Denis Smith - The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

‘Lady Boothby’s servants are a little hard of hearing,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Between you and me, they are somewhat on the aged side. Most of them have been with her for around thirty years.’

The front door was eventually opened by an elderly maidservant, who showed us into a drawing-room on the left of the hall. There came the sound of footsteps overhead, then, after a few moments, the maid returned and conducted us to a room at the rear of the house. There, in a high-backed armchair drawn close to the fire, Lady Boothby was seated. She apologised for receiving us in the dining-room.

‘The fire is better in here,’ she explained, ‘and at my age I feel the cold rather badly. Do take a seat,’ she continued, indicating the chairs at the table. ‘Now, Inspector, what can I do for you? I was under the impression that I had answered all possible questions on your previous visit.’

‘There are one or two points we wished to clear up,’ Holmes interjected. ‘In the first place,’ he continued, as she turned to him with a look of curiosity on her face, ‘I should be obliged if you could tell us what you know of Mrs Routledge, the mother of a former patient of your brother’s.’

Lady Boothby’s features assumed an expression of distaste.

‘A wretched woman!’ she responded after a moment. ‘Her son was the subject of odd delusions and was being treated by my brother – quite brilliantly, I might add – when he unfortunately took his own life. His mother instantly put it about that my brother was to blame, quite overlooking the fact that the treatment he had been giving the boy had been his only hope of leading a normal life. When that woman’s slanderous lies began to reach a wider audience, my brother was obliged to take legal action to restrain her. She was duly bound over to keep the peace and we heard no more of her lies.’

‘You followed your brother’s work very closely, I take it,’ remarked Holmes.

‘Indeed, and always admired it greatly. It was work of genius, from a man of genius. One day my brother’s name will be honoured as one of the greatest figures – perhaps the very greatest – in the history of this unappreciative country!’

‘And Dr Zyss? Is he also a man of genius?’

‘Certainly not! Ludwig Zyss was always a mere follower of the insights of others. He achieved a certain celebrity by his association with my brother; but since their partnership was dissolved he has quite faded into obscurity.’

‘Does he not practise in Vienna?’

‘I believe he does – in an obscure sort of way and with many wrong-headed ideas.’

‘His ideas were not quite the same as those of your brother, then? Did the breach in their partnership come about because of these differences of opinion?’

‘Partly, yes – and in every case Dr Zyss was wrong, and Humphrey was right.’

‘Did they disagree in the case of Nicholas Routledge?’

‘I cannot discuss individual cases with you. It would not be proper to do so.’

‘But you could perhaps tell us whether they disagreed on the matter.’

‘Very well. Yes, they did disagree on the matter, very strongly. It was this disagreement which precipitated the rift between them; but the rift would have occurred eventually in any case, as the disparity between their respective talents became more apparent.’

‘What will become of Professor Arbuthnot’s papers now?’

‘They will be collected and edited by his wife and myself, and published as soon as possible. The world must not be denied the opportunity to behold the fruits of my brother’s genius.’

‘Had your brother been working on anything in particular recently?’

‘Yes. He has never ceased to push back the boundaries of human knowledge. His most recent work had been on certain species of mental illness to which young men in particular are prone, and the best treatment thereof.’

Holmes asked Gregson for the little black owl, which he held out for Lady Boothby’s inspection. ‘Have you ever seen this before?’ he asked, at which she shook her head. ‘It did not belong to your brother, perhaps?’

‘Certainly not. Is it brass? It looks to me like a paper-weight. I seem to remember reading somewhere that Charles Dickens had something of the sort on his desk, whilst writing his novels.’

A few minutes later, our interview concluded, Holmes, Gregson and I stood by the cab at the pavement edge.

‘The old professor certainly seems to have inspired an uncommon degree of loyalty and admiration in his womenfolk,’ remarked Gregson in a low tone. ‘I would like to think that Mrs G would speak in similar tones of me, if I was no longer here, but somehow I doubt it. Still, that’s neither here nor there – which is pretty much where we are in this case, it seems to me: neither here nor there! Between us we’ve spent several days plodding round the place, but have blessed little to show for it!’

‘Come, come!’ said Holmes. ‘We have learnt a great deal!’

‘Have we?’ asked Gregson in a dubious tone. ‘I can’t say that I have, Mr Holmes. We have an elderly, retired professor murdered in his study; a wife and sister who both think he was wonderful; an old colleague of the professor’s who seems to have disappeared; a woman – the mother of a former patient of the professor’s – who probably holds a grudge against him; a nephew who is writing a play which may or may not be based on one of the professor’s cases. It doesn’t seem to amount to much to me! What do we actually know? The only thing I feel really confident about is that Mrs Routledge lied to me about that blessed owl – and what the devil that might mean, I have no idea!’

‘Being lied to is an inherent hazard of our profession,’ returned Holmes with a dry chuckle. ‘If it is any consolation to you, Gregson, I can tell you that every single person I have interviewed today has lied to me about something. Of that I am certain!’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Gregson, shaking his head, ‘but that doesn’t help me much. What can I put in my report, to show to my superiors? Who murdered Professor Arbuthnot and why? Where is Dr Zyss? And what the blazes is the significance of that brass owl?’

Holmes chuckled. ‘I think I can answer some of your questions,’ he said. ‘As for what you can tell your superiors,’ he continued; ‘would the address at which the murderer is to be found be of any use?’ He took out a little note-book from his pocket and scribbled a few words on a sheet, which he tore off and passed to the policeman. ‘In my opinion, that is where you will find the murderer,’ he remarked as he put the note-book back in his pocket.

‘What!’ cried the policeman, as he read the note. ‘Eight, Belsize Park Crescent! But that is Lady Boothby’s house, where we have just been! This is not the time for jokes, Mr Holmes!’

‘I quite agree, Gregson. Look,’ he added, as a uniformed policeman appeared round the corner from Haverstock Hill, ‘here is the local constable! I suggest you enlist his aid, re-enter Lady Boothby’s house and make your arrest!’

‘But this is madness!’ persisted Gregson. ‘I cannot possibly do as you say! I should make myself a figure of ridicule and lay myself open to legal action!’

‘Very well, then,’ said Holmes, in a measured tone. ‘I shall accompany you and take upon myself all responsibility for the business. If I do anything legally improper, you have my permission to arrest me instead!’

After a moment, Gregson agreed to this, but his features expressed the doubts he evidently still entertained about the proposal. He crossed the road and intercepted the constable, who was passing by on the other side.

‘You do not object to forming the audience for our expedition, Watson, do you?’ Holmes asked me, as I watched Inspector Gregson speaking to the constable.