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

I unwrapped the parcel and took him the shoes. He turned them over and studied the undersides for a moment, then returned his gaze to the ground. Then he shook his head.

‘They do not match,’ said he. ‘These prints are therefore those of another man.’ He took a handkerchief from his pocket and placed it on the ground by the footprint, then continued his examination. After a few moments he dropped to his knees again. ‘A very clear print here, in this small muddy patch,’ he murmured. ‘Same as the first one. It seems – ah, yes! – this person is turning back in, towards the house wall. Here is another – and another! But wait! Here are some other prints, quite different from those! Let us see!’ He looked again at the shoes he was carrying, then back again at the ground. ‘It is a perfect match!’

‘So the professor was out in the garden, as well as the other man,’ I observed.

‘So it would appear,’ returned Holmes. ‘Of course, there is nothing remarkable about a man taking a walk round his own garden. And we cannot yet say whether the two men were in the garden at the same time or not. Let us cast our net further afield!’

‘Is it of any significance when the professor was in the garden?’ I enquired, as Holmes moved slowly away, his keen, hawk-like eyes fixed upon the ground at his feet.

‘It might be,’ he answered without looking up. ‘If the two men walked about together, it would of course suggest that they knew each other and had been strolling about whilst in conversation.’

My companion then fell silent once more as he continued his examination of the lawn. In a few minutes he had covered the whole extent of it, and reached the garden gate. There he stood for a while, his chin in his hand, evidently pondering his findings, before making his way back to where I stood, near the corner of the house.

‘If the two of them had been walking together,’ he remarked, ‘one would expect the two sets of prints to be closely aligned; but they are not. It is true that they come together in one or two places, but that is evidently mere chance, for where they cross, they are going in opposite directions. In every case where the two sets of prints intersect, those of the other shoes are overlaid upon those of the shoes we have here and were therefore made later.’

‘It appears, then,’ I said, ‘that the professor simply took a walk earlier in the day and the other man arrived later. You therefore cannot tell from the prints whether the other man was someone known to the professor or not. From that point of view the prints are of no use to you.’

Holmes chuckled. ‘The fact that one set of prints was certainly made later than the other is not the only discovery I have made,’ said he. ‘Footprints can tell you a great deal, if you read them carefully, Watson! I have, as you know, written a short monograph on the subject. But come!’ he continued, as I made to ask him more. ‘I shall make a quick sketch of one of the prints made by the other shoes for future identification and we can then return to the house.’

In the study, Holmes resumed his close examination of the room. After a few minutes, he paused before a framed photograph, which was hanging on the wall behind the desk. In it, a group of perhaps fifteen or sixteen people were standing on the steps of what appeared to be a college of some kind. Most of them were men, almost all of whom were bearded and bespectacled, and staring at the camera with such an intensity that they appeared like nothing so much as a row of owls sitting on a perch. After a moment, Holmes unhooked the photograph from the wall and, indicating that I should follow him, led the way through to the drawing-room.

‘That photograph was taken about twenty-five years ago,’ said Mrs Arbuthnot, in answer to Holmes’s query. ‘A conference was held in Oxford, at Montgomery College, and people came from all over Europe to contribute to the discussions. It was a great success.’

‘Is your late husband in the picture?’ asked Holmes.

‘Yes. That is he, there,’ she answered, indicating the end figure of the front row of intense-looking, bearded men.

‘And Dr Zyss?’

‘Two to the left of my husband, the man with the spectacles.’

‘And this woman, standing at the side?’

‘Yes, that is me. Of course, I was much younger then. I dare say I have changed rather a lot. Sometimes it seems to me that women age less well than men.’

‘Not at all, madam,’ responded Holmes suavely. ‘And this other woman: could that be Mrs Routledge?’

‘Mrs Routledge?’ repeated Mrs Arbuthnot sharply. ‘Certainly not! Whatever made you think such a thing? Why should Mrs Routledge be there?’

‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Arbuthnot. I have evidently spoken in error. I had heard the name of Mrs Routledge in connection with your husband or Dr Zyss and assumed, perhaps incorrectly, that she was a professional colleague of his. If I have made a mistake, I apologise.’

‘You certainly have made a mistake!’ said Mrs Arbuthnot with feeling. ‘Mrs Routledge was the mother of one of my husband’s patients and nothing, if I may say so, but a troublemaker. Her own husband had died, she had brought up her son alone and was devoted to him. I say “devoted”, but “over-devoted” would perhaps be more accurate. That, in my husband’s opinion, was the source of the young man’s troubles, but, of course, the mother would not hear of it. My husband had been treating him for some time, on the recommendation of their own family physician, when unfortunately, and to everyone’s great surprise, the young man took his own life. The mother, Mrs Routledge, was naturally terribly distraught, which was understandable; but after a few days she began to lay the blame for what had happened on my husband and Dr Zyss. She accused them of putting strange ideas into his head, which was quite untrue and a wicked thing to say. At first my husband excused these accusations as the reaction of a sorrowful, bereaved mother and did not respond; but after a time her lies began to affect his professional standing and he could no longer simply ignore them. He therefore applied for a court injunction to prevent her from spreading these malicious and unsubstantiated falsehoods. The case was won and Mrs Routledge was thenceforth restrained, but serious damage had already been done to my husband’s reputation, and it took some time for the practice to recover. That was about a dozen years ago.’

‘Was it not also about that time that Dr Zyss returned to Vienna?’

‘Yes, approximately.’

‘Was there any connection between the Routledge case and Dr Zyss’s decision to leave?’

‘No. He had been considering for some time returning to Vienna, to set up his own practice there. He and my husband had had various professional disagreements – I will not bore you with the details – and for that reason, also, decided to go their separate ways.’

Holmes nodded. ‘I see,’ said he. ‘I understand that although retired from active practice, your husband continued to write and publish in the professional journals.’

‘That is correct. My husband’s work was his life’s passion and nothing could have kept him from it.’

‘What was the subject of his latest work?’

‘I cannot see the relevance of the question, but, as you ask, it concerned the treatment of those suffering from a depressive illness, young people especially.’

We returned to the study then and, after hanging the photograph back up, Holmes continued his general examination of the room. After a while he looked up from where he was examining something by the fireplace, a thoughtful expression on his face.

‘I don’t think there is much more we can learn from this room,’ said he, ‘but while I finish off here, Watson, perhaps you could ask Mrs Arbuthnot about Terence Chalfont’s visit on Wednesday, if you wouldn’t mind?’