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

‘Chalfont lives in Hampstead, where he occupies a set of rooms over a baker’s shop in Heath Street. I went there directly from Highgate, but found no one at home. At least, no one answered my knock at the door, although I thought I heard some slight sounds from inside the apartment. There was nothing more I could do there, so I took myself down the road to Belsize Park, where Professor Arbuthnot’s sister, Lady Boothby, has a house. The poor old lady was in a state of the utmost shock and mourning, as you can imagine, and I got no useful information from her. She was aware, of course, that Dr Zyss was visiting London for the first time in ten years, but said she had not seen or heard from him. Nor could she shed any light on her son’s whereabouts, as she had not seen him in the past fortnight.

‘I therefore returned to Scotland Yard, to see if we had had any news of Dr Zyss, but I was disappointed in that enquiry, too. We had had several reports concerning possible sightings of him, from Stepney, Walworth, Finchley, Ealing and another half dozen places, but although I spent several hours following them up, they all turned out to be false leads. This brings me to today.

‘I had left a note at Chalfont’s apartment to say when I should call again, and duly went up there this morning and found him waiting for me. He is about thirty years of age, with a manner which struck me as unduly defensive and argumentative. I questioned him about his recent visit to Holly Grove and he confirmed the account that Mrs Arbuthnot had given me.

‘“You did not see Professor Arbuthnot on Wednesday?” I asked.

‘“No,” said he, “as I’m sure you’re already aware.”

‘“You did not, for instance, walk round the side of the house after you left, to the French windows of the study?”

‘“No.”

‘“Or return to the house later for any reason?”

‘“Certainly not.”

‘“I understand,” I said, “that your latest play is to be about the work of a medical psychologist, which one would imagine would have been of interest to your uncle and his wife, but I gather they were somewhat unenthusiastic. Why was that?”

‘“How would I know?” said he brusquely.

‘“Well, you are the one writing the play, you are the one who has discussed it with them.”

‘“Oh, all right,” said he at last, in a tone of annoyance. “They didn’t like the sound of my play, Inspector, because they realised that it would be more than simply a paean of praise to the wonderful, highly esteemed Professor Arbuthnot!” These last words were spoken in a tone of great sarcasm.

‘“Am I to take it, then, that it is critical of him or his work?”

‘“It just aims to tell the truth, that’s all. Look, Inspector, I fail to see the relevance of any of this, and I don’t see any point in discussing it further.”

‘“You didn’t like your uncle?” I ventured.

‘“Not much, no.”

‘I didn’t get any more of interest from Mr Chalfont, but just as I was leaving, I heard a slight sound from an adjoining room. “Oh, that’s just Martin,” Chalfont said by way of explanation, “an actor friend of mine. I’m putting him up for a few days. He never rises before lunchtime.”

‘I returned to Scotland Yard then. There had still been no word of Dr Zyss, so I sent a message to our colleagues in St Albans, asking them to go to the address at which Mrs Routledge was staying and inform her that I should be calling at her house in Gospel Oak on Saturday. I also asked them to make inquiries about Dr Zyss, in case he was staying in St Albans with her, or had been seen anywhere in the vicinity. They later reported that there was no trace of him there. I seemed to have reached a dead end, and could not think what to do next. Then, about five o’clock, a message reached me from Hampstead which sounded more promising, so I took myself back up there. But if it had already been a puzzling case, with no obvious explanation, this latest information took it almost into the realm of absurdity. It is this that has brought me to see you, Mr Holmes, to see if you can see any chink of light in the business where I cannot.’

‘You intrigue me,’ said Holmes. ‘Pray, what is this latest information?’

‘An elderly woman by the name of Tuttle had been into Hampstead police station earlier and made a statement. A friend of hers, she said, a Miss Cracknell, who was, she said, too shy to come forward herself, had taken tea with her that afternoon. In the course of their conversation, Miss Cracknell had said, “You will never guess who I saw crossing the high street this morning, Minnie! It was one of those old professors! I thought at first it was Professor Arbuthnot, then I realised it was the other one – Dr Zyss – the one with the thick glasses. I haven’t seen either of them for years – I didn’t even know if they were still about – and, in any case, I thought Dr Zyss had moved to Austria or Germany or somewhere like that. Anyway, he didn’t see me, but just seemed to sort of float across the road like a spirit. He had a far-away look on his face, and was staring straight ahead. I called to him, but he didn’t hear me. Then he turned into Church Row and walked on towards the church. Please don’t think me fanciful, Minnie, but there seemed something ethereal, unworldly almost, about him. I couldn’t help but think that he wasn’t long for this world. I was going that way myself, so I followed him along the street. Without pausing, he went into the church, so, on the spur of the moment, I did, too. But I got a terrible shock, I can tell you. Inside the church, there wasn’t a living soul, not one! Dr Zyss had just vanished into thin air!”

‘As Miss Cracknell was recounting her experience, Miss Tuttle was, she says, in a state of shock. “Susannah, have you not heard?” she said at length. “Professor Arbuthnot was murdered on Wednesday night and Dr Zyss has disappeared!”

‘So that was that,’ said Gregson. ‘Miss Tuttle and her friend decided that we should be informed of this sighting, but apart from confirming that Dr Zyss is still in the area, it doesn’t really help us very much. He may have reappeared, but only to vanish once more!’

‘Do you know what connection there was between these two elderly ladies and the two psychologists?’ Holmes asked after a moment.

‘Apparently,’ replied Gregson, ‘both Professor Arbuthnot and Dr Zyss used to give public lectures on their theories at the Hampstead Educational Institute, which were well attended. Some of those who attended became almost like disciples, I understand, and used to help them with practical work, keeping records and so on. Miss Tuttle and Miss Cracknell had been two such disciples, so I am given to understand.’

Holmes nodded. ‘So,’ said he after a moment, as Inspector Gregson leaned back in his chair and sipped his whisky, ‘to sum the matter up: Professor Arbuthnot, a prominent, retired psychologist, has been murdered in his own home, apparently by an intruder, although no such intruder was seen or heard by anyone. Nothing appears to have been stolen, but an unusual little black owl has appeared in the murdered man’s study. An old colleague of Arbuthnot’s, Dr Zyss, was due to call that evening, but sent a note to say that, after all, he could not. This gentleman has subsequently disappeared from his hotel and his whereabouts are unknown. A woman who visited him at his hotel on the morning of the same day has also disappeared – temporarily, you hope. The maid at the murdered man’s house reports that a veiled woman rang the front-door bell on Wednesday evening, but did not respond when addressed, instead turning and walking away, and today a woman reports seeing Dr Zyss in the middle of Hampstead High Street, but he then proceeded to vanish for a second time, even more mysteriously than the first time.’