The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes Page 3

  ‘You intrigue me,’ said Holmes. ‘Pray, what is this latest information?’

  ‘An elderly woman by the name of Tuttle had been into Hampstead police station earlier and made a statement. A friend of hers, she said, a Miss Cracknell, who was, she said, too shy to come forward herself, had taken tea with her that afternoon. In the course of their conversation, Miss Cracknell had said, “You will never guess who I saw crossing the high street this morning, Minnie! It was one of those old professors! I thought at first it was Professor Arbuthnot, then I realised it was the other one – Dr Zyss – the one with the thick glasses. I haven’t seen either of them for years – I didn’t even know if they were still about – and, in any case, I thought Dr Zyss had moved to Austria or Germany or somewhere like that. Anyway, he didn’t see me, but just seemed to sort of float across the road like a spirit. He had a far-away look on his face, and was staring straight ahead. I called to him, but he didn’t hear me. Then he turned into Church Row and walked on towards the church. Please don’t think me fanciful, Minnie, but there seemed something ethereal, unworldly almost, about him. I couldn’t help but think that he wasn’t long for this world. I was going that way myself, so I followed him along the street. Without pausing, he went into the church, so, on the spur of the moment, I did, too. But I got a terrible shock, I can tell you. Inside the church, there wasn’t a living soul, not one! Dr Zyss had just vanished into thin air!”

  ‘As Miss Cracknell was recounting her experience, Miss Tuttle was, she says, in a state of shock. “Susannah, have you not heard?” she said at length. “Professor Arbuthnot was murdered on Wednesday night and Dr Zyss has disappeared!”

  ‘So that was that,’ said Gregson. ‘Miss Tuttle and her friend decided that we should be informed of this sighting, but apart from confirming that Dr Zyss is still in the area, it doesn’t really help us very much. He may have reappeared, but only to vanish once more!’

  ‘Do you know what connection there was between these two elderly ladies and the two psychologists?’ Holmes asked after a moment.

  ‘Apparently,’ replied Gregson, ‘both Professor Arbuthnot and Dr Zyss used to give public lectures on their theories at the Hampstead Educational Institute, which were well attended. Some of those who attended became almost like disciples, I understand, and used to help them with practical work, keeping records and so on. Miss Tuttle and Miss Cracknell had been two such disciples, so I am given to understand.’

  Holmes nodded. ‘So,’ said he after a moment, as Inspector Gregson leaned back in his chair and sipped his whisky, ‘to sum the matter up: Professor Arbuthnot, a prominent, retired psychologist, has been murdered in his own home, apparently by an intruder, although no such intruder was seen or heard by anyone. Nothing appears to have been stolen, but an unusual little black owl has appeared in the murdered man’s study. An old colleague of Arbuthnot’s, Dr Zyss, was due to call that evening, but sent a note to say that, after all, he could not. This gentleman has subsequently disappeared from his hotel and his whereabouts are unknown. A woman who visited him at his hotel on the morning of the same day has also disappeared – temporarily, you hope. The maid at the murdered man’s house reports that a veiled woman rang the front-door bell on Wednesday evening, but did not respond when addressed, instead turning and walking away, and today a woman reports seeing Dr Zyss in the middle of Hampstead High Street, but he then proceeded to vanish for a second time, even more mysteriously than the first time.’

  ‘That just about covers the matter,’ said Gregson with a rueful chuckle.

  ‘And you would like me to look into it for you?’

  ‘Well, I would very much value your opinion, Mr Holmes – if one can form an opinion about such a confusing business!’

  ‘Very well,’ said Holmes after a moment. ‘We can do nothing this evening, so what I propose is this: you come round here at nine tomorrow morning and we shall be ready to set forth.’

  _______

  In the morning, however, it happened that Inspector Gregson was detained elsewhere and could not join us as arranged. Shortly before nine we received a message from him containing a signed authority for us to view the body of the murdered man, which was at the police station on Kentish Town Road, and to make any enquiries we saw fit, and also a note of the time he intended to interview Mrs Routledge at her house in Gospel Oak, when he hoped, he said, that we would be able to meet up and share our conclusions. It was a chilly morning and I warmed myself before the fire as I glanced over the morning papers.

  ‘Any fresh news of the matter?’ asked Holmes as he stood up from his desk, where he had been studying a map.

  I shook my head. ‘It remains as puzzling as ever. How do you intend to proceed?’ I asked as my friend put on his hat and coat.

  ‘I have been considering the matter from a geographical point of view, Watson,’ he replied. He took an envelope from his desk and held it up. ‘If we say that this envelope represents roughly the extent of Hampstead Heath, Parliament Hill and so on, then here, at the bottom right-hand corner, is the police station in Kentish Town Road where the professor’s body lies; here at the top right-hand corner is Highgate itself, scene of Wednesday’s tragedy. The top of the envelope represents the long road across the north side of the Heath, from Highgate to Hampstead, which lies here, at the top left-hand corner. In Hampstead is the home of the Arbuthnots’ nephew, Mr Terence Chalfont, who visited their house on Wednesday afternoon. It is also the place where Miss Cracknell saw Dr Zyss, as he floated in a spiritual manner across the street, before disappearing once more. Down here,’ he continued, running his finger down the side of the envelope to the bottom left-hand corner, ‘is Belsize Park, the home of Lady Boothby, sister of Professor Arbuthnot, and here, in the middle of the bottom edge, is Gospel Oak, home of the mysterious Mrs Routledge. That is, approximately, the route I propose to take. Are you free for a few hours?’

  ‘Certainly. I am at your disposal.’

  ‘Excellent! I have booked a four-wheeler for the day, so we shall not be short of transport. Ah! Here it is now!’ he continued, as there came a peal at the bell.

  In a minute we were in the cab and rattling through the busy streets of north London. Twenty minutes later, we alighted at the police station, where the duty sergeant conducted us to a back room in which the professor’s body was lying. In the left breast was a sharply edged puncture wound, and it was evident from a brief examination that the weapon had penetrated the ribs and entered the heart. For a few moments Holmes examined the body carefully, then he turned his attention to the bundle of clothes on a side table nearby, holding up the jacket and waistcoat of a greenish-brown tweed suit, and examining them closely with the aid of his magnifying lens. Something on the jacket seemed to particularly arrest his attention. In answer to my query he indicated a slit in the lining.

  ‘Made by the knife that killed him, no doubt,’ I remarked, but Holmes shook his head.

  ‘No,’ said he. ‘This little cut was made separately, which is what makes it so interesting.’ He replaced the clothes and took up a pair of brown shoes which lay beside them.

  ‘May I borrow these?’ he asked the sergeant. ‘I wish to compare them with the footprints in the garden of the professor’s house.’

  ‘By all means,’ replied the other. ‘We have no immediate use for them. If you will just sign for them, you may keep them for forty-eight hours.’

  We returned to our cab and began the long ascent up the steep hill to Highgate village, perched on top of the ridge overlooking north London. Holmes had said nothing as we left the police station, but there was a thoughtful look upon his features, as if he were turning the matter over in his mind. Although I attempted to discuss the case further, however, my friend would not be drawn. Presently, at the summit of the hill, we alighted in a short, pleasant tree-lined road, which a sign identified as Holly Grove. A police constable stood on duty beside a green-painted wooden gate, but admitted us without demur on being shown Inspector Gregson�
�s letter of authority. On either side of the gate were large trees, the branches of which met overhead, forming a shady arch. Within the garden a straight paved path led to the front door of the house, as Gregson had described. To the left of this lay a narrow strip of grass, a flower-bed and a tall hedge, and to the right, a larger expanse of lawn which passed out of view round the side of the house. Beyond this lawn was another tall, dense hedge.

  Our ring at the bell was answered by a young maid, who showed us into a drawing-room. A moment later we were joined by the lady of the house. She was dressed in black, and her features were drawn and showed evidence of the tragedy which had so recently come upon the household. In answer to our questions, she described to us the events of Wednesday evening, much as we had already heard them from Gregson.

  ‘You say you heard the door-bell ring while you were upstairs in your bedroom,’ said Holmes. ‘Did it surprise you, then, when you descended, to find that there was no one here?’

  Mrs Arbuthnot hesitated a moment, as if struggling to remember.

  ‘I suppose it did,’ she said at last; ‘but then I thought it was perhaps someone collecting for some charitable cause or other and I thought I would ask Ruby about it later.’

  ‘And shortly after that you saw the man approaching the door with a note in his hand?’

  ‘Yes. Just as I was drawing the curtains.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘Not really. I mean, he was rather nondescript. About thirty years of age, I suppose, with a black moustache. I really can’t remember anything else about him.’

  ‘And then, when you took the note to show your husband in the study, you found him dead, stabbed?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘May we see the study?’

  ‘By all means. But you must excuse me. I do not wish to enter that room. I will wait in here to answer any further questions you may have.’

  The study was situated immediately behind the drawing-room. A large desk, covered with papers, stood in the centre of the room and in front of it was a small rug, its pattern obscured by an irregular dark stain, which I needed only the briefest of glances to identify as blood. In the wall opposite the door was a pair of French windows, through which I could see the shady garden.

  ‘So,’ said Sherlock Holmes, as he prowled about the room, his keen eyes darting here and there to take in every detail of the scene of the tragedy, ‘the professor is seated behind his desk, working at his papers; someone enters through the French windows; the professor stands up, comes round to this side of the desk, either to talk to or to confront the intruder. Hum! Let us take a look outside!’

  He opened the French windows and stepped out, and I watched from the study as he began slowly circling round on the lawn. After a few minutes, he dropped to his knees and examined closely some mark upon the lawn.

  ‘Would you be so good as to bring me the shoes, Watson?’ he called without looking up. ‘Make sure you keep well to the side!’

  I unwrapped the parcel and took him the shoes. He turned them over and studied the undersides for a moment, then returned his gaze to the ground. Then he shook his head.

  ‘They do not match,’ said he. ‘These prints are therefore those of another man.’ He took a handkerchief from his pocket and placed it on the ground by the footprint, then continued his examination. After a few moments he dropped to his knees again. ‘A very clear print here, in this small muddy patch,’ he murmured. ‘Same as the first one. It seems – ah, yes! – this person is turning back in, towards the house wall. Here is another – and another! But wait! Here are some other prints, quite different from those! Let us see!’ He looked again at the shoes he was carrying, then back again at the ground. ‘It is a perfect match!’

  ‘So the professor was out in the garden, as well as the other man,’ I observed.

  ‘So it would appear,’ returned Holmes. ‘Of course, there is nothing remarkable about a man taking a walk round his own garden. And we cannot yet say whether the two men were in the garden at the same time or not. Let us cast our net further afield!’

  ‘Is it of any significance when the professor was in the garden?’ I enquired, as Holmes moved slowly away, his keen, hawk-like eyes fixed upon the ground at his feet.

  ‘It might be,’ he answered without looking up. ‘If the two men walked about together, it would of course suggest that they knew each other and had been strolling about whilst in conversation.’

  My companion then fell silent once more as he continued his examination of the lawn. In a few minutes he had covered the whole extent of it, and reached the garden gate. There he stood for a while, his chin in his hand, evidently pondering his findings, before making his way back to where I stood, near the corner of the house.

  ‘If the two of them had been walking together,’ he remarked, ‘one would expect the two sets of prints to be closely aligned; but they are not. It is true that they come together in one or two places, but that is evidently mere chance, for where they cross, they are going in opposite directions. In every case where the two sets of prints intersect, those of the other shoes are overlaid upon those of the shoes we have here and were therefore made later.’

  ‘It appears, then,’ I said, ‘that the professor simply took a walk earlier in the day and the other man arrived later. You therefore cannot tell from the prints whether the other man was someone known to the professor or not. From that point of view the prints are of no use to you.’

  Holmes chuckled. ‘The fact that one set of prints was certainly made later than the other is not the only discovery I have made,’ said he. ‘Footprints can tell you a great deal, if you read them carefully, Watson! I have, as you know, written a short monograph on the subject. But come!’ he continued, as I made to ask him more. ‘I shall make a quick sketch of one of the prints made by the other shoes for future identification and we can then return to the house.’

  In the study, Holmes resumed his close examination of the room. After a few minutes, he paused before a framed photograph, which was hanging on the wall behind the desk. In it, a group of perhaps fifteen or sixteen people were standing on the steps of what appeared to be a college of some kind. Most of them were men, almost all of whom were bearded and bespectacled, and staring at the camera with such an intensity that they appeared like nothing so much as a row of owls sitting on a perch. After a moment, Holmes unhooked the photograph from the wall and, indicating that I should follow him, led the way through to the drawing-room.

  ‘That photograph was taken about twenty-five years ago,’ said Mrs Arbuthnot, in answer to Holmes’s query. ‘A conference was held in Oxford, at Montgomery College, and people came from all over Europe to contribute to the discussions. It was a great success.’

  ‘Is your late husband in the picture?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Yes. That is he, there,’ she answered, indicating the end figure of the front row of intense-looking, bearded men.

  ‘And Dr Zyss?’

  ‘Two to the left of my husband, the man with the spectacles.’

  ‘And this woman, standing at the side?’

  ‘Yes, that is me. Of course, I was much younger then. I dare say I have changed rather a lot. Sometimes it seems to me that women age less well than men.’

  ‘Not at all, madam,’ responded Holmes suavely. ‘And this other woman: could that be Mrs Routledge?’

  ‘Mrs Routledge?’ repeated Mrs Arbuthnot sharply. ‘Certainly not! Whatever made you think such a thing? Why should Mrs Routledge be there?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Arbuthnot. I have evidently spoken in error. I had heard the name of Mrs Routledge in connection with your husband or Dr Zyss and assumed, perhaps incorrectly, that she was a professional colleague of his. If I have made a mistake, I apologise.’

  ‘You certainly have made a mistake!’ said Mrs Arbuthnot with feeling. ‘Mrs Routledge was the mother of one of my husband’s patients and nothing, if I may say so, but a troublemaker. Her own husband had
died, she had brought up her son alone and was devoted to him. I say “devoted”, but “over-devoted” would perhaps be more accurate. That, in my husband’s opinion, was the source of the young man’s troubles, but, of course, the mother would not hear of it. My husband had been treating him for some time, on the recommendation of their own family physician, when unfortunately, and to everyone’s great surprise, the young man took his own life. The mother, Mrs Routledge, was naturally terribly distraught, which was understandable; but after a few days she began to lay the blame for what had happened on my husband and Dr Zyss. She accused them of putting strange ideas into his head, which was quite untrue and a wicked thing to say. At first my husband excused these accusations as the reaction of a sorrowful, bereaved mother and did not respond; but after a time her lies began to affect his professional standing and he could no longer simply ignore them. He therefore applied for a court injunction to prevent her from spreading these malicious and unsubstantiated falsehoods. The case was won and Mrs Routledge was thenceforth restrained, but serious damage had already been done to my husband’s reputation, and it took some time for the practice to recover. That was about a dozen years ago.’

  ‘Was it not also about that time that Dr Zyss returned to Vienna?’

  ‘Yes, approximately.’