Sherlock Holmes and the Lady in Black Page 6

  ‘I thought,’ Holmes continued, briskly changing the subject, ‘that we might stop for coffee in Lewes. I believe the Rose and Crown hotel has a good reputation.’

  For the rest of the journey, Holmes, who seemed to be in a jocular mood, chatted about a variety of subjects from Elizabethan comedies to the fascination of beekeeping, and the subject of Langdale Pike was dropped for the time being.

  Holmes spent at least twenty minutes in Lewes’ post office, so I assumed the telegram he was sending to Langdale Pike must be a long one. However, it was evidently only part of his errand for when eventually he emerged, I noticed he was carrying a newspaper under his arm, which he seemed to have folded back to a particular page, and when we had seated ourselves in the Rose and Crown, he placed it on the table, as if he wished to draw my attention to it. It was a copy of the local Lewes Gazette and the page that lay uppermost bore in large print the headline, THEFT AT MELCHETT MANOR with below it in smaller typeface, Police Seek Gang of Thieves.

  Holmes tapped the column with his long index finger, indicating I was to peruse it. I did so and it read as follows:

  Police were called to Lower Melchett Manor in the early hours of Wednesday morning to investigate a burglary during which several items of silver were stolen. The owners, Sir Oliver and Lady Wayne, were not in residence at the time and were unaware of the theft until their butler telegraphed them in Italy. They should be returning to England in the near future. The investigation of the burglary is being conducted by Inspector Bardle of the Sussex Constabulary.

  I looked across at Holmes.

  ‘Inspector Bardle!’ I exclaimed. ‘Isn’t it the same policeman who investigated that case involving Fitzroy McPherson?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one!’

  ‘I remember you referred to it in a letter you wrote to me about the case. You seemed to take to the inspector despite his rather slow country ways.’

  ‘Indeed, I found him a decent, honest fellow,’ Holmes agreed. ‘Perhaps a little too eager to keep to the welltrodden path, like a lot of policeman, rather than striking out on his own. Would you like to meet him?’

  ‘You mean—?’

  ‘By taking a trip to Lower Melchett? Is that what you were going to say? What a wonderful idea, Watson! We could call on Inspector Bardle at the Manor for old time’s sake. Besides, it is a very pleasant drive there.’

  There was a mischievous air about him that I could not quite account for and it was in the same teasing manner that he took something from his pocket and laid it down on the Lewes Gazette. It was a small object that was difficult to identify, made of metal with a silvery sheen to it and appeared to have a tiny handle, bent in half, to one end of which was attached a rounded head, flattened into a squashed irregular shape.

  ‘Now what do you make of that, my dear fellow?’ he asked, his eyes twinkling.

  ‘I have no idea.’ I replied.

  ‘Then let me give you a clue. I found it on the steps leading down to the crypt at St Botolph’s. You were keeping cave so probably did not notice it. It was hidden under the foliage of that rose briar. Still no idea, Watson? Then what about another clue? The shapes in the dust. Does that help?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said, a little huffily, as I was getting rather tired of the game.

  ‘In that case, I suggest we leave the puzzle for the time being and make our way to Lower Melchett. By the way, I would rather you did not mention any of this to Inspector Bardle. It is still a very young idea on my part; newly hatched and not yet ready to fly.’

  And with that, he left the hotel and, as I followed after him, I wondered what on earth it all meant. Shapes in the dust? A small metal object that looked as if it had been trodden on? I would certainly not confide any of it to Inspector Bardle. It made no sense at all.

  Instead, I decided to follow Holmes wherever he led and trust that eventually these riddles would be solved.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Holmes was right; it was indeed a pleasant drive to Lower Melchett through scenery quite different to that of Fulworth. There were no cliffs, no sudden glimpses of the sea nor distant views of the Downs. Instead these were replaced by the softer undulating contours of farmland and meadows where sheep grazed or cottages were clustered together in leafy settlements.

  Lower Melchett was one of these, a pretty rural village evidently cherished by its inhabitants judging by the carefully tended gardens and the profusion of window boxes and hanging baskets overflowing with flowers.

  There was a small shop in the centre of the village, like the houses bedecked with blooms, and a few yards beyond it the local inn, The Wheatsheaf, according to the sign, by the roadside.

  ‘Pull in here!’ Holmes suddenly ordered, taking me by surprise. It was too early for lunchtime, I thought. Nevertheless I obeyed and turned on to the gravelled forecourt of the inn where I parked the car.

  ‘I shan’t be long,’ Holmes promised as he scrambled quickly out of the passenger seat and set off at a brisk pace for the door of the tavern, ducking his head to avoid a hanging basket of pink and blue flowers.

  So something was afoot, I surmised, although quite what I was not exactly sure, except it had something to do with the burglary at Melchett Manor and Inspector Bardle’s involvement with it, even though I could not discern its connection, if any, to the Lady in Black inquiry.

  Before I had time to follow this train of thought any further, Holmes was back, tapping on the window and urging me to find a better place to park.

  ‘I’ve booked a table for two for luncheon and the landlord has said we may leave the car here for the time being,’ he said.

  At this point I gave up trying to puzzle out Holmes’ intentions. It was better, I decided, to follow his instructions and postpone the questions until later. So I started the car and eased it forward to a space on the far side of the forecourt where Holmes joined me. I gathered from his gestures that he wanted me to follow him across the inn’s yard to the far side of the road.

  ‘Where are we going now, Holmes?’ I asked, assuming he would reply: ‘To Melchett Manor of course, to meet Inspector Bardle,’ as I could see what I took to be the entrance gates to the Manor a little further down the road on the right. But instead of turning in that direction, Holmes crossed the road to the other side where there was a gap in the hedge beside which stood a white-painted fingerpost marked ‘Public Footpath’.

  ‘I thought,’ Holmes remarked as he climbed over the stile, ‘that a little stroll to stretch our legs would do us good.’

  A little stroll indeed! I thought but I said nothing. Judging by the smile he gave me, he was in one of his jocular moods and it was better not to rise to his bait. So I followed him over the stile where we found ourselves in a large meadow edged with trees, beyond which I caught a glimpse of chimneys and the sloping roof of a house: Melchett Manor, I surmised, a conjecture that appeared to be correct for Holmes suddenly left the path and cut across the field towards it, with me still following in his wake.

  A few minutes later we had reached the far side and were pushing through the leafy hedge. There was, however, a final obstacle to be crossed: an iron fence which we clambered over to find we were faced with a sign as solid and as forbidding as a policeman or, in this case more appropriately a gamekeeper: a large noticeboard bearing in black paint the words,

  MELCHETT MANOR. PRIVATE PROPERTY.

  TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

  I took a quick sideways glance at Holmes to gauge his reaction but he showed none. Calmly brushing leaves and pieces of broken twigs from his clothes, he set off walking briskly up the driveway towards a house, which could only be Melchett Manor and which seconds later emerged fully into view through the foliage to stand, grand and elegant, before us.

  She – and the use of the feminine pronoun seemed totally relevant, for the house resembled a refined, aristocratic lady dressed for some fashionable occasion – was in the same Regency style as Fulworth Hall but compared to this house, the Hall wi
th its overgrown gardens and general air of neglect, seemed like a poor relation. Here the stucco was dazzlingly white and the glass in the tiers of the windows set in the façade glittered in the sunshine.

  ‘Holmes,’ I began but remembering my decision to follow where he led, I kept silent and fell in behind him as he climbed the steps of the pillared portico and pressed the doorbell; not an ordinary bell push, nothing as mundane as that, but a circlet of polished brass in which a white china button was embedded like a large, lustrous pearl.

  We heard the bell ring twice inside the hall and moments later the door was opened by a tall, superior-looking butler who announced even before Holmes had a chance to speak, ‘The Manor is closed today to all visitors, sir.’

  He seemed about to shut the door but Holmes prevented him by laying his hand against the frame.

  ‘I have a message for Inspector Bardle. Would you please make sure he receives it immediately?’ he requested, handing over one of his visiting cards, which he produced from his inner pocket and the butler perused it quickly.

  He was too well trained to show any reaction to the name on the card, not even a raised eyebrow but he was evidently impressed by it for he stood aside to let us in.

  ‘If you would please wait here, gentleman,’ he said. ‘I will make sure the inspector receives your card at once.’

  And with that, he bowed briefly and crossing the hall, began to mount the staircase, passing a uniformed police officer who was standing at its foot, looking uncomfortably out of place in his sombre uniform and heavy boots in the elegant setting of gilt-framed mirrors, antique furniture and silk draperies of Melchett Manor’s entrance hall.

  ‘What is going on, Holmes?’ I asked sotte voce but all I got in reply was a little smile and a laconic, ‘Wait and see, my dear fellow,’ before he turned away to inspect with fastidious attention a marble bust of a beautiful young lady displayed on a nearby cabinet.

  So I gave up and keeping to my decision to follow where he led, I fell silent and waited.

  I had not long to wait. Hardly two minutes later footsteps were heard crossing the upper landing and the burly figure of a man in civilian clothes, beaming broadly, came hurrying down the stairs, already holding out a hand to greet Holmes who stepped forward, his own hand at the ready, both men obviously delighted to meet one another.

  ‘Mr Holmes!’ declared the inspector.

  ‘Inspector Bardle!’ exclaimed Holmes in unison.

  Their voices mingled in the shared greetings and both laughed out loud at the vocal duet, Inspector Bardle slapping Holmes on the shoulder with his free hand to emphasise his delight at the encounter.

  ‘Allow me to introduce Dr Watson, an old colleague of mine,’ Holmes continued. ‘And this, Watson, is Inspector Bardle of the Sussex Constabulary whose acquaintance I made during the Lion’s Mane inquiry.’

  ‘A pleasure to meet you, Dr Watson,’ the inspector said, shaking me by the hand. ‘Mr Holmes mentioned you several times during that case. He spoke of you as his chronicler and I think he missed your company.’

  I was momentarily lost for words by his frankness and by my first impression of him. He was not at all what I had expected. A stolid, middle-aged man, he had the bovine features of a friendly cow who stood four-square on the ground as if rooted there, regarding me with large, dark, speculative eyes as he took my hand.

  ‘Is it possible to go somewhere quiet where we are not likely to be disturbed?’ Holmes was saying as this little exchange of greetings was completed.

  Bardle showed no surprise at this request, merely remarking, ‘Of course, Mr Holmes, I’ll have a word with the butler to make sure we’re left alone. If you’ll follow me …’

  He led the way from the hall down a passage and through a baize-covered door to what was clearly the domestic quarters of the house, judging by the more modest furnishing. Halting before another door, he announced over his shoulder, ‘This is the housekeeper’s room. It’s been allocated to me for the time being. No one will disturb us without my permission.’

  We entered a comfortable, homely sitting room furnished with a sofa and two armchairs towards which Bardle extended an inviting hand.

  ‘Take a seat, gentlemen,’ he said, adding as we sat down, ‘what brings you here, Mr Holmes?’

  ‘This,’ Holmes replied, reaching into his pocket and producing the copy of the Lewes Gazette, folded down to the page where the column under the headline ‘LATEST NEWS’ was located. Inspector Bardle read it quickly before returning the newspaper to Holmes.

  ‘Aha!’ he said with an air of satisfaction. ‘So that’s why you happen to call in here today. I asked myself what made you turn up like this out of the blue. Now I wonder how you managed to get past those officers I had posted at the entrance to the driveway to send away any visitors.’

  It was said in a good-humoured manner, with a touch of self-denigration, as if he were deliberately assuming the role of a not over-bright local bobby and immediately I began to warm to the man. There was a great deal more to Inspector Bardle than met the eye.

  Holmes replied in a similar good-natured, dismissive manner.

  ‘Oh that, Inspector! We decided to take the country route through the fields.’

  Bardle was not to be outdone.

  ‘Ah, over the stile!’ he twinkled back. ‘I’ll have to make sure there’s a constable on duty there as well from now on. Now what can I do for you, Mr Holmes?’

  ‘I called to ask how far you have got with the case,’ Holmes replied.

  ‘Not far enough,’ Bardle admitted with a rueful shake of his head.

  ‘If there is anything I can do …’

  Holmes made the suggestion in an offhand manner but Bardle accepted the offer with a sudden and unexpected eagerness, brightening up as if Holmes had lit the man’s touch paper and set him aglow.

  ‘Would you be willing, Mr Holmes? I’d be grateful for a helping hand. The trouble is there are so few clues to go on. But let me show you the scene. I’m sure Sir Oliver wouldn’t mind. There’s only Simmons, the butler, in charge but he’s no problem in spite of that lah-di-dah look of his. So come with me and I’ll show you what I’m up against.’

  Getting to his feet, he set off again for the main hall, Holmes and I at his heels as he climbed the staircase to the upper landing, giving a perfunctory nod to the constable still on guard at its foot. Having reached the top, he turned right and flung open a door leading into a large gallery-like room, lined with glass-fronted showcases, the doors of some of which had been forced open.

  ‘There you are, Mr Holmes!’ Bardle announced, waving away a couple of plain-clothed detectives who were dusting one of the cabinet doors with grey powder. ‘The Melchett collection and the scene of the crime. Make of it what you will for I admit I’m flummoxed.’

  Holmes’ attitude seemed to be the very antithesis of Inspector Bardle’s. Very calmly and quietly, he crossed the room to examine the cabinet which seemed to contain table silver; along the shelves were displayed salvers and tureens in the precious metal with gaps here and there in the rows of exhibits, indicating where certain pieces were missing. I noticed that throughout his inspection he was careful to touch nothing, keeping his hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘Interesting!’ he murmured half to himself, a comment that Bardle quickly took up.

  ‘So what do you make of it, Mr Holmes?’ he asked.

  ‘Not a great deal at this early stage,’ Holmes admitted, ‘except whoever broke into this cabinet had no skill at picking locks. This door has obviously been forced open with a chisel or a strong knife, which implies …’

  ‘An amateur?’ Bardle suggested.

  ‘That is my conclusion,’ Holmes agreed.

  ‘And someone who only wanted the small stuff – the cutlery and the little dishes. He’s left behind the bigger pieces like those serving platters or the large pots for serving soup.’

  ‘The tureens,’ Holmes interposed. ‘Excellent observation, Inspector!’r />
  His tone of voice expressed genuine admiration for Bardle’s qualities as a detective at which the man positively glowed, his heavy features normally impassive breaking into a broad smile.

  ‘And also someone who was wearing gloves, judging by the absence of fingerprints on the glass,’ Holmes continued.

  It was Bardle’s turn to be impressed.

  ‘Ah, Mr Holmes!’ he remarked, his smile widening still further. ‘I wondered if you’d notice that. Now come with me and I’ll show you something worth seeing. We’ll use the back stairs this time.’

  Turning on his heel, he escorted us back to the landing to a second set of stairs, like the hall separated from the main building by a baize-covered door and carpeted with drugget, clearly the servants’ access to the upper rooms. Inspector Bardle lead the way, his solid shoulders brushing the walls of the narrow stairway. With his back turned towards us, I risked a question that I had been eager to ask Holmes ever since his scrutiny of the ransacked cabinet.

  ‘Fingerprints?’ I hissed.

  ‘Later,’ he hissed back.

  There was no opportunity to inquire further for we had reached the foot of the stairs and Inspector Bardle, with an unexpected turn of speed, was striding ahead of us through a large kitchen and into an adjoining scullery, the window of which was set open.

  ‘There!’ he said triumphantly indicating the window with a jerk of his thumb. ‘There’s the way our burglar got in. What do you make of that, Mr Holmes?’

  Holmes gave a chuckle.

  ‘Well, whoever he is, he’s very small,’ he replied.

  ‘A child perhaps?’ Inspector Bardle suggested, a reply that took me by surprise.

  ‘A child?’ I repeated, quite shocked by the idea. I thought that the employment of young thieves, like that of chimney sweeps, had disappeared years before.

  It was the Inspector who responded.

  ‘It’s not unheard of, Dr Watson. I myself have had cases where the burglars used children to break into a home. Not being fully grown, they can wriggle their way in through the smallest opening, a fanlight, for example, or in this instance a scullery window. And then once inside, the little villain opens the back door to let in the thief or thieves. I’m sure that’s what happened here. I questioned Simmons, the butler, and he admitted that, although the back door was locked, the key was often left in the door and both of the bolts had been drawn when Mrs Davies, the housekeeper, came downstairs to the kitchen early this morning, to put the kettle on.’