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

‘Not at all.’

Mrs Arbuthnot was still seated in the same position as I had last seen her, staring into the hearth. I put the questions to her that Holmes had suggested and she shook her head with a sigh.

‘As I have already told Inspector Gregson,’ she replied, ‘Mr Chalfont called at about half past two in the afternoon, stayed about half an hour and then left. His reason for calling was purely social, a family matter, and can have nothing to do with what has occurred.’

‘Was he a frequent visitor to your house?’

‘No, he was not. My husband did not encourage visitors.’

‘When was the last time he called?

‘I’m not sure. About three weeks ago. What does it matter?’

I could not think what else to ask, but at that moment, Holmes put his head in at the door and announced that he had finished in the study. ‘Do not trouble to ring for the servant, madam,’ said he. ‘We shall let ourselves out and bother you no longer. Good day!’

‘She did not really add anything to what we had already heard about Chalfont’s visit,’ I remarked, as our cab set off in the direction of Hampstead.

‘That is no more than I had expected,’ returned my companion, then fell into a profound silence. ‘No doubt you observed, Watson,’ he said at last, breaking his silence as we rattled along the road across the north side of the heath, ‘that some of Professor Arbuthnot’s papers are missing. Most of the sheets are dated, but there are none dated more recently than about three weeks ago, and none which appear to relate to his most recent work, as his wife described it to us. It is evident, however, that some sheets have been burnt in the fire, for there are several charred corners of paper lying in the hearth.’

I shook my head. ‘What does it mean?’ I asked.

‘It means, Watson, that what has not been burnt has been taken.’

‘But why? Could that be the motive for the crime?’

‘Ah! That is what we must discover!’

We alighted from the cab in the centre of Hampstead and soon found the front door to Chalfont’s apartment, at the side of a bakery in Heath Street. Our knock at the door was answered by Chalfont himself, a thin, pale, clean-shaven young man. He appeared none too pleased to see us, but agreed, in a reluctant fashion, to answer our questions.

‘I have already told the policeman everything I know about my uncle’s death,’ he said, as he led the way up a steep flight of stairs to his apartment. ‘As I said to him, it amounts to precisely nothing.’

As he was showing us into a small sitting-room at the top of the stairs, there came some slight noise from beyond a closed door at the side of the room.

‘That will just be my lodger leaving,’ he remarked in an off-hand tone, as we looked in that direction.

‘I was not aware there was another way out,’ said Holmes.

‘Only by the window,’ replied Chalfont in a matter of fact voice. ‘Martin often leaves in that way. He owes a little money to various people, which is why I’m putting him up here at the moment. He probably heard you coming and thought you were debt collectors. Now, please ask your questions and let’s get it over with.’

‘You called upon the Arbuthnots on Wednesday afternoon, at about half past two, but did not stay long and did not see the professor,’ said Holmes.

‘That is correct. If you know all this, why are you asking me?’

‘You didn’t call again later, for any reason?’

‘No.’

‘Mrs Arbuthnot says that you are not a very frequent visitor these days.’

‘That is true. What of it?’

‘I understand that you were hoping that they would make a financial contribution to the production costs of your latest play. Was that your main reason for calling?’

‘That came into it,’ Chalfont responded after a moment. ‘After all, people do sometimes contribute to worthy things that are of interest to them. At least, they used to. It’s become harder lately to raise the money you need. People are getting meaner. As for the Arbuthnots: trying to get money out of them was like trying to get blood out of a stone. I’d thought that the new play might be of interest to them, considering that it’s all about the professor’s line of business. You would have thought they’d have welcomed a little free advertising for his racket. But they weren’t interested.’

‘You had spoken to them before about it?’

‘Yes, two or three weeks ago.’

‘Forgive me for pursuing the point, Mr Chalfont,’ said Holmes after a moment, ‘but I am interested in this play of yours. I have the impression that you intend it to be somewhat critical of what you describe as “the professor’s line of business”. If that is so, why would you expect Professor Arbuthnot or his wife to contribute to its production?’

Chalfont did not reply at once. He sat down heavily in an armchair and, by a wave of his arm, indicated that we should do the same. ‘Because,’ he replied at length, ‘I was being dishonest. I make a big show of detesting dishonesty in others, but there was I, being just as dishonest as anyone else. When I first told them of the play, I tried to make out that it would simply be about the difficulties involved in that line of work, but as we discussed it, my own opinions inevitably came out, even though I tried to keep them to myself, and the professor and I ended up having a blazing row. That was three weeks ago. My visit on Wednesday was to try and smooth things over a bit, and tell them that they might have gained a misleading impression of the play. But that, too, was dishonest.’

‘In reality, then, you had always intended it to be critical of the professor’s work?’

‘Yes,’ he replied after a long moment of reflection.

‘You have studied your uncle’s work closely?’

‘Closely enough. Listen, Mr Holmes, when I was a boy, old Arbuthnot often used to call at our house and make personal remarks about me to my mother, sometimes when he thought I couldn’t hear what he was saying, and sometimes even in my presence, as if I was of no account compared to his almighty opinions. Grossly offensive, I call that, and damned impertinent!’

‘I see,’ said Holmes after a moment. ‘Is your new play based on your own experiences, then, or on a specific case?’

‘Neither precisely,’ replied Chalfont in a cautious tone. ‘I didn’t want to embarrass anybody or get into trouble by following a real case too closely. So it’s a blend of incidents and themes from several different cases I’ve read about, with some of my own experiences thrown in for good measure.’

‘And how, if I may ask, does it end up? Which character in your play comes out better?’

‘I really don’t see what your interest is, but as it happens, the issue is not so simple as that. The patient deteriorates, but I leave it ambiguous as to whether this is the psychologist’s fault, or whether the young man would have got worse anyway. At least, I think I leave it ambiguous; I am at present rewriting the final scenes. I am conscious that I lack some telling incident, some crucial detail which will make the point I wish to make in an unequivocal way.’

‘Are you acquainted with Mrs Routledge?’

‘No I am not. I’ve never heard of her. Who is she, anyway?’

‘No matter. Do you know anything of a black owl?’

Chalfont’s features expressed puzzlement and he shook his head. ‘I thought most owls were brown,’ he said.

Holmes glanced at his watch as we boarded our cab once more. ‘We are running a little late now,’ said he. ‘I think we should postpone our visit to Professor Arbuthnot’s sister and get along to our meeting with Inspector Gregson at Gospel Oak.’

My companion fell silent then, as our cab rattled down Rosslyn Hill and along the south side of the heath towards Gospel Oak. As our cab turned into Trenchard Villas, however, he turned to me with an odd smile on his face.