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

‘That just about covers the matter,’ said Gregson with a rueful chuckle.

‘And you would like me to look into it for you?’

‘Well, I would very much value your opinion, Mr Holmes – if one can form an opinion about such a confusing business!’

‘Very well,’ said Holmes after a moment. ‘We can do nothing this evening, so what I propose is this: you come round here at nine tomorrow morning and we shall be ready to set forth.’

In the morning, however, it happened that Inspector Gregson was detained elsewhere and could not join us as arranged. Shortly before nine we received a message from him containing a signed authority for us to view the body of the murdered man, which was at the police station on Kentish Town Road, and to make any enquiries we saw fit, and also a note of the time he intended to interview Mrs Routledge at her house in Gospel Oak, when he hoped, he said, that we would be able to meet up and share our conclusions. It was a chilly morning and I warmed myself before the fire as I glanced over the morning papers.

‘Any fresh news of the matter?’ asked Holmes as he stood up from his desk, where he had been studying a map.

I shook my head. ‘It remains as puzzling as ever. How do you intend to proceed?’ I asked as my friend put on his hat and coat.

‘I have been considering the matter from a geographical point of view, Watson,’ he replied. He took an envelope from his desk and held it up. ‘If we say that this envelope represents roughly the extent of Hampstead Heath, Parliament Hill and so on, then here, at the bottom right-hand corner, is the police station in Kentish Town Road where the professor’s body lies; here at the top right-hand corner is Highgate itself, scene of Wednesday’s tragedy. The top of the envelope represents the long road across the north side of the Heath, from Highgate to Hampstead, which lies here, at the top left-hand corner. In Hampstead is the home of the Arbuthnots’ nephew, Mr Terence Chalfont, who visited their house on Wednesday afternoon. It is also the place where Miss Cracknell saw Dr Zyss, as he floated in a spiritual manner across the street, before disappearing once more. Down here,’ he continued, running his finger down the side of the envelope to the bottom left-hand corner, ‘is Belsize Park, the home of Lady Boothby, sister of Professor Arbuthnot, and here, in the middle of the bottom edge, is Gospel Oak, home of the mysterious Mrs Routledge. That is, approximately, the route I propose to take. Are you free for a few hours?’

‘Certainly. I am at your disposal.’

‘Excellent! I have booked a four-wheeler for the day, so we shall not be short of transport. Ah! Here it is now!’ he continued, as there came a peal at the bell.

In a minute we were in the cab and rattling through the busy streets of north London. Twenty minutes later, we alighted at the police station, where the duty sergeant conducted us to a back room in which the professor’s body was lying. In the left breast was a sharply edged puncture wound, and it was evident from a brief examination that the weapon had penetrated the ribs and entered the heart. For a few moments Holmes examined the body carefully, then he turned his attention to the bundle of clothes on a side table nearby, holding up the jacket and waistcoat of a greenish-brown tweed suit, and examining them closely with the aid of his magnifying lens. Something on the jacket seemed to particularly arrest his attention. In answer to my query he indicated a slit in the lining.

‘Made by the knife that killed him, no doubt,’ I remarked, but Holmes shook his head.

‘No,’ said he. ‘This little cut was made separately, which is what makes it so interesting.’ He replaced the clothes and took up a pair of brown shoes which lay beside them.

‘May I borrow these?’ he asked the sergeant. ‘I wish to compare them with the footprints in the garden of the professor’s house.’

‘By all means,’ replied the other. ‘We have no immediate use for them. If you will just sign for them, you may keep them for forty-eight hours.’

We returned to our cab and began the long ascent up the steep hill to Highgate village, perched on top of the ridge overlooking north London. Holmes had said nothing as we left the police station, but there was a thoughtful look upon his features, as if he were turning the matter over in his mind. Although I attempted to discuss the case further, however, my friend would not be drawn. Presently, at the summit of the hill, we alighted in a short, pleasant tree-lined road, which a sign identified as Holly Grove. A police constable stood on duty beside a green-painted wooden gate, but admitted us without demur on being shown Inspector Gregson’s letter of authority. On either side of the gate were large trees, the branches of which met overhead, forming a shady arch. Within the garden a straight paved path led to the front door of the house, as Gregson had described. To the left of this lay a narrow strip of grass, a flower-bed and a tall hedge, and to the right, a larger expanse of lawn which passed out of view round the side of the house. Beyond this lawn was another tall, dense hedge.

Our ring at the bell was answered by a young maid, who showed us into a drawing-room. A moment later we were joined by the lady of the house. She was dressed in black, and her features were drawn and showed evidence of the tragedy which had so recently come upon the household. In answer to our questions, she described to us the events of Wednesday evening, much as we had already heard them from Gregson.

‘You say you heard the door-bell ring while you were upstairs in your bedroom,’ said Holmes. ‘Did it surprise you, then, when you descended, to find that there was no one here?’

Mrs Arbuthnot hesitated a moment, as if struggling to remember.

‘I suppose it did,’ she said at last; ‘but then I thought it was perhaps someone collecting for some charitable cause or other and I thought I would ask Ruby about it later.’

‘And shortly after that you saw the man approaching the door with a note in his hand?’

‘Yes. Just as I was drawing the curtains.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘Not really. I mean, he was rather nondescript. About thirty years of age, I suppose, with a black moustache. I really can’t remember anything else about him.’

‘And then, when you took the note to show your husband in the study, you found him dead, stabbed?’

‘That is correct.’

‘May we see the study?’

‘By all means. But you must excuse me. I do not wish to enter that room. I will wait in here to answer any further questions you may have.’

The study was situated immediately behind the drawing-room. A large desk, covered with papers, stood in the centre of the room and in front of it was a small rug, its pattern obscured by an irregular dark stain, which I needed only the briefest of glances to identify as blood. In the wall opposite the door was a pair of French windows, through which I could see the shady garden.

‘So,’ said Sherlock Holmes, as he prowled about the room, his keen eyes darting here and there to take in every detail of the scene of the tragedy, ‘the professor is seated behind his desk, working at his papers; someone enters through the French windows; the professor stands up, comes round to this side of the desk, either to talk to or to confront the intruder. Hum! Let us take a look outside!’

He opened the French windows and stepped out, and I watched from the study as he began slowly circling round on the lawn. After a few minutes, he dropped to his knees and examined closely some mark upon the lawn.

‘Would you be so good as to bring me the shoes, Watson?’ he called without looking up. ‘Make sure you keep well to the side!’