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  ‘It seems odd that Mrs Arbuthnot saw the man with the note, but not this woman in black,’ observed Holmes.

  ‘It might have been odd, had she been in the drawing-room at the time; but in fact she wasn’t. After finishing her tea, at about half past five, she had gone upstairs to her bedroom, which is at the back of the house, to change for the evening, and was up there for about forty-five minutes. She says that she heard the door-bell, and supposed that it was Dr Zyss arriving. Of course, when she came downstairs, she saw that there was no one there. She was standing at the drawing-room window, in the act of drawing the curtains – for the light had almost gone, and night was setting in – when the messenger opened the gate and walked up the path, which is why she happened to see him before he rang at the bell.’

  ‘I see,’ said Holmes. ‘What sort of a lock is on the front door? Is it possible to open it without a key?’

  Gregson shook his head. ‘It is a modern sprung lock, which engages every time the door is closed. No one could get in that way without a key.’

  ‘So we must assume as a working hypothesis that whoever killed Professor Arbuthnot entered his study by the French windows.’

  ‘So I concluded, Mr Holmes. Unless, of course, he was murdered by his wife, or by one of the two domestic servants. But that is practically unthinkable. Besides, all three of them are small women, and none of them looks powerful enough to have engaged in the struggle which there must have been in the study to disarrange it so much.’

  Holmes nodded. ‘Very well,’ said he. ‘Pray proceed with your account!’

  ‘I interviewed Mrs Arbuthnot, and elicited all the facts I have mentioned, as to her whereabouts and those of her husband at the time of the tragedy, and also confirmed with her that nothing appeared to have been stolen. Then, having concluded, as you say, that the murderer must have gained access to the house by way of the French windows in the study, I made a preliminary examination of the ground outside. The night was a dark one, though, and I couldn’t really see anything, so I instructed the constable to make sure that the ground remained undisturbed until I had had a chance to examine it properly. I then left the house in the care of the constable, and made my way into town, to the Belvedere Hotel, with the intention of interviewing Dr Zyss. My view, you see, was that it seemed something of an odd coincidence that he should have abruptly cancelled his visit to the Arbuthnots’ house on the very day that the professor was murdered. Of course, I realised that there might be nothing in it, but it was a little odd, anyway, so I intended to ask Dr Zyss why exactly he had decided to cancel his visit.

  ‘It was half past ten by the time I reached the hotel, so I was not very surprised to be informed that Dr Zyss had already retired for the night. The night porter who was on duty told me that he had seen Dr Zyss earlier in the evening, and that he hadn’t looked at all well. He had apparently left the hotel at some time in the afternoon – the porter could not say when, exactly, as he had not been on duty then – and had returned at about seven in the evening, in the company of a lady who was dressed all in black, and who wore a heavy black veil over her face. On entering the hotel, Dr Zyss immediately sat down heavily on a chair by the door. He was breathing in a laboured manner, and appeared, said the porter, as if he could hardly stand without assistance. His companion approached the porter’s desk and asked for the doctor’s room-key, saying that the gentleman felt a little ill, and would not be requiring dinner that evening. The porter asked if she wished a medical man to be called, but she declined the offer, saying that Dr Zyss had simply over-taxed himself during the day, and would probably feel adequately restored after a good night’s rest. The lady then assisted Dr Zyss to his room and, about twenty minutes later, returned to the porter’s desk with the information that Dr Zyss was very tired and did not wish to be disturbed, but that if he had not risen by nine o’clock the following morning, he would appreciate a call then and a cup of tea. After the lady had passed on this message, the porter informed me, she did not leave immediately, but sat for a while near the door, looking out through the glass panel at the street outside, and glancing at the clock from time to time, as if waiting for someone. She was there seven or eight minutes, he says, but then he was called away from his desk for a couple of minutes and when he returned she had gone.

  ‘I thanked him for this information, wrote a note for Dr Zyss, to say that I should call in the morning, and left it at that. I couldn’t see that there was much else I could do. The following morning, I called round at the hotel at half past nine, but when I enquired for Dr Zyss the porter on duty gave me an odd look and suggested I speak to the manager. I explained my purpose in being there to that gentleman, at which he shook his head.

  ‘“I’m afraid it will not be possible for you to speak to Dr Zyss,” said he.

  ‘“Why?” said I. “Has something happened to him?” In truth I feared, from what I had heard of his condition, that he had died in the night.

  ‘“I can tell you nothing about him,” said the manager, “for he has vanished into thin air.” He explained to me that as Dr Zyss had not come down for breakfast, a cup of tea had been taken to his room as requested, but the chambermaid who took it had found the room empty and its occupant gone. It appeared, said the manager, that Dr Zyss had risen much earlier than usual and left the hotel before breakfast.

  ‘“Did no one see him go?” I asked.

  ‘The manager shook his head. “We were very busy for a while this morning,” he said, “dealing with a large party who had arrived in London on the overnight train from Edinburgh. Dr Zyss did not hand in his room-key at the desk, but simply left it in his room, and nor did he pick up the note you had left him, so I suppose he just stepped out without speaking to anybody.”

  ‘I at once ascended to Dr Zyss’s room. There were numerous heaps of documents and books on a side table, but, apart from that, and the bed, the covers of which had been thrown back, the room was in fairly good order. I decided to get as much information as I could from the hotel staff, and hoped that while I was doing so Dr Zyss would return. What I learnt was that Dr Zyss had been staying at the Belvedere Hotel for six days, during which time he had generally worked in his room in the mornings, and then gone out shortly after lunch and returned about tea-time – that is to say, between about four o’clock and five o’clock. The porter on duty at the desk was my chief source of information. He had seen Dr Zyss go out every afternoon and, except for the previous day, had never known him not to return by five at the latest. He was able to give me a description of the missing man, which I have since circulated to all the police stations in London, so I am very hopeful of finding him somewhere. He is apparently quite a thin man, of medium height, with a trimmed grey beard and thick spectacles. The porter informed me that his eyesight is very poor, as is his hearing. His customary outdoor garb is a grey woollen overcoat, and soft felt hat, also in grey. This description tallies with that given to me by the night porter the previous evening, and as these garments are not in his room, that is certainly what he was wearing when he left the hotel in the morning.

  ‘The porter had one other interesting thing to tell me and it is this: as well as the previous day being the only one on which Dr Zyss had not returned by the time the day porter went off duty at six o’clock, it was also the only day on which he had received a visitor at the hotel. This struck me as another interesting coincidence and I questioned the porter on the matter.

  ‘“About eleven o’clock in the morning,” he said, “a lady entered the hotel and asked me to inform Dr Zyss that Mrs Routledge had arrived. I did so, and a few moments later he descended from his room. After a brief exchange by the desk, he ordered a tray of coffee to be brought to the morning-room, to which he escorted the lady. There they sat in conversation for about an hour and a half. The lady then departed, and Dr Zyss returned to his room. He subsequently took lunch at the hotel as usual, but then returned once more to his room, worked there for a further couple of hours, and did not
go out until nearly four o’clock, which was much later than his usual habit. That was the last time I saw him.”

  ‘I asked the porter if he had ever seen this Mrs Routledge at any other time, but he said not. He described her to me as a lady of medium height and late middle age. He said she was well dressed in black, with a veil on her hat, but she lifted her veil as she spoke to Dr Zyss by the porter’s desk, and he said he was confident he would recognise her again.

  ‘“Did you overhear any of their conversation?” I asked him.

  ‘“No, sir,” said he.

  ‘I then had another look in Dr Zyss’s room, to see if I could find a letter from Mrs Routledge. I thought it likely, for it seemed from what the porter had told me that her arrival at the hotel was not unexpected. After ten minutes I found what I was looking for. I have the letter here,’ he continued, pulling a bundle of papers from his pocket. He sifted through the bundle for a moment, then selected one and passed it to Holmes, who studied it for a few moments, then handed it on to me.

  It was a plain white sheet. The address at the top was 14 Trenchard Villas, Gospel Oak, the date 19 September, and the message ran as follows:

  DEAR DR ZYSS,

  News of your visit to England has reached me in the past twenty-four hours, and I should wish to take the opportunity to see you to discuss a matter of mutual interest. Please reply to the above address, stating a day and time which would be convenient to you.

  YOURS SINCERELY, J. T. ROUTLEDGE

  ‘As she wrote the letter on Saturday,’ said Gregson, ‘Dr Zyss no doubt received it on Monday and sent a reply which Mrs Routledge received on Tuesday, naming Wednesday morning as a suitable time for their interview. Of course I had no evidence that this lady had anything to do with Dr Zyss’s mysterious disappearance, far less with the tragic events at Highgate; but in the absence of any real clues, I thought I had better interview her and see what she had to say for herself. I therefore took myself up to Gospel Oak yesterday morning. Unfortunately, the lady was not at home, and the maid who answered the door said that her mistress had gone to visit friends in St Albans and would not be returning until Saturday. Of course, I could have taken the train to St Albans to see her, but I had other things to do, so I decided to postpone the interview until tomorrow.

  ‘I therefore returned to the Arbuthnots’ house in Holly Grove, where I examined the lawn very carefully, especially that part of it which extends round the side of the house to the French windows of the study. The earth is somewhat damp there, and overhung with trees, so there were several well-preserved footprints. From these it was apparent that my initial surmise that the murderer had entered the study by the French windows was correct. There were very clear footprints crossing the lawn from the garden gate to the French windows, both coming and going. To make sure that these were indeed the footprints of the murderer, and not those of some innocent party who had called earlier, I asked Mrs Arbuthnot if they had had any visitors in the past couple of days. There had been only one, she informed me, that being the professor’s nephew, Lady Boothby’s son, Terence Chalfont, who had called early in the afternoon the previous day.

  ‘“Did Mr Chalfont walk round the garden to the professor’s study?” I asked, but she shook her head, and said that he had rung the front-door bell and been admitted in the usual way. I asked if Mr Chalfont was a frequent visitor, but again she shook her head.

  ‘“No,” said she. “He and my husband did not get on very well, and had a severe falling out a couple of months ago, since which time we have hardly seen him here at all. I was the one he had come to see. He did suggest that he went in to speak to my husband, who was working in the study at the time, but I dissuaded him from that. As I mentioned to you, my husband disliked being disturbed when he was working.”

  ‘“Mr Chalfont’s visit was a purely social call, I take it.”

  ‘Mrs Arbuthnot hesitated. “Of a sort,” she said at last. I asked her what she meant. “Mr Chalfont is a playwright,” she explained after a moment, “and moves in the world of actors and other such shallow and insubstantial people. He writes plays which are said to be highly artistic, and are put on occasionally at some of the smaller theatres. They are generally praised highly by the critics – most of whom seem to be personal friends of his – but are utterly unremunerative. His visit yesterday was partly to ask if we would care to contribute to the cost of staging his latest play, but I told him we certainly would not.”

  ‘The lady seemed unusually vehement on the matter, and I asked her why.

  ‘“Really,” said she in a tone of exasperation. “This is all perfectly irrelevant! If you must know, Inspector, Terence’s latest play, in so far as I understand what he has told me, is to be concerned with the subject of mental illness and the treatment of it.”

  ‘“Your late husband’s profession, in fact.”

  ‘“Precisely. Not at all a suitable subject for a theatrical presentation, especially in the hands of a self-indulgent young man like Terence Chalfont.”

  ‘“Why so?”

  ‘“Because he is the sort of young man who has always had his own way. Indulged appallingly by his mother – my late husband’s sister – especially since his father died, he now presumes to argue and quarrel about subjects of which he knows nothing at all.”

  ‘“It was on this subject that he fell out with your husband?”

  ‘“Yes it was,” said she with great emphasis. “He felt qualified to argue from a position of complete ignorance with the man acknowledged as the greatest psychologist in Europe. It was this that infuriated my husband so.” She paused. “But if you are thinking that Terence Chalfont might have had anything to do with my husband’s death, you are utterly mistaken. He called here at about half past two, stayed barely half an hour, then left, and I did not see him again. He may be a worthless and impertinent young fool, who likes the sound of his own voice too much, but he is certainly not violent. He is too feckless and feeble to have any violence in him!”

  ‘“Of course,” I said; but I took down Mr Chalfont’s address nonetheless, and made a mental note to go and see him. For it seemed to me possible that, despite Mrs Arbuthnot’s belief to the contrary, he might have returned to Holly Grove later in the afternoon. Knowing that he was not going to get any money from Mrs Arbuthnot, he might have gone directly round the side of the house to catch the professor in his study, and ended up having a violent row with him. Up until that point, I had presumed that the murder was the work of a chance intruder, but the information concerning Mr Chalfont and his fraught relations with his uncle gave me another line of inquiry.

  ‘Chalfont lives in Hampstead, where he occupies a set of rooms over a baker’s shop in Heath Street. I went there directly from Highgate, but found no one at home. At least, no one answered my knock at the door, although I thought I heard some slight sounds from inside the apartment. There was nothing more I could do there, so I took myself down the road to Belsize Park, where Professor Arbuthnot’s sister, Lady Boothby, has a house. The poor old lady was in a state of the utmost shock and mourning, as you can imagine, and I got no useful information from her. She was aware, of course, that Dr Zyss was visiting London for the first time in ten years, but said she had not seen or heard from him. Nor could she shed any light on her son’s whereabouts, as she had not seen him in the past fortnight.

  ‘I therefore returned to Scotland Yard, to see if we had had any news of Dr Zyss, but I was disappointed in that enquiry, too. We had had several reports concerning possible sightings of him, from Stepney, Walworth, Finchley, Ealing and another half dozen places, but although I spent several hours following them up, they all turned out to be false leads. This brings me to today.

  ‘I had left a note at Chalfont’s apartment to say when I should call again, and duly went up there this morning and found him waiting for me. He is about thirty years of age, with a manner which struck me as unduly defensive and argumentative. I questioned him about his recent visit to Holly Gro
ve and he confirmed the account that Mrs Arbuthnot had given me.

  ‘“You did not see Professor Arbuthnot on Wednesday?” I asked.

  ‘“No,” said he, “as I’m sure you’re already aware.”

  ‘“You did not, for instance, walk round the side of the house after you left, to the French windows of the study?”

  ‘“No.”

  ‘“Or return to the house later for any reason?”

  ‘“Certainly not.”

  ‘“I understand,” I said, “that your latest play is to be about the work of a medical psychologist, which one would imagine would have been of interest to your uncle and his wife, but I gather they were somewhat unenthusiastic. Why was that?”

  ‘“How would I know?” said he brusquely.

  ‘“Well, you are the one writing the play, you are the one who has discussed it with them.”

  ‘“Oh, all right,” said he at last, in a tone of annoyance. “They didn’t like the sound of my play, Inspector, because they realised that it would be more than simply a paean of praise to the wonderful, highly esteemed Professor Arbuthnot!” These last words were spoken in a tone of great sarcasm.

  ‘“Am I to take it, then, that it is critical of him or his work?”

  ‘“It just aims to tell the truth, that’s all. Look, Inspector, I fail to see the relevance of any of this, and I don’t see any point in discussing it further.”

  ‘“You didn’t like your uncle?” I ventured.

  ‘“Not much, no.”

  ‘I didn’t get any more of interest from Mr Chalfont, but just as I was leaving, I heard a slight sound from an adjoining room. “Oh, that’s just Martin,” Chalfont said by way of explanation, “an actor friend of mine. I’m putting him up for a few days. He never rises before lunchtime.”

  ‘I returned to Scotland Yard then. There had still been no word of Dr Zyss, so I sent a message to our colleagues in St Albans, asking them to go to the address at which Mrs Routledge was staying and inform her that I should be calling at her house in Gospel Oak on Saturday. I also asked them to make inquiries about Dr Zyss, in case he was staying in St Albans with her, or had been seen anywhere in the vicinity. They later reported that there was no trace of him there. I seemed to have reached a dead end, and could not think what to do next. Then, about five o’clock, a message reached me from Hampstead which sounded more promising, so I took myself back up there. But if it had already been a puzzling case, with no obvious explanation, this latest information took it almost into the realm of absurdity. It is this that has brought me to see you, Mr Holmes, to see if you can see any chink of light in the business where I cannot.’