“I imagine he’ll be talking about it for some time,” I commented. “Murders are not exactly common around here.”

“Just so. Well, I went along thinking I might be of some use to Lucy. After all, her sister had just been murdered.”

“Thoughtful of you,” I said.

“Yes. Well, she wouldn’t see me. Wouldn’t see anyone. Just stayed in her room. Can’t blame her, I suppose. So I listened to the sergeant questioning Professor Maples—and a damned poor job he did of it, if I’m any judge. Then I went out and looked over the area—the two houses and the space between—to see if I could determine what happened. I also examined Andrea Maples’s body as best I could from the doorway. I was afraid that if I got any closer Sergeant Meeks would notice and chase me away.”

“And did you determine what happened?”

“I may have,” Holmes said. “If you’d do me the favour of taking a walk with me, I’d like to show you what I’ve found. I believe I have a good idea of what took place last night—or at least some of the salient details. I’ve worked it out from the traces on the ground and a few details in the cottage that the sergeant didn’t bother with. It seems to me that much more can be done in the investigation of crimes than the police are accustomed to do. But I’d like your opinion. Tell me what you think.”

I pulled my topcoat on. “Show me,” I said.

The drizzle was steady and cold, the ground was soggy, and by the time we arrived at the house the body had been removed; all of which reduced the number of curious visitors to two reporters who, having stomped about the cottage but failing to gain admittance to the main house, were huddled in a gig pulled up to the front door waiting for someone to emerge who could be coaxed into a statement.

The main house and the cottage both fronted Barleymore Road, but as the road curved around a stand of trees between the two, the path through the property was considerably shorter. It was perhaps thirty yards from the house to the cottage by the path, and perhaps a little more than twice that by the road. I did measure the distance at the time, but I do not recollect the precise numbers.

We went around to the back of the house and knocked at the pantry door. After a few seconds scrutiny through a side window, we were admitted by the maid.

“It’s you, Mr Holmes,” she said, stepping aside to let us in. “Ain’t it horrible? I’ve been waiting by the back door here for the man with the bunting, whose supposed to arrive shortly.”

“Bunting?”

“That’s right. The black bunting which we is to hang in the windows, as is only proper, considering. Ain’t it horrible? We should leave the doors and windows open, in respect of the dead, only the mistress’s body has been taken away, and the master has been taken away, and it’s raining, and those newspaper people will come in and pester Miss Lucy if the door is open. And then there’s the murderer just awaiting out there somewhere, and who knows what’s on his mind.”

“So you don’t think Professor Maples killed his wife?” I asked.

The maid looked at me, and then at Holmes, and then back at me. “This is Mr Moriarty, Willa,” Holmes told her. “He’s my friend, and a lecturer in Mathematics at the college.”

“Ah,” she said, “It’s a pleasure, sir.” And she bobbed a rudimentary curtsey in my direction. “No, sir, I don’t think the professor killed the Missus. Why would he do that?”

“Why, indeed,” I said.

“Miss Lucy is in the drawing room,” Willa told Holmes. “I’ll tell her you’re here.”

“I see you’re well known here,” I said to Holmes as the maid left.

“I have had the privilege of escorting Miss Lucy to this or that over the past few months,” Holmes replied a little stiffly, as though I were accusing him of something dishonourable. “Our relationship has been very proper at all times.”

I repressed a desire to say “how unfortunate,” as I thought he would take it badly.

Lucinda came out to the hall to meet us. She seemed quite subdued, but her eyes were bright and her complexion was feverish. “How good—how nice to see you, Sherlock,” she said quietly, offering him her hand. “And you’re Mr Moriarty, Sherlock’s friend.”

Holmes and I both mumbled something comforting.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see you when you arrived earlier, Sherlock,” Lucy told him, leading us into the sitting room and waving us to a pair of well-stuffed chairs. “I was not in a fit condition to see anyone.”

“I quite understand,” Holmes said.

“I am pleased that you have come to the defence of my—of Professor Maples,” Lucy said, lowering herself into a straight-back chair opposite Holmes. “How anyone could suspect him of murdering my dear sister Andrea is quite beyond my comprehension.”

“I have reason to believe that he is, indeed, innocent, Lucy dear,” Holmes told her. “I am about to take my friend Mr Moriarty over the grounds to show him what I have found, and to see whether he agrees with my conclusions.”