The Defaced Men, page 21
I took Holmes to one side. “There is a great deal that I do not understand, but the most immediately concerning is whether it is only a ruse of yours to say that the police are coming. You have not called for them, and Lestrade made it abundantly clear that he would not offer his help speculatively.”
Holmes patted my shoulder. “I assure you they are coming, and that they were summoned only after our arrest had been made.”
“But how—”
“A letter was delivered to Scotland Yard at the appropriate moment by one of my irregulars. It makes clear, in the strongest possible terms, that the guilty party has been caught, and indeed it lists all of the crimes of which he is guilty, and an itinerary of recent events and their significance. I recommended that the local force in High Wycombe be alerted immediately.”
No less confused, I said, “I still fail to see how you contacted your own messenger, though.”
“The simplest of answers: I did not. The boy was given a precise time to deliver the message, and I trust that he did not fail. It is all a matter of confidence, Watson. I am confident of my messenger’s reliability, and the system I devised was predicated by my confidence that at exactly seven o’clock this morning I would have successfully apprehended Richard Bradwell and collected sufficient proof of his crimes to make his arrest not only viable, but inevitable. My promise to Lestrade is intact.”
I gazed at my friend in wonder at the bold gamble of summoning the police before they had cause to be involved. What would come next – perhaps solving a crime before it was committed?
“I think I might be horrified,” I said eventually, “if it were not for the fact that Bradwell seems to accept the rightfulness of his arrest. He could not appear more guilty.” I paused. “But Holmes… do you suppose that now may be the time for me to ask questions and for you to produce your explanation in a flourish, as you promised?”
Holmes smiled. “Yes, I believe it is.”
“Then…” I turned to look at Muybridge, then retreated to one of the armchairs so that our conversation might include him. “For what crime, exactly, are we arresting Bradwell?”
Holmes put his glass of brandy on the mantelpiece, then moved to stand in the centre of the ring of seats, facing our prisoner. Since his shock at seeing the projected vision of Israel Fay, Bradwell was now impassive.
“Perhaps we will begin at the beginning,” he said. Then he paused. “Or perhaps not quite the beginning. If we did so, we might go all the way back to Israel Fay’s first encounter with Eadweard Muybridge in California in 1872.”
Muybridge said nothing, but narrowed his eyes, as if trying to determine how closely his fate was to be intertwined with Richard Bradwell’s. Upon entering the room he had gone directly to the central desks and lifted each of the glass slides in turn, perhaps wondering which of them might next have been intended to be vandalised and deployed as a threat against him.
Now addressing Muybridge himself, Holmes continued, “We might, indeed, note your own history – not only your work on the motion of animals and the human body, but also your injury in a stagecoach accident, and the death of Major Harry Larkyns at your hands.”
Now Muybridge sat up straight, so violently that brandy spilled from his glass. “I remind you that I was acquitted on all counts, despite my refusal of the suggestion of any mental impairment. My actions were just, sir!”
Holmes bowed very slightly. “That is why I do not concern myself with it directly. I am only occupied with the effect of these events in your life, and how they were utilised by Israel Fay.”
I offered, “Then you are speaking about Fay’s desire to write Muybridge’s biography?”
“Indeed. Fay understood not only that our client’s unusual history could be shaped into a compelling account; he also realised that those events themselves had been foundational elements of his success in later life.”
I saw Muybridge bristle again, but he did not speak.
“I restate that I make no judgement about the situation,” Holmes went on, “only that it was so. Muybridge’s work speaks for itself, but his celebrity has undoubtedly been in part informed by his personal affairs. Consequently, Israel Fay believed that a well-researched and well-written biography was only halfway along the route to his own success – success which he craved due to his mismanagement of his ventures. Fay determined that returning Eadweard Muybridge to celebrity—”
“Returning?” Muybridge thundered.
“Yes, returning,” Holmes replied quickly. “You are intelligent enough to recognise that your prestige has waned in recent years, and you are intelligent enough to see that arguing otherwise would be in vain.”
Chastened, Muybridge fell silent.
“We have already spoken about Fay’s methods. He would revive the notoriety of Muybridge in the public eye, by recalling those past triumphs and controversies. His almost being run over by horses was intended to remind newspapermen, in the first instance, of Muybridge’s work photographing those same proud beasts. The defaced images on the glass slides that amounted to threats against his person would restore to the public imagination the idea of Muybridge as embattled, and possibly himself as a dangerous man, embroiled in ugliness. But Israel Fay was not a young man, and he required assistance to carry out both of his endeavours – the writing of the biography and the threats against its subject. At this point in our story enters Richard Bradwell.”
He gestured at our seated captive, and Bradwell nodded solemnly, then lifted his brandy glass in a mocking salute.
“Tell me,” Holmes said, “upon your engagement, did Fay describe the full extent of your responsibilities?”
“He did not describe the torture we would put this man through,” Bradwell replied, glancing at Muybridge sitting beside him with no trace of shame or even embarrassment, “but when viewed with hindsight, I own that he delivered clear enough hints that I would go further than simply transcribing his words. There was a great deal about moral attitudes, and about my own physical fitness.”
Holmes nodded, appearing impressed at the secretary’s forthrightness. “Before we dispense with it entirely, I am interested to know how far work on the biography has progressed.”
Bradwell laughed and pointed to a sheaf of papers upon the twin desks in the centre of the study. “It is almost complete. As far as I am concerned, it is a simple account. Perhaps Muybridge’s life is not as fascinating as everybody supposes. Fay was right: the book could only be made a success by making Muybridge’s name potent once again.”
The man’s posture had changed dramatically while he had been speaking. All of his affected casualness had disappeared, and now he appeared angular, his shoulders held oddly as though there were a great weight pressing on his left side. I saw that both Holmes and Muybridge were watching him with great interest, too. It occurred to me that their respective fascinations might take very different forms: Holmes would derive meaning from the man’s every movement, whereas in all likelihood Muybridge was interested in the posture and movement in its own right, watching Bradwell as an artist watches his subject.
“Then you admit that it was you who arranged for the horses to nearly collide with Eadweard Muybridge on the street,” Holmes began, “and that you exchanged the glass slides for copies that you and Fay had vandalised?”
“Yes, I admit it,” Bradwell replied without hesitation. “Each was a simple matter. Friend Muybridge here is hardly the most astute of targets. I was the driver of the carriages on both occasions, and at his lectures I could pass directly before his nose and he would barely look up.”
Muybridge’s cheeks reddened, and I was minded to reprimand Bradwell – but then I remembered that I, too, had seen Bradwell ‘directly before my nose’ and had suspected nothing. I had no desire to remind this cocksure hooligan of that fact.
“To sum up, then,” Holmes said lightly, as if he were as yet unaware of the growing tension in the room, “all was proceeding well. The book was in preparation, Muybridge’s notoriety seemed in the ascendant, in no small part due to the engagement of my own services to investigate the threats.” He broke off. “Was that your idea, or your employer’s?”
“It was mine,” Bradwell said sourly.
Holmes beamed. “Then I congratulate you. It was a masterstroke. It was also your undoing, of course, but I applaud your ambition.”
Ordinarily, I might have relished watching the confidence slip away from Bradwell’s expression. However, another thought had edged into my mind and marred my enjoyment of the moment. Amid the excitement, I had forgotten that I had arrived at Snakeley Manse this morning expecting that we would arrest Israel Fay.
“Where is Fay?” I said, almost unconscious that the question had passed my lips.
“He is dead,” Holmes replied bluntly.
I gaped at him, then at Bradwell, who was shaking his head.
Muybridge let out an agonised moan. “Tell me it is not true,” he pleaded, addressing no one of us in particular.
“It is the truth,” Holmes said, “and this man was responsible for his death.”
Only now did Bradwell rise from his seat; while perhaps he intended it to be a leap to his feet, it was decidedly more awkward due to his bound hands and stiff left leg.
“I have nothing to do with Fay’s disappearance,” he insisted. “And I do not suppose that he is dead. All that I know is that he is not here, and has not been since I returned to Snakeley Manse. I had only intended to remonstrate with my former employer after my unfair dismissal, though I confess I also intended to remind him of the unorthodox nature of his instructions, hoping to use his misdemeanours as leverage. But there was no answer to my knocks or ringing of the bell, so I opened the door with the key that was still in my possession. I have been here ever since.”
Holmes regarded him with a trace of amusement in his eyes. “And you admit that you have been continuing his scheme to threaten Eadweard Muybridge since your return?”
“I admit it freely. I am no innocent, Mr. Holmes. When the police come, I will tell them the same, and I will face the consequences.”
Again, I sensed admiration in Holmes’s response. “Quick calculations are in your very nature. To confess to one crime but to claim ignorance of a larger one is a wise tactic, in the circumstances in which you find yourself this morning.”
“You maintain that Bradwell killed Fay, then?” I asked.
Holmes nodded.
I turned to look at the flames in the grate, drawing together associations in my mind, and cursing my slowness.
“I think I see it,” I said slowly. “There is no dark-room here at Snakeley Manse.”
When I turned back to the group, Holmes was watching me with an eyebrow raised.
“Go on,” he urged.
“The housekeeper referred to deliveries of chemicals during the last months – the very same months during which Bradwell has been employed here. It is my understanding that these glass plates” – I gestured to the slides on the desk – “were appropriated during Fay’s employment at the University of Pennsylvania, or otherwise taken from Muybridge as research for the biography; either way, they were already prepared and did not require being created here at Snakeley Manse. Furthermore, we have seen no suggestion of the use of chemicals in any of the threats against Muybridge. Therefore, I suggest that they were instead used to poison Israel Fay himself, causing his death.”
Bradwell had affected a look of horror – I say ‘affected’ because I was convinced it was a charade. Conversely, Holmes beamed with obvious pride.
“Bravo, Watson!” he said.
“Then… I am correct?”
“No.”
I exhaled loudly. “Oh. You understand that you rather raised my hopes.”
“Ah, but you were halfway to the answer!” my friend said. “It is better than failing to leave the starting blocks, is it not?”
I shrugged my shoulders, all of the thrill of solving a riddle having left me. “Then what did occur?”
“Certainly, Bradwell poisoned Fay, over a period of two months or more. I suppose, Bradwell, that your intention was to incapacitate your employer over time, making yourself ever more vital to his affairs? It is certainly your name which appears on the documentation of your employer’s recent investments in technology related to moving pictures. You are more far-sighted than Israel Fay ever was – indeed, one might argue that you were the very secretary that he had needed for many years, if not for your impulse to deceive everybody around you – and in time you may have made yourself a rich man.”
Bradwell shook his head. “I have no earthly idea what you are talking about.”
“Very well,” Holmes replied, a trace of disappointment now entering his tone. “Then we will rely on informed conjecture at present. I maintain that you did make use of poisonous chemicals, probably daily, but that you never intended to kill Fay by this method, nor any other.”
“But you said yourself that Fay was dead!” I protested.
Holmes looked sharply at me. Then he turned and, all of the intensity of his manner falling away abruptly, strolled to the fireplace. “Note my use of the word ‘intended’. No, when Bradwell killed Fay, it was not premeditated.”
“I deny killing him!” Bradwell bellowed.
“Of course you deny it,” Holmes said amiably, “and I am sure that you were shocked at your own actions, the night that you killed him. You were incensed, were you not? I suppose you will not supply the information about what the source of your irritation was. Perhaps Fay was beginning to regret his ploy. Was he about to confess all to his old friend, Muybridge?”
Muybridge’s face had turned beet red, as though he were being gradually deprived of air. He stared at Bradwell impotently.
Bradwell himself made no reply. His entire body was trembling, and he watched Holmes nervously as my friend paced up and down before the fire.
“Even so,” Holmes went on, “I suspect that you retained some semblance of control, even then. For example, the shouting that the housekeeper heard that night – I imagine that was not the harbinger of your attack on Fay, but that you staged that apparent argument after Fay’s death, as you developed a plan to cover your tracks?”
Again, Bradwell did not respond.
Holmes nodded as though this silence represented confirmation. “Then it is only a matter of determining the weapon.”
He stopped before the left-hand side of the fireplace, took from it one of the pair of brass busts, and then moved to the right to retrieve its twin. He turned and held them up for display as if he were a surgeon lecturing to students in an anatomical theatre.
“This bust,” he said, raising his right hand higher, “has been polished recently, with particular attention given to the square base. The other is coated in dust, like most objects in this building. I hardly need to say that if one were to grasp the bust at the readiest place – the head itself – its base would represent the striking weapon, and its sharp corners would prove particularly effective. Furthermore, a blow to the face would result in a distinctive wound that would be difficult to conceal or explain away. Did he die instantly, Mr. Bradwell?”
All our heads turned to the secretary, who nevertheless seemed aware only of Holmes.
“You have acknowledged yourself that this is conjecture,” Bradwell said in a measured tone. “What you have described is fantasy. Clearly, you have no proof, and equally clearly, the police will not allow themselves to be persuaded by such a work of fiction.”
Holmes replaced the busts upon the mantelpiece. “The traces of blood I have identified on the base of this statue support my accusation, but you are nevertheless correct. The policemen who will arrive here from High Wycombe will have little interest in my ‘story’, as you characterise it. However, the police at Bishop’s Stortford are likely to feel entirely differently about the matter, as are the fellows at Scotland Yard.”
If this pronouncement shocked Bradwell, he was clever enough to conceal it. I, on the other hand, gasped aloud, and Muybridge’s gaze swung back and forth between Holmes and Bradwell as if the answer was to be found somewhere between them.
“When was it that you learnt about Fay’s gift of the Mirror Lake photograph to Elias Griffin?” Holmes asked.
“I do not know what that is,” Bradwell replied immediately.
“As you wish. Let us presume that it was a little over two months ago. Having come to know of its existence, and understanding that it was a greater, or at least a more immediate, prize than any potential success of Fay’s biography, you determined that you would have it for yourself.”
Still, Bradwell remained taciturn.
With a glint of mischief in his eye, Holmes added casually, “By the way, did you realise that the signature upon the picture was a forgery, by Fay’s own hand?”
Finally, he had produced an effect on our prisoner. Bradwell’s body sagged, and he slumped into his chair.
“I note that is not a full admission,” Holmes said cheerfully, “but I take your response as encouragement that I am proceeding along the right lines. Yes, it is true. Your quest to recover the Yosemite photograph was predicated upon an error.”
Muybridge voiced the objection that I had been about to make. “But he did not steal it! That photograph was burned in the fire – I read as much in the Times!”
“True,” Holmes said. “It is another example of Bradwell’s ability to recalculate quickly. Upon his initial visit to Chaloner House he located the picture in Elias Griffin’s bedroom in the external annexe and made plans to steal it, but by the time of his return his intentions had changed entirely, with the dire outcome that has been well-reported.”
“Good lord, Holmes!” I exclaimed as a new realisation came to me. “Are you suggesting that Richard Bradwell was the house-guest of the Griffins, and that he and Martin Chrisafis are one and the same person?”
Holmes bowed his head in confirmation.
“Then…” I began, rising from my seat and striding up and down along the hearth rug. “Then the body that was burned in the blaze… That was…”
