Michael Kurland - Victorian Villainy

“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-and then 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 favor 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 dishonorable. “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 defense 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.”

“And your conclusions,” Lucy asked, “what are they? Who do you believe committed this dreadful crime?”

“You have no idea?” I asked.

Lucinda recoiled as though I had struck her. “How could I?” she asked.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” I said. “Did your sister have any enemies?”

“Certainly not,” Lucy said. “She was outgoing, and warm, and friendly, and loved by all.”

“Andrea went to the cottage to meet someone,” Holmes said. “Do you have any idea who it was?”

“None,” Lucy said. “I find this whole thing quite shocking.” She lowered her head into her hands. “Quite shocking.”

After a moment Lucy raised her head. “I have prepared a small traveling-bag of Professor Maples’s things. A change of linen, a shirt, a couple of collars, some handkerchiefs, his shaving-cup and razor.”

“I don’t imagine they’ll let him have his razor,” Holmes commented.

“Oh!” Lucy said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I may be wrong,” Holmes said. “I will enquire.”

“Could I ask you to bring the bag to him?” Lucy rose. “I have it right upstairs.”

We followed her upstairs to the master bedroom to collect the bag. The room was an image of masculine disorder, with Professor Maples’ bed-they for some reason had separate beds, with a night-table between-rumpled and the bed clothes strewn about. Clothing was hung over various articles of furniture, and bureau drawers were pulled open. Maples had dressed hastily and, presumably, under police supervision, before being hauled off to the police station. Andrea’s bed was neat and tight, and it was evident that she had not slept in it the night before.

I decided to take a quick look in the other five rooms leading off the hall. I thought I would give Holmes and Miss Lucy their moment of privacy if they desired to use it.

One of the rooms, fairly large and with a canopied bed, was obviously Lucy’s. It was feminine without being overly frilly, and extremely, almost fussily, neat. There were two wardrobes in the room, across from each other, each with a collection of shoes on the bottom and a variety of female garments above.

I closed Lucy’s door and knocked on the door across the hall. Getting no answer, I pushed the door open. It was one of the two rooms rented by the boarder, Crisboy, furnished as a sitting-room, and I could see the door to the bedroom to the left. The young athletic instructor was sitting at his writing desk, his shoulders stooped, and his face buried in his arms on the desk. “Crisboy?” I said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know you were here.” Which seemed a poor excuse for bursting in on a man, but my curiosity was probably inexcusable if it came to that.