Michael Kurland - Victorian Villainy

He sat up and turned around. “No matter,” he said, using a small towel he was holding to wipe his face, which was red and puffy from crying. “Is there any news?” he asked me.

“Not that I am aware of,” I said.

“A heck of a thing,” he said. “That police person thinks that John-Professor Maples-killed Andrea. How could he think that? Professor Maples couldn’t hurt anyone. Insult them, yes; criticize them, yes; pierce them with barbs of-of-irony, yes. But hit anyone with a stick? Never!”

I backed out of Crisboy’s sitting-room with some murmured comment and closed the door. The hall door to the left was now identified as Crisboy’s bedroom. The door to the right turned out to be Andrea’s dressing room, with a small couch, a bureau, a dressing-table, and a connecting door to the master bedroom. The remaining door led to the lavatory.

Holmes emerged from the master bedroom with the traveling-bag thrust under his arm, shook hands with Lucy, and we went downstairs and out the back door.

“Here, this way,” Holmes said, taking me around to the side of the house. “There are markings on the path that, I believe, give some insight into what happened here. I have covered them over with some planks I found by the side of the house, to prevent them being washed away or tramped over.”

“Clever,” I said.

“Elementary,” he replied.

Holmes had placed four pieces of planking on the path between the house and the cottage. We paused at the one nearest the house. “The police theory-the theory of Sergeant Meeks-is that Andrea Maples left the house to have an assignation at the cottage with an unknown suitor-if a man who trysts with a married woman may be called a suitor. They are trying to determine whom he is. Professor Maples, awakening sometime during the night and finding his wife absent, went to the cottage, caught her as the suitor was leaving, or just after he left, realized what had happened by the state of her clothes, if not by other, ah, indications, and, in an uncontrollable rage, beat her to death with his walking-stick.”

I nodded. “That’s about the way it was told to me.”

“That story is contravened by the evidence,” Holmes declared carefully lifting the plank. “Observe the footsteps.”

The plank covered a partial line of footsteps headed from the house to the cottage, and at least one footstep headed back to the house. The imprint in all cases was that of a woman’s shoe.

“Note this indentation,” Holmes said, pointing out a round hole about three-quarters of an inch across and perhaps an inch deep that was slightly forward and to the right of an out-bound shoe imprint.

He sprinted over to the next plank and moved it, and then the next. “Look here,” he called. “And here, and here. The same pattern.”

“Yes,” I said, “I see.” I bent down and examined several of the footsteps closely, marking off the measurement from toe to heel and across the width of the imprint in my pocket notebook, and doing a rough sketch of what I saw, shielding the notebook as best I could from the slight drizzle.

“Notice that none of the footsteps in either direction were left by a man,” Holmes said.

“Yes,” I said, “I can see that.” There were three sets of footsteps, two leading from the house to the cottage, and one returning.

“It proves that Professor Maples did not kill his wife,” Holmes asserted.

“It certainly weakens the case against him,” I admitted.

“Come now,” Holmes said. “Surely you see that the entire case is predicated on the syllogism that, as Maples is never without his walking stick, and as his walking stick was used to kill Andrea Maples, then Maples must have murdered his wife.”

“So it would seem,” I agreed.

“A curious stick,” Holmes told me. “I had occasion to examine it once. Did you know that it is actually a sword-cane?”

“I did not know that,” I said.

“I believe that it will prove an important fact in the case,” Holmes told me.

“I assume that your conclusion is that Professor Maples was without his walking stick last night.”

“That’s right. Andrea Maples took it to the cottage herself. The indentations by her footsteps show that.”

“What is it that you think happened?” I asked Holmes.

“As you’ve noted, there are three sets of footsteps,” Holmes said. “Two going from the house to the cottage, and one returning to the house. As you can see, they are the footprints of a woman, and, carefully as I looked, I could find no indication of any footprints made by a man. One of the sets going seems to be slightly different in the indentation of the heel than the other sets. The returning set seems to be made up of footsteps that are further apart, and leave a deeper imprint than the others. I would say from examining them that Andrea Maples went to the cottage to meet someone. Before he arrived, she decided to arm herself and so she rushed back to the house and changed shoes-perhaps the first pair had been soaked by her stepping in a puddle-and then took her husband’s walking stick-which she knew to be actually a sword cane-and returned to the cottage.”

“And the person she was planning to meet?”

“He must have come by the road, as there are no markings on the path. But Professor Maples would surely have come by the path.”

“So she thought herself to be in some danger?”

“So I would read it.”

“So you would have it that it was not a romantic tryst?”

“Perhaps it had been,” Holmes suggested. “Perhaps she had decided to break off an affair with some person, and she knew him to have a violent nature. In the event it seems that she was correct.”

We had reached the cottage and, finding the back door unlocked, entered the small back pantry leading to the kitchen. Holmes dropped the traveling-bag by the door and lay his topcoat and hat over a kitchen chair, and I followed suit.

“That would explain why she failed to wake up her husband and returned to the cottage by herself, although she believed herself in some danger,” I said. “It neatly ties up most of the known facts. But I’m afraid that you won’t be able to convince the police that you’re right.”

“Why not?”

“There’s the fact of the disarray of Andrea Maples’s clothing. As I understand it she was in her undergarments, and seems to have been dressing. It indicates that the meeting with her mysterious friend was, ah, friendly.”

“Perhaps he forced himself on her.”

“Perhaps. But then one would expect her clothing to be not merely loosened or removed, but stretched or torn. I did not hear that this was so. Did you have an opportunity to examine the woman’s clothing?”

“Yes, I paid particular attention to the state of her clothing. She was wearing a petticoat and an over-something-another frilly white garment covering the upper part of her body. I am not very expert in the names of women’s garments.”

“Nor am I,” I said. “I assume the remainder of her clothing was somewhere about?”

“It was in the bedroom.”

We entered the parlor. The shades were drawn, keeping out even the weak light from the overcast sky. Holmes struck a match and lit an oil-lamp which was sitting on a nearby table. The flickering light cast grotesque shadows about the room, creating a nebulous sense of oppression and doom. Or perhaps it was just the knowledge of what had recently transpired here that gave the room its evil character. “There,” Holmes said, pointing to a large irregularly-shaped bloodstain on the floor by the front door. “There is where she lay. She came from the bedroom, as the rest of her clothing was there, and was attacked in the parlor.”

“Curious,” I said.

“Really?” Holmes replied. “How so?”