Текст книги "A Farewell to Baker Street"

Автор книги: Mark Mower

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5. The Trimingham Escapade

Many of you will know that Sherlock Holmes lived out the final few years of his extraordinary existence well away from the hubbub of London and tending to his beloved bees on a quiet smallholding on the South Downs in Sussex. What is less well known is that he did, with occasional outbursts of energy and enthusiasm, continue to employ his talents on a small number of the more baffling and challenging criminal cases that were still being presented to him on a regular basis. One of these was a convoluted commission which Holmes took on in 1926 at the age of seventy-two. It was the last case we worked on together, so I have always looked on it with some affection. As such, it seems fitting that I should now record the details of what occurred that particular summer.

As had often been the case, my involvement in Holmes’ investigation occurred more by accident than design. I had been visiting my dear friend on a radiant sunny day, having decided to take my new 3-litre Bentley touring car on its first excursion outside the capital. With little risk of rain and a full tank of petrol, I had cruised through the picturesque landscape of lowland heath, ancient woodlands and chalk grasslands to reach Holmes’ modest farm near Saddlescombe in time for a light luncheon of salad and home-grown new potatoes.

Holmes was overjoyed at my visit, telling me about his new-found love of astronomy and his recent purchase of a powerful telescope, enabling him to explore for the first time the wonders of the solar system. Like a child with a new toy, he insisted on being taken for a spin in the Bentley and marvelled at its speed and comfort. I had rarely seen him more spirited. Yet, when we returned to the farm to find a black Austin Twelve parked outside his humble cottage, his countenance changed immediately.

“I fear our fraternal excitement is about to be rudely dampened by the long arm of the law, Watson. I recognise the number plate. It seems we have a visit from Chief Inspector Wattisfield of Scotland Yard – a capable fellow, but a man without humour. As you know, I have no telephone, so he has clearly made some effort to track me down. No doubt he has a perplexing case and is seeking some guidance. I hope you will linger a while longer and hear what the good man has to say?”

My response was immediate and heartfelt. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Holmes!”

Wattisfield was brusque but amiable and, like Holmes, not one for irrelevancies and idle chit chat. When seated in Holmes’ farmhouse kitchen, he went straight into the nature of his dilemma: “Mr Holmes. I have myself a very impenetrable murder mystery. Earlier this morning, we were called to Trimingham Manor in Surrey where the dead body of a solicitor named Barrington Henshaw was discovered in a locked room of the house. He appears to have fallen back against a stone fireplace and died of the head injuries he sustained. On the basis that the key to the room could not be found, I can only conclude that we are dealing with a case of potential murder or manslaughter. And given that we have not, as yet, ascertained the whereabouts of one of the household staff – a valet by the name of Heinz Descartes – I would suggest that he may have something to tell us about the nature of this unpleasant episode. We understand the man to be a German national, who has only recently come to this country, and I have alerted all ports and airports as to his identity to block any attempt he may make to escape to the continent.”

Holmes was quick to pick up the baton. “Chief Inspector, I would be grateful if you could furnish me with some basic facts about the inhabitants of the house. I profess, I have never heard of Trimingham Manor.”

The Chief Inspector nodded. “That does not surprise me, Mr Holmes. The house was restored only a few years back, when it was bought by David Harker, a wealthy gem dealer. He and his wife and child moved into the property in 1921 having previously lived in Holland. Sadly, both of the adults died earlier this year in a mining accident in South Africa, leaving their six-year-old son Gerald as the heir to the estate. It seems that Barrington Henshaw – legal advisor to the late David Harker – had been appointed as both the executor of his client’s will and the legal guardian of young Gerald. Harker had left clear instructions that Henshaw was to find a good boarding school for the boy and to appoint a suitable personal valet for him at the earliest opportunity, to mentor his son during the school holidays when he returned home to the manor.”

“The missing valet you referred to, I suppose?” said I.

“Yes, Doctor. Heinz Descartes was appointed in May this year. He had previously worked as some sort of butler at a French chateau, but hails originally from Hamburg. And by all accounts he was well-liked by young Harker and the two other inhabitants of the manor, Reggie and Elizabeth Dawson, gardener and housekeeper respectively. They had some admiration for the valet, who was described as being no older than about twenty-five years of age. He had doted on Gerald and, within a matter of weeks, they had seen a positive response from the boy, who once more had a smile on his face and was positive about the prospect of going off to boarding school.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “I see. Well, perhaps we can return to Descartes a little later. What was your view of the Dawsons, Wattisfield?”

“Solid, dependable, working folk, Mr Holmes – came to work for Mr Harker with impeccable credentials. They had previously completed twenty years’ unblemished service at the vicarage in Shalford, less than three miles from Trimingham. A couple in their mid-seventies, with three grown-up children, who are said to have been devastated by the loss of the Harkers and who have, according to the few neighbours that knew of the family, acted like grandparents to the boy. None too keen on the solicitor, Henshaw, though...”

“Really?” Holmes was quick to interpose. “So, what do we know about the dead man, I take it that he didn’t live at the manor?”

“No, his legal practice was in Guildford and he originally acted for David Harker in the purchase of Trimingham. Lived in the village of Chilworth, a stone’s throw from the manor and was well-known among the local hunting and shooting fraternity. Reggie Dawson suggested that Henshaw was a bit of a social climber. He was forty-two and engaged to be married to Verity Ainsworth, the wealthy and well-connected daughter of a local squire. With the appointment of the new valet, he had been spending less and less time at the house. But this morning he had arrived just before breakfast and came in through the back entrance.”

“Something, I take it, that he hadn’t done before, Wattisfield?” queried Holmes.

“Indeed. Mrs Dawson had just served Heinz Descartes a cooked breakfast and had earlier packed up a few sandwiches for Gerald Harker, who had gone off early by taxi to visit the new boarding school in Guildford which Mr Henshaw had arranged for him to attend. She was surprised to see Henshaw entering the back door to the kitchen with a briefcase, as it was his usual practice to drive up to the front entrance and enter the main door of the manor. He seemed flustered on seeing Mrs Dawson and asked hurriedly if he could join Mr Descartes for breakfast, having been told that the valet was still in the dining room, but planning to go out for a walk later that morning.”

“And where was Mr Dawson at this time?” I enquired eager to know the whereabouts of all the key players.

“He had gone with Gerald to the boarding school. While Heinz Descartes had initially thought that he would accompany the boy in the taxi, Barrington Henshaw had asked specifically for Reggie Dawson to go with him, as he felt that the gardener’s fatherly instincts might be better suited to the task.”

“Well. We must now turn to the death itself, my good man. Perhaps you could outline the key facts as you see them?” asked Holmes.

The detective was keen to oblige and opened up his pocket book. “The room in question was used as a ground floor study by the late David Harker. Since his death, it has been kept locked, with Henshaw retaining the only key. The solicitor insisted on keeping the curtains to the room closed and would not allow anyone to enter the study. When he visited the manor he treated the room as his own, working at the desk and tapping away on a small typewriter he had brought with him from his office in Guildford. Mrs Dawson was not even permitted to clean the room.”

“Very suggestive,” mused Holmes, before nodding to encourage Wattisfield to continue with his narrative.

“At around eight-fifteen this morning, as Mrs Dawson was washing up the breakfast plates and cutlery, she heard the front door of the manor bang shut. Having come out into the hallway, she then watched through a window as Heinz Descartes ran off down the drive carrying a rucksack. At the time, she thought only that he must have been in a desperate hurry to get out for his walk, but was surprised, as she thought he had already left the house a short while earlier. She then remembered that she had not seen or heard Barrington Henshaw depart, so walked across to the door of the study and knocked as she always did when he was working. Getting no response, she tried the handle and found the door to be locked. By her own admission, she then knelt down and looked through the keyhole...”

I stifled a laugh at this point, bemused by the actions of the indomitable Mrs Dawson, as Holmes cast a disparaging glance in my direction. “Please carry on, Wattisfield, this is most enlightening,” he intoned.

“...She realised that there was a light on in the room and was greeted with a dreadful sight. Through the spyhole she could see Henshaw lying on his back on the plush carpet, his feet pointed in her direction and his head close to the grate of the fireplace. She could also see a large pool of blood welled within the grate. Being alone and fearing the worst, she could see no way of breaking down the heavy oak door, so used the telephone in the hallway to call for both the police and an ambulance. A local constable arrived at the scene some fifteen minutes later, followed closely by an ambulance crew. Between them they used what tools they could find to take the door off its hinges and gain entry to the room.”

Holmes cut in at this point. “And you said earlier that no key could be found?”

“That is correct. No key in the door or anywhere in the room, which suggests that it must have been locked from the outside. The local constable also did a quick search of Heinz Descartes’ bedroom and was unable to find any such key.”

Holmes responded a tad impatiently. “Quite so, Wattisfield. But what of this local constable? I trust he didn’t start rearranging the furniture or tampering with the contents of either room?”

Wattisfield managed a strained smile. “You do not appear to have much faith in the modern police service, Mr Holmes. In point of fact, PC Curtis’ conduct was exemplary. Having realised what he was dealing with, the young officer took every step to preserve the scene. His telephone call back to Surrey Police Headquarters prompted a request for Scotland Yard to be called in to assist. When I arrived at the manor close to midday, I found the diligent officer guarding the open entrance to the study.”

“Splendid! My sincere apologies, Chief Inspector – you must realise that I have infrequent contact with many rural forces these days. I recognise that the police service must have moved on in leaps and bounds since the old days when Watson and I would often have cause to comment on the ineptitude of many a uniformed officer.”

The detective shifted uneasily in the face of Holmes’ barbed compliment, and returned to his notebook. “The manner of the death seems straightforward enough. Henshaw was well dressed in a tightly-cut tweed suit, white shirt and yellow tie. He appears to have cracked the back of his head on the fireplace as he fell. I travelled out to Trimingham with one of our pathologists, who insisted on having the body removed for further forensic examination. He persuaded the ambulance crew, who were still at the scene, to take him and the body back to London, although he did say he was fairly certain that it was the knock to the head which had killed Henshaw, rather than the blood loss. I can only apologise, Mr Holmes – I know that you would have preferred to see the body in situ.”

I smiled instantly at the Chief Inspector’s presumption that Holmes was likely to want to visit the scene any time soon.

“And we have still to ascertain whether he just fell in some way or was pushed. There were no obvious or visible signs of any assault on the body other than the head injury, so I retain an open mind on that one. But alongside the mystery of the locked door, we now come to the other fact which is baffling me, Mr Holmes. Prior to his death, Henshaw appeared to have been in the process of emptying a large quantity of cash from a hidden safe on the wall. Some of the money had been placed inside Henshaw’s briefcase, which lay on the floor close to the desk, while the remainder lay in neat bundles within the safe. We have not, as yet, attempted to move or count the money, but I would say that it amounts to many thousands of pounds.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Holmes. “At last we are getting to the heart of this particular conundrum.” His outburst surprised the Chief Inspector, who was momentarily lost for words.

“Does that mean you will be happy to assist us in our enquiries then, Mr Holmes? I confess to being at a loss to know how to proceed on this one. I feel certain that we can apprehend Mr Descartes at some point, but until we are able to question him, I fear we have little to go on.”

Holmes was emphatic in his response. “Why yes – we would both be happy to take a trip across to the manor this afternoon, would we not, Watson? And as for further clues, I anticipate that we will discover lots more before we get any closer to finding the enigmatic Heinz Descartes. Time is of the essence, my good man, I have just to shut up my chickens and we can then make the trip to Trimingham.”

***

As had happened so often in the past, Holmes had managed to get me embroiled in one of his cases against my better judgement. My plans to return to London that evening for a piano recital in Peckham were shelved instantly and I found myself wedged into the back seat of the police car, hurtling along tiny country lanes, listening to Holmes expound the virtues of home-reared pork over intensively-farmed pig meat. But it felt great to be back in his company on an active case which had so clearly stimulated his interest. After an hour or so, we were driving up the half-mile track which led us to Trimingham Manor.

The house itself was bigger than I imagined. Originally a Jacobean hall, Trimingham had been remodelled into a fine Edwardian-style property with attractive carved stonework, large family rooms and interior wood panelling. It was clear that David Harker had spent a lot of money restoring the home.

We had no sooner climbed from Wattisfield’s vehicle when Holmes sprang to his feet, magnifying glass in hand, and proceeded to do a quick tour of the outside of the manor, pausing for some minutes to examine the two window frames of the study which was easily recognised, being the only downstairs room with its curtains drawn. Some five minutes later, Holmes returned to the bemused Chief Inspector and I, evidently pleased with what he had discovered.

“Worth a check – but I would say with some confidence, Wattisfield, that no one entered the study from outside the house, which suggests that if Henshaw had been attacked, his assailant had certainly been in the room before he arrived or had entered as Henshaw began to withdraw the cash from the safe.”

After some introductions, we were admitted through the front door by the kindly Mrs Dawson. She had a warm, but commanding presence, and wore her dark grey hair up in a small bun. I imagined the housekeeper to be a resourceful woman perfectly suited to the role, although she looked as if the day’s events had weighed heavily upon her mind. She was clearly tired and disconsolate and explained that her husband had returned, having been contacted by the police during the boarding school visit. In the circumstances, he had arranged for Gerald to stay overnight at the school. She went on to say that the gardener was currently tending to a broken fence at the back of the estate but could join us later if required.

Holmes looked particularly pleased to hear all of this and thanked her for the information. And as we continued to stand inside the large entrance hall, he asked a very direct question: “Mrs Dawson, what did you know about the Harker’s financial affairs?”

The housekeeper seemed comfortable to answer openly, without hesitation. “Mr Harker was a cautious, but generous man, Mr Holmes. He was comfortable to spend money where it was required, on his family, the estate or any of the numerous charities he supported. He never talked to us about how he made his money and Reggie and I were never rude enough to ask him. He looked after us good and proper and made some specific provisions for us in his will. In short, we are to stay on in this house as paid employees until such a time as the Good Lord takes us.”

“That is most gratifying to hear, Mrs Dawson. And was it Mr Henshaw who read the will?” asked Holmes.

“Yes. It was about a week or so after we learned about the death of Mr and Mrs Harker. And it was the last time that any of us set foot inside Mr Harker’s study. Mr Henshaw called the two of us together with young Gerald and arranged some chairs around the desk, before announcing that he would read through the Harker’s will. Insensitive man, he was. The mere mention of Gerald’s parents brought the boy to tears, but Mr Henshaw just carried on in his usual abrupt manner.”

“I see,” said Holmes, “and what were the provisions of the will?”

“Well, beyond the bits that concerned the two of us, they were really quite simple. All of the estate and the Harkers’ possessions were to pass to Gerald when he reached the age of eighteen. Nothing could be sold until such a time and Mr Henshaw was to act as legal guardian to the boy. A sum of money had been set aside to pay for the upkeep of the manor, Gerald’s education and the recruitment of a personal valet. In total, Mr Henshaw said the estate had been valued at £115,000 and an additional sum of £15,000 had been deposited to cover all of the provisions I just mentioned.”

“And do you know how the £15,000 has been deposited?” I asked for clarification.

“Yes. Mr Henshaw opened up a bank account for the money, which my husband and I control. It also receives deposits from some of the Harkers’ other business interests and investments.”

“That is very helpful – thank you, Mrs Dawson,” Holmes said. The housekeeper looked relieved to be released from our scrutiny and headed off towards the back of the house, where I imagined the kitchen to be. The three of us then made our way across the large hall towards the open entrance of the study, the original door of which now lay propped up against a wall to the right. As we approached, a young police officer jumped up from a chair that had been placed to the left of the doorframe.

“PC Curtis, gentlemen,” said the officer, standing to attention. His eyes darted from face to face, before settling on the famous consulting detective. “Very happy to be at your service, Mr Holmes,” he said, “this is indeed an honour.”

“Nonsense, Curtis, it is to you that we owe a debt of thanks, for having the good sense to preserve the scene.” Holmes flashed a smile at Wattisfield, who remained impassive throughout the whole exchange. “And perhaps you could aid us further in our enquiries, young fellow?”

“Certainly, sir, in what way can I assist?”

“I would be grateful if you could take a short walk from the kitchen door and along the gravel path that leads off towards the back of the estate. I have already observed that the path ends at the edge of a small wood. We have been told by Mrs Dawson that beyond the copse her husband is in the process of mending a broken wooden fence. I would like you to find where he is working and locate a suitable point nearby where you can scale the fence, without causing any further damage. Within a short distance of that point you should see something which will confirm my working hypothesis.”

Curtis seemed very relaxed about the task outlined, but Wattisfield shifted uneasily beside me. “Mr Holmes, I think the lad needs a little more direction than that. What exactly is he likely to see, assuming this theory of yours to be correct?”

A flash of irritation flickered across Holmes’ face. “A car, Chief Inspector. To be precise, Barrington Henshaw’s abandoned car. Did it not strike you as odd that having arrived at the house today, his car was nowhere to be seen? Clearly he did not walk from his home, so his car must be somewhere. We learnt earlier that Henshaw had come into the house through the kitchen door, not the main entrance. It is my contention that he had hoped to enter the house without being seen by any of its occupants. He already knew that Mr Dawson and Gerald had gone off by taxi to the school and would have been able to watch from outside the house as Mrs Dawson served breakfast to Heinz Descartes. I have little doubt that he was heading for the study, in order to transfer the cash that was in the safe into his briefcase. I fully expect Curtis to find his car close to the broken boundary fence. I am working on the basis that that is where he climbed the fence, inadvertently breaking it as he did so.”

“I see,” replied Wattisfield. “Very clever, Mr Holmes. Let’s hope you are right.” He turned smartly towards PC Curtis. “Well, off you go lad – at the double!”

Curtis left us swiftly, heading off in the direction taken earlier by Mrs Dawson. The three of us then continued into the study. As Wattisfield and I stood back, just within the doorway, Holmes got to work. With his trusty magnifying glass he made a complete reconnaissance of the high-ceilinged study, pulling the curtains open slightly at one point to let in a shaft of sunlight, which immediately illuminated the open safe on the wall. From where I stood, I could see a considerable pile of banknotes still within the safe, each bundle wrapped around its middle by a white paper sheath. I imagined this was how they had been dispensed by the bank that had arranged for the sizeable cash withdrawal.

As Holmes went about his work, diligently and wholly preoccupied with the task at hand, my attention shifted towards the large fireplace in which Henshaw’s body had been found. There was little doubt where the corpse had laid, a bright red halo of congealed blood still staining the hearth. The mantelpiece against which he had fallen was made of Portland stone and appeared to be more decorative than functional. Positioned along it were a few photographs of what I took to be David Harker and his family.

Wattisfield followed my gaze and took it as a cue, opening his blue pocket book and sharing with us a few more details about the family based on his enquiries earlier that day.

“I’m told that Harker was originally from Maldon in Essex, where his family had built up a large and prosperous fishing business. But the family suffered such a string of accidents and deaths, that when David was born in 1897, he became, alongside his father, the only other surviving male member of the Harker family. When his parents both died in 1912, the fifteen-year-old inherited what remained of the fishing empire – two trawlers in desperate need of an overhaul. At the outbreak of the war, he sold the boats and became one of the first men in the town to volunteer, joining a company in the third battalion of The Essex Regiment in late 1915 and travelling out to France less than three months later.”

“So, a fairly humble background for a man who went on to accumulate such a fortune,” I observed.

“It would appear so, Dr Watson, and certainly not the sort of background that might have equipped him to pick up the trade of diamond dealing after the war. Mrs Dawson said that Harker had once confided in her that until he made the first trip to Trimingham Manor after its purchase, he had not once returned to England since first setting off from his East Anglian home to fight on the Western Front. She had also never known Harker to receive any family guests at the manor.”

“Do you know anything further about his war record, Chief Inspector?”

“Well, only what I could glean from a telephone call to an old service colleague at the War Office. He told me that Harker’s Essex battalion had entered the fighting during the Battle of the Somme in 1916, and that his company had all but been wiped out – in fact, only four soldiers had survived the campaign. These were a Sergeant Geoff Simkins and three privates, one of whom was Harker. All had been decorated for their bravery. Under Simkins’ supervision, the four had then been assigned to a motorised division and engaged in running supplies to the front. This they had continued to do until May 1917, when their two trucks had been attacked and destroyed by the Germans near Bullecourt, on the journey to Arras in France. Despite the attack, Simkins and Harker had apparently survived, but were destined never to see each other again. And here we have another mystery...”

As busy as he was, crawling around on the carpet and checking desk drawers, I had imagined Holmes to be completely oblivious to anything Wattisfield had relayed to this point. But on hearing the word ‘mystery’, Holmes piped up suddenly. “My dear Chief Inspector, I fear you may have been unduly economical in sharing with us earlier the key facts of this case. I’m at once intrigued to hear more of these revelations about Harker’s past as I believe them to be central to the events which unfolded here this very morning. Please enlighten us...”

“Well, the official records show that Sergeant Simpkins was taken by the Germans and held as a prisoner of war until 1918, after which he returned home to his wife and family in Harwich – two stone lighter, but otherwise fit and healthy. In comparison, one day after the fateful attack near Bullecourt, Private David Harker had presented himself to a Major Williams at the British position near Arras. He sketched out what had happened during the attack and explained that he was the only survivor from his original company. He indicated that he had walked from Bullecourt to reach Arras. After a couple of days recuperating, Harker had joined a new company and was moved to Piave in Italy. From that point on, he fought in a variety of places until spring 1918, when he was transferred back to the Western Front. Just before the war ended, he was engaged in moving food and other supplies into Holland. The records suggest that Harker had never returned from Holland.”

I could not at this juncture see any great mystery in what the Chief Inspector had outlined, and voiced my concern. He was quick to respond.

“Agreed – in itself, there appears to be nothing particularly remarkable about Harker’s movements. The real mystery lies not with that, but in the observations that Simkins made on his release from the prisoner of war camp in 1918. In providing the War Office with a full account of his capture, he was adamant that he had been the only survivor of the German attack. He said that he had seen Harker die that day and when shown a photograph of the Essex man – taken at the time Harker was transferred to his new company in Italy – Simkins was on record as saying that the person in the photograph bore no resemblance whatsoever to the soldier he had served with.”

“Very enlightening,” said Holmes. “And what did the authorities do as a result of this claim?”

“Nothing, apparently. Harker had already been demobbed at that point and was residing somewhere in Holland. I imagine the War Office had more pressing concerns to deal with, so let the matter rest there.”

“And what of Harker after the war? Do you have anything more you can tell us about that?”

Wattisfield flicked forward in his notebook. “Only a few bits and pieces which Mr and Mrs Dawson shared with me, based on their conversations with the Harkers. They understood that after the war, Harker had continued to live in the Dutch town of Giethoorn in the Eastern Province of Overrijssel, where he married a local girl called Katerina. In 1920, their son Gerald was born. Harker was said to be well regarded in the town, making a modest living as a gem dealer. A year later, he bought Trimingham Manor and moved the family to England. He continued to have a number of business ventures in Holland and beyond, including a controlling interest in some diamond mines in South Africa. Earlier this year, he and Katerina had been invited to tour one of the newly-opened mines in the Archaean Witwatersrand Basin. As they did so, a pocket of trapped gas was ignited by a miner’s candle lamp and the explosion ripped through the mineshaft, trapping the touring party and killing the couple. As the appointed executor of their legal and financial affairs, Barrington Henshaw took charge of everything from that point on.”

“I must commend you for your thoroughness, Chief Inspector. That you have managed to ascertain all of that background information in just a few short hours is indeed testament to your professionalism,” observed my friend.

“Thank you, Mr Holmes, but I fear it has done little to help me solve this particular mystery. I am still no closer to understanding why Heinz Descartes may have attacked Henshaw or, indeed, what any of this has to do with the money in the safe.”

Holmes smiled at the detective. “I may have a few more observations to add to our existing knowledge. And, unless I am very much mistaken, young Curtis is about to re-join us and tell us all about his findings.”