A Study in Treason, page 16
“We have news for you, ma’am,” Wiggins said in a low voice. “For Little Alfie here has been hard at work.”
It was difficult to see Little Alfie in that he appeared to be part of the darkness surrounding the inn. The clothes he wore were black as night, and his face and hands were covered with smears of mud. Only up close were we able to see the whites of his eyes.
“But I will first tell you of the openers,” Wiggins went on. “A tick before ten, when all was bloody dark, the lodger decides to do a skip through the window. Quiet he is, mind you, as he disappears into the forest faster than you can say gone. Here is where Little Alfie latches onto the bloke.”
“He moves quick and even and in no rush, like a dodger after the pinch,” Little Alfie began.
“So he knows his way around the forest,” Joanna said.
“That he does, ma’am. He seems to glide along and make nary a stupid step. And he’s very clever at this, ma’am. He takes a path where anyone following him would make noise. At intervals he stops and listens, just as hunted animals often do.”
“But you remained undetected. Correct?”
“Correct, ma’am. I kept my distance and followed him more by sound than sight. He was suspicious, that’s for sure, because he didn’t go directly to the red shed, but circled it several times.”
“What did you make of that?”
“He was testing to see if he was being followed or watched, of which he could find no evidence.”
“How can you be so certain he had not detected your presence?”
“Because after the third circling, he entered the red shed.”
I now became aware that I had underestimated Little Alfie’s age because of his short stature and innocent looks. His manner and speech indicated he was into his mid-teens and was obviously smarter than most street urchins his age. In addition, his vocabulary suggested he had at least some education.
“Were you able to follow him into the shed?” Joanna asked.
“No, ma’am. ’Cause it had but a single door,” Little Alfie replied. “But I saw everything he did.”
“How did you manage that?”
“Most forest sheds are tightly closed and this causes the smell inside to get bloody bad. And if an animal happens to die in there, well—” Little Alfie made a face as his voice trailed off. “Terrible, it is. But a way to move the air inside about is to leave a narrow gap between the side walls and the overhanging roof. That is what was done here. So I climbed a nearby tree and was able to peek in.”
“Was it not dark within?”
“It was until he turned on a small torch.”
“Describe this man,” Joanna urged.
“The small torch he carried gave off only a narrow stream of light, but from what I could see he was tall, about the height of Wiggins, but a good few years older. His hair was cut short except for a lock that hung down over his forehead. I couldn’t make out his face all that well.” Little Alfie paused to think back, then nodded to himself and continued on. “And there was one other thing. He had big shoulders that kind of glistened with sweat after he did his push-ups.”
“Push-ups, you say?” Joanna asked in wonderment.
“Yes, ma’am. He did a hundred or so, fast too, like he was accustomed to it.”
“As if he were an athlete?”
“Which was my thought as well. But then he lit a cigarette and smoked it, then another and another, lighting each from the end of the last. Athletes do not do that, ma’am.”
“They most certainly do not,” Joanna agreed, and gave me a knowing glance.
I nodded my understanding, for it now seemed even more likely that the thief in the attic space of the mansion and the secretive lodger at the inn were one and the same. A man capable of performing a hundred push-ups rapidly could easily climb up and down a length of hanging rope. And both were obviously addicted to tobacco, for the man in the shed had to smoke one cigarette after another, while the individual in the attic space was driven to smoke a cigar as he waited for his chance to slip into the library and steal the document. Yet here again was the striking contradiction surrounding Roger Bennett upon whom all suspicion fell. How could an aspiring long-distance runner be so addicted to tobacco?
“After his exercise,” Joanna said, picking up the conversation, “did the man sit and wait?”
“He did not, ma’am, for he was the jumpy type who moved about even when he was smoking,” Little Alfie replied. “And then the sound in the forest really set him off.”
Joanna’s brow went up. “What kind of sound?”
“A big animal, I would guess, like maybe a deer or wild boar,” Little Alfie said casually. “It sniffed around a bit, then was on its way. As soon as he heard the sound, he went for a pickax and swung it about, as if it were to be used as a weapon. Then, when all was quiet for a while, he cracked open the door and whispered out, “Madam, is that you?”
“Are you certain he called ‘madam’?” Joanna asked at once.
“I couldn’t swear to it, but that is how it sounded,” Little Alfie answered. “But nobody was there, so I guess the bloke got tired and returned to the inn.”
“During your watch, did he leave the shed on any occasion?” Joanna asked. “This is very important.”
Little Alfie gave the question thought before saying, “He did take off to have a pee, I think. He walked a fair distance away, according to the sound he made.”
“Strange he would move so far from the shed for that purpose.”
Little Alfie shrugged. “Maybe he believed the woman he called after was near and he didn’t want to cause an embarrassment.”
“Was he carrying anything when he returned?”
“Not that I could make out.”
I could now follow Joanna’s line of questioning about the lodger entering and leaving the shed. Perhaps he had hidden the document deep in the woods and had gone to fetch it.
“Did the man do any digging while out in the woods?” I asked.
“Not to my ears.”
“By chance, did he happen to leave anything behind when he left the shed a final time?” I asked.
“No, sir.”
“Did he search about while inside the shed?”
“No, sir. He showed no interest, other than to make certain the door was well locked when he left.”
“And he came directly back to the inn?”
“Straight on,” Little Alfie said. “I followed him right up to the edge of the forest where Wiggins took over.”
“Slipped through the window of his room, neatly as you please, but did not bother to turn on the lights.” Wiggins continued with the story. “That was a bit unusual, yet what happened next was even more unusual. Quicker than a cat in the night, he comes through the window once again and stares around, like he believes something is amiss. He looks left and right, then concentrates on the forest, but sees nothing because Little Alfie and I are well concealed. Satisfied then, he climbs back into his room and retires for the night.”
“Is it possible he spotted Little Alfie earlier?” Joanna asked at once.
“Not a chance,” Wiggins said confidently. “We were still and quiet for a good five minutes before he came out a second time.”
“I am still concerned,” Joanna said.
“I say again, ma’am, he neither heard nor saw us,” Wiggins insisted. “Nevertheless, some of the best snatchers are said to have an inner sense that tells them they are being watched. It is like a warning bell that goes off inside them. They know something is not right.”
Little Alfie nodded. “Like Sarah, the Gypsy, who we use as a lookout before the nab.”
Wiggins nodded back. “Sarah can sniff out a copper three blocks away. Says her skin begins to itch when they get too close. She saved our arses more than once, she has. And lucky for us, Little Alfie has a bit of this talent in him as well.”
“He may well need it,” Joanna said. “For the man you are up against is most clever and difficult to outwit. You should also be aware that the man you are tracking is a cold-blooded murderer.”
Wiggins swallowed audibly. “A cold-blooded murderer, you say?”
“Right down to his marrow.”
The rain began to pour down with large drops, so we all dashed away, Joanna and I for the front entrance to the inn, Wiggins and Little Alfie into the darkness of the forest.
15
Another Unexpected Death
A loud bang on the door awakened us at seven the following morning. We then heard the shrill voice of the local constable who had earlier alerted us to the butler’s death.
“There has been another murder!” he cried out.
Joanna and I gazed at each other through sleep-filled eyes and shivered at the thought that the secret lodger had discovered and killed Little Alfie. Donning my robe, I hurried to the door.
“Who is the victim?” I asked.
“Henry Miller, the groundskeeper,” the constable replied. “Please come along quickly.”
As Joanna and I dressed, I could not help but think the unexpected death would cause everyone to recalibrate their suspicions, for the waters surrounding the missing document seemed to be growing murkier by the day. My head was spinning with possible explanations as we dashed through the vacant lobby and into a waiting hansom. My father was already seated within, neatly dressed and not showing a hint of sleepiness. But then, I reminded myself, he was a retired physician with some thirty years of practice behind him. He was accustomed to being awakened early and suddenly and clearing his mind soon thereafter.
“Nasty business, eh?” my father commented.
“And most confusing,” I noted.
“Or perhaps illuminating,” Joanna said, as the hansom moved along.
“Would you care to give us particulars?” my father asked.
“Only when I have the facts to prove or disprove my assumptions.”
Joanna rested her chin onto her steepled fingers and stared out into the misty morning air. Her brow became furrowed, which was the sign that her finely tuned brain was assembling and rearranging all the preceding clues into a recognizable pattern. I have seen her in this state of concentration for hours upon hours until she either reached a conclusion or decided the data was not sufficient to do so. There was never anger or frustration associated with the process, only cold reasoning devoid of any emotion.
With our carriage approaching the Halifax estate, Joanna turned to my father and asked, “What do you think, Watson?”
“The evidence at hand seems to point at Roger Bennett,” he replied.
“Are you convinced of his guilt?”
“Not entirely, but at this juncture it is difficult to conceive of a more likely suspect.”
“Then please explain how Roger Bennett carried out this feat while under the watchful eyes of the Baker Street Irregulars the entire night.”
“They have no recollection of him leaving the inn?”
“Oh, he left, but only once and only to enter the forest and the shed. He never set foot upon the Halifax estate.”
“There must be another involved,” my father concluded.
“That is one possibility,” Joanna said as the carriage came to a stop at the entrance to the estate.
We could clearly see a dozen or more constables and detectives scouring the area surrounding the narrow stone bridge. Workers were dredging the stream with hooks and ropes, and tossing various items found up to the muddy banks. Drawing closer to the murder scene, we saw Lestrade and Dunn standing over a draped body.
“What we have here is a violent dispute among thieves.” Dunn greeted us with his conclusion.
“Based on what?” Joanna asked.
“The fact that one of them, Mr. Henry Miller, is dead and the other, Roger Bennett, is on the loose.”
“But why the killing?”
“Over money,” Lestrade answered. “With thieves, it is always over money.”
“It all fits together,” Dunn went on. “As soon as we gave Miller permission to travel to London, he somehow contacted Roger Bennett and arranged for a secret meeting to discuss their future plans for the missing document. The stable boy was here to tell the groundskeeper where the document was hidden, so Miller could retrieve it and bring it to London for sale.”
“And that is when the dispute broke out,” Lestrade joined in. “Most likely the fight was over who would receive the majority of the money. We believe the stable boy demanded he take the larger share, for he had actually stolen the document and assumed the greater risk. It all ties together in a very neat package.”
“So it would seem,” Joanna said. “The only things missing are the facts to back up your assertion.”
“Oh, I believe the facts are plain enough to see,” Dunn insisted.
“Then perhaps your vision is superior to mine,” Joanna said, and pointed to the covered corpse of Henry Miller. “Please be good enough to remove the covering.”
Dunn lifted the bloodied sheet and exposed the groundskeeper’s body. Henry Miller lay on his back, his blue eyes open and staring into emptiness. Rigor mortis had set in about his face, jaw, and neck, with the remainder of the corpse thus far spared. The most striking feature, however, was the hideous head wound. Virtually the entire left portion of his skull was caved in, with gelatinous brain tissue oozing out. Joanna briefly studied the disfiguring gash.
“No doubt the cause of death,” she remarked.
“No doubt,” I agreed.
“Please employ your expertise in pathology and inform us of any peculiarities about the wound.”
“Give me a moment,” I replied, then knelt and leaned in closer for a better view. The parietal bone, which comprises the left side of the skull, was smashed into splinters and pieces, leaving an opening that the edge of a hand could easily pass through. Yet the upper border of the wound was smooth, with spicules of grit embedded in it. The clotted blood surrounding it was dark, almost black, indicating that the coagulation had taken place hours earlier.
Rising up, I said, “The death blow was struck with incredible force. The relatively smooth upper portion of the wound indicates the weapon had a sharp, thick side made of metal. There is also evidence that it has been used previously.”
“For murder?” Joanna asked at once.
“For work,” I said. “There are spicules of dirt and rust about the bone fragments that tell us the weapon was not new and had been soiled.”
“Very good, John,” Joanna praised. “Your findings are most helpful. Tell us, would it be fair to say that the murderer was approximately the same height as the victim?”
“I believe that to be the case, for the blow was delivered on a level plane—not from below or above—and most likely from behind.”
“Which makes our murderer left-handed since the left side of the victim’s skull received the lethal blow,” Joanna said, and returned her gaze to the corpse’s sleeved arms. “Were you able to detect any defensive wounds?”
“None were apparent, but I did not examine the arms or shoulders, for fear of disturbing other evidence atop the clothing,” I explained.
“Inspector, do you have any objections to such an examination?” Joanna asked.
“None whatsoever, in that the body has been searched and all items secured,” Lestrade said, and motioned to two nearby constables who promptly removed the corpse’s shirt. His arms had a few minor scratches and well-healed scars, but no defensive wounds.
“Clean,” I pronounced.
“Which indicates he was surprised,” Joanna reasoned. “For he had the opportunity to neither duck nor raise his arms as the blow was delivered.”
“As would be expected, in that Henry Miller and Roger Bennett knew each other well and were partners in crime,” Lestrade concurred. “Their partnership ended in the middle of the night when one killed the other.”
“How do you know the event transpired in the middle of the night?” Joanna asked.
Lestrade hesitated briefly before answering, “Because he was found just after dawn by one of the guards, and the corpse was quite cold even then.”
“So was the weather,” Joanna said, and looked to me. “Can you give us a better time, John?”
I pondered the matter at some length, for although rigor mortis usually sets in four to five hours after death, there are other factors that can alter its onset. “I would approximate death occurred eight to ten hours ago. The start of rigor mortis in this case was no doubt delayed because of the cold weather. Since we are only seeing the beginning of it now, I believe an eight- to ten-hour estimate would be in order.”
Joanna turned her attention to Lestrade. “Are we correct in assuming the guards saw nothing unusual at say ten or eleven last night?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Lestrade said. “But you must remember that both Lieutenant Dunn and myself agreed to pull back security somewhat to allow Miller more free rein and give the impression we had lessened our suspicion of his involvement.”
“Are you telling us they did not notice Henry Miller on a late-night stroll?” Joanna asked skeptically.
“They saw him when he approached the bridge, and a minute or two later they saw him returning to the grounds, so they thought little of his walkabout.”
“The sighting was at a distance, of course?”
Lestrade nodded. “At a distance.”
“In the fog.”
Lestrade had no response, and glanced over to Dunn who now had an uncomfortable expression on his face. He appeared about to speak, but thought better of it and instead stared out into the morning mist.
“You mentioned items that were taken from the corpse.” Joanna broke the protracted silence. “May we have a look at them?”
Lestrade reached into a small satchel and retrieved Henry Miller’s belongings. “There were just a few—a small pocketknife, two shillings, a well-used pipe, and several strike-anywhere matches. For what it is worth, we also found clip-on reading glasses in his shirt and beneath the glasses a shred of torn paper, with the word BACH written on it. Perhaps he cared for classical music.”
“B-A-C-H?” Joanna spelled it out.
