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

‘Not at all,’ I returned. ‘I am curious to see what you have in mind. I confess I have no idea at the moment what it is.’

Gregson returned with the constable, introduced to us as PC Harper of the Hampstead Division, and a moment later we were ringing the bell once more at the front door of Lady Boothby’s house.

We were conducted by the elderly maidservant directly to the dining-room at the back of the house, where Lady Boothby still sat in the armchair by the fire.

‘Well?’ she asked, in a voice full of irritation. ‘What is it now?’

‘We should be obliged,’ said Holmes, ‘if you would ask him to come down.’

Lady Boothby’s mouth fell open in surprise. ‘Who?’ cried she. ‘Who should I ask to come down? What are you talking about?’

‘Your brother, Humphrey,’ said Holmes in a calm tone. ‘He has been staying here since Wednesday night, has he not?’

The lady’s cheeks burnt bright red. ‘How dare you!’ cried she. ‘How dare you speak in this way, when my brother has been struck down in his prime, less than three days ago, and his body is scarcely cold yet!’

‘The body which is scarcely cold is that of the unfortunate Dr Zyss,’ interjected Holmes in a firm voice, ‘who was killed by your brother in the course of a quarrel. The body was deliberately misidentified by your sister-in-law, Mrs Arbuthnot, so that her husband could complete his latest work, which is why he took the papers relating to it away with him.’

‘What nonsense!’

‘You had called at the house, to be present at the meeting which your brother had informed you was to take place between Dr Zyss and himself. But Dr Zyss had arrived before you, and the two men had already had a violent quarrel, which had ended with Professor Arbuthnot seizing the paper-knife from his desk, and plunging it into the breast of his opponent, killing him instantly. His wife heard the disturbance, entered the study and saw what had happened. Professor Arbuthnot and his wife thereupon concocted the idea of letting it be thought that it was the professor who had been struck down by an unknown assailant. No doubt they had been impressed by the great similarity in appearance of the two men, for if Dr Zyss’s spectacles were removed, only those who knew them well could have told them apart; and as your brother had scarcely left the house in ten years, and received no visitors save yourself, they must have been confident that this deception would not be uncovered. It remained only to prevent the domestic staff from learning the truth of what had occurred, and for the professor to make his escape from the house. To this end, having gathered up the papers he required, he left the study by the French windows, intending to meet you when you arrived and leave with you in your carriage. Unfortunately for his plan, he saw as he reached the corner of the house that you had already arrived, and had just rung the front-door bell. He signalled to you to go back down the path to the gate. Before you reached it, however, the maid opened the front door of the house and spoke to you. Unsure what to do, you hesitated for a moment, then turned away again and walked to the gate. A moment later, the maid had shut the door, whereupon your brother quickly joined you and left with you in your carriage. Is my description of the events correct, madam?’

Lady Boothby did not reply. All colour had drained from her face, and she sat rigid and unmoving.

‘Yesterday morning,’ Holmes continued, ‘your brother decided to take a walk up to Hampstead. No doubt he was confident that he would not be recognised, as he had seen no one he knew for the best part of ten years. Unfortunately for him, he was seen by a lady who had attended lectures he gave many years ago, who mistook him for Dr Zyss. He pretended he had not seen or heard her and walked quickly on, making for the church. She followed him there, however, and he was obliged to hide somewhere in the church until she left. She later reported this incident to the police, but they made nothing of it.’

Without speaking, Lady Boothby reached out her hand and gave the bell-rope a tug. A moment later, when the maid entered, Lady Boothby instructed her to ask Professor Arbuthnot to come to the dining-room.

For a minute we sat in silence, then the door opened again, and a thin, elderly man with a grizzled beard entered the room.

‘What is it?’ he began in an irritable tone, but stopped when he saw us. ‘Who are these men?’ he asked his sister.

‘It’s no good, Humphrey,’ she replied. ‘These men are from the police. They know the truth.’

With a cry of anger, he advanced upon her. ‘You have betrayed me!’ he cried. ‘Have you no thought for my work?’

‘Professor Arbuthnot,’ said Gregson, rising to his feet, and placing his hand on the other man’s shoulder, ‘I am arresting you for the murder of Dr Ludwig Zyss.’

‘No!’ cried Arbuthnot in a wild voice. ‘No, you are not!’ In one swift move, he had stooped and snatched up the poker from the hearth. ‘You will never take me!’ he cried, swinging it violently at the policeman’s head.

As one, Holmes and I sprang up and seized the professor’s arms, as Gregson ducked to avoid the blow. For several moments we struggled violently to hold him, for the old professor seemed possessed of amazing strength for such an elderly man. Eventually he was subdued, the poker was wrenched from his grasp, and Inspector Gregson clapped a pair of handcuffs on him. Lady Boothby had shrunk into her chair while this violent conflict had been in progress. Now, she turned away, and made only a silent, dismissive gesture as we led her brother from the room.

We accompanied Gregson and his prisoner to the Hampstead Police Station, where he was formally charged with his crime and taken to the cells. A few minutes later, Gregson rejoined us in the front office.

‘Well, that’s that!’ he declared, rubbing his hands together. ‘Mad as a hatter! What do you think, Dr Watson?’

‘I’m inclined to agree,’ I replied. ‘I shouldn’t think he will be judged fit to stand trial.’

Gregson nodded. ‘Still, we’ve caught him! That’s the main thing! Now, Mr Holmes,’ he continued, turning to my friend, who was sitting on a bench, smoking his pipe in a contemplative fashion, ‘you must tell me how you worked it all out. How did you guess that it wasn’t the professor but Dr Zyss who had been done to death, what made you think he was at his sister’s house and where, precisely, does that blessed black owl fit into the matter?’

‘Guessing doesn’t come into it,’ rejoined Holmes sharply. ‘I never guess: there is no surer way of destroying the logical faculty. As to the little owl, it appeared earlier that Mrs Routledge knew more about it than she was prepared to admit, so what I propose is that we call on her again now and repeat our questions. I rather suspect that the news of Professor Arbuthnot’s arrest will free her tongue. As to the other points of interest in the case, I will gladly enlighten you on those, such as they are, on our way there.’

Thus it was that, five minutes later, we were once more in a cab, bound for Gospel Oak.

‘One of the first things that caught my attention,’ said Holmes, as we rattled along in the fading daylight, ‘was a curious little cut in the lining of the dead man’s jacket, which I examined at the police station. It was not caused by the knife that struck its wearer down, for although the knife blade had passed through the waistcoat, there was no corresponding cut in the fabric of the jacket, which must therefore have been unfastened and open at the time of the assault. Yet it was evident that the cut in the lining had been made very recently, for the fabric, a shiny, satin-like material, had scarcely frayed at all along the edge of the slit. I examined the lining more closely with the aid of a lens, and two things at once became clear. The cut had been made with a small pair of nail-scissors – the irregular line of the slit made that apparent – and a series of small holes, in line with the direction of the cut, indicated that something had previously been sewn to the lining of the jacket. I followed this line of thread-holes, and found that they enclosed an area two inches by three. The solution of this little mystery then seemed obvious: a label of some kind – probably the tailor’s own label – had been sewn inside the jacket, but had been recently removed, in the course of which the scissors had accidentally pierced the lining and cut a small section of it.