The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes (22 page)

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Unlocked, you say? H'm. Well, the probable explanation is

that Squire Addleton forgot the matter in his quarrel with his nephew. However, there are one or

two points which are not yet clear to me."

"Well, sir?"

"I take it that the murdered man was in his night-clothes?"

"No, he was fully dressed. Mr. Longton was in his night-clothes."

"I understand that after dinner the squire left the house for an hour or so. Was it his custom

to take nocturnal rides?"

Mr. Vincent ceased to stroke his whiskers and shot a keen glance at Holmes. "Now that

you mention it, such was not his custom," he shrilled. "But he returned safely and I cannot see

—"

"Quite so," interposed Holmes. "Would you say that the squire was a wealthy man? Pray

be precise in your reply."

"Matthias Addleton was a very wealthy man. He was, of course, the younger son and

emigrated to Australia some forty years ago, that is to say in 1854. He returned in the

seventies having amassed a large fortune in the Australian gold-fields and, his elder brother

having died, he inherited the family property of Foulkes Rath. Alas, I cannot pretend that

he was liked in the neighborhood, for he was a man of morose disposition and as unpopular

with his neighbors as he was feared by our local ne'er-do-wells in his capacity as Justice of the

Peace. A hard, bitter, brooding man."

"Was Mr. Percy Longton on good terms with his uncle?"

The lawyer hesitated. "I am afraid not," he said at length. "Mr. Percy, who was the son of

the squire's late sister, has lived at Foulkes Rath since his childhood and, on the property

passing to his uncle, he remained and managed the estate. He is, of course, the heir under an

entailment which covers the house and a part of the land and, on more than one occasion, he

has expressed deep resentment at his uncle's sales of certain farms and holdings which led, I

fear, to bad blood between them. It was most unfortunate that his wife was absent last night,

of all nights."

"His wife?"

"Yes, there is a Mrs. Longton, a charming, gracious young woman. She was staying with

friends for the night at East Grinstead and is due back this morning." Mr. Vincent paused.

"Poor little Mary," he ended quietly. "What a home-coming! The squire dead and her husband

charged with murder."

"One final question," said Holmes. "What explanation does your client offer to account for

the events of last night?"

"His story is a simple one, Mr. Holmes. He states that at dinner the squire informed him of

his intention to sell Chudford Farm and when he remonstrated on the needlessness of the sale

and the damage that it would do to the estate, his uncle turned on him roundly and high

words ensued. Later, his uncle called for his horse and rode from the house without a word of

explanation. Upon his return, the squire ordered a bottle of port and, as the quarrel threatened to

grow from bad to worse, Mr. Percy bade his uncle good-night and retired to his room.

However, his mind was too agitated for sleep and twice, according to his statement, he sat up

in bed under the impression that he had caught the distant sound of his uncle's voice from the

great hall."

"Why, then, did he not go to investigate?" interposed Holmes sharply.

"I put that very question to him. He replied that his uncle had been drinking heavily and

therefore he assumed that he was raving to himself in the hall. The butler Morstead

confirmed that this had occurred not infrequently in the past."

"Pray continue."

"The clock over the stables had just chimed midnight and he was drifting at last into

slumber when in an instant he was brought back to full consciousness by a dreadful yell that

rang through the great silent house. Springing out of bed, he pulled on his dressing-gown and,

seizing a candle, ran downstairs to the hall, only to recoil before the terrible sight that met his

eyes.

"The hearth and fireplace were spattered with blood, and sprawling in a great crimson

pool, his arms raised above his head and his teeth grinning through his beard, lay Squire

Addleton. Mr. Percy rushed forward and was bending over his uncle when his eyes fell upon an

object that turned him sick and faint. Beside the body of the squire and horribly dappled

with the blood of its victim lay an executioner's axe! He recognized it vaguely as forming a

part of a trophy of arms that hung above the chimney-piece and without thinking what he was

doing he had stooped and picked up the thing when Morstead accompanied by the terrified

maidservants burst into the room. Such is the explanation of my unhappy client."

"Dear me," said Holmes.

For a long moment, the lawyer and I sat in silence, our eyes fixed upon my friend. His head

had fallen back against the chair top, his eyes were closed and only a thin, quick spiral of

smoke rising from his clay pipe hinted at the activity of the mind behind that impassive

aquiline mask. A moment later, he had sprung to his feet.

"A breath of Ashdown air will certainly do you no harm, Watson," he said briskly. "Mr.

Vincent, my friend and I are very much at your disposal."

It was mid-afternoon when we alighted from the train at the wayside station of Forest

Row. Mr. Vincent had telegraphed our reservations at the Green Man, an old-weald-stone inn

which appeared to be the only building of any consequence in the little hamlet. The air was

permeated with the scent of the woodlands clothing the low, rounded Sussex hills that

hemmed us in on every side, and as I contemplated that green smiling landscape it seemed to

me that the tragedy of Foulkes Rath took on a grimmer, darker shade through the very serenity

of the pastoral surroundings amid which it had been enacted. Though it was evident that the

worthy lawyer shared my feelings, Sherlock Holmes was completely absorbed in his own

thoughts, and took no part in our conversation save for a remark that the station-master was

unhappily married and had recently changed the position of his shaving-mirror.

Hiring a fly at the inn, we set out on the three-mile journey that lay between the village and

the manor-house, and as our road wound its way up the wooded slopes of Pippinford Hill, we

caught occasional glimpses of a sombre, heather-covered ridge where the edge of the great

Ashdown moors loomed against the sky-line.

We had topped the hill and I was absorbed in the wonderful view of the moorland rolling

away and away to the faint blue distances of the Sussex Downs when Mr. Vincent touched my

arm and pointed ahead.

"Foulkes Rath," he said.

On a crest of the moor stood a gaunt, rambling house of grey stone flanked by a line of

stables. A series of fields running from the very walls of the ancient mansion merged into a

wilderness of yellow gorse and heather ending in a deep wooded valley from whence arose

a pencil of smoke and the high distant droning of a steam-saw.

"The Ashdown Timber Mills," volunteered Mr. Vincent. "Those woods lie beyond the

boundary of the estate and there is not another neighbour within three miles. But here we are,

Mr. Holmes, and a sorry welcome it is to the manor-house of Foulkes Rath."

At the sound of our wheels upon the drive an elderly manservant had appeared at the

beetle-browed Tudor doorway and now, on catching sight of our companion, he hurried

forward with an exclamation of relief.

"Thank God you've come, sir," he cried. "Mrs. Longton—"

"She has returned?" interposed Mr. Vincent. "Poor lady, I will go to her at once."

"Sergeant Clare is here, sir, and—er—a person from the London police."

"Very well, Morstead."

"One moment," said Holmes. "Has your master's body been moved?"

"He has been laid in the gun-room, sir."

"I trust that nothing else has been disturbed?" Holmes demanded sharply.

The man's eyes turned slowly towards the dark arch of the doorway. "No, sir," he muttered.

"It's all as it was!"

A small vestibule in which Morstead relieved us of our hats and sticks led us into the inner

hall. It was a great stone-built chamber with a groined roof and a line of narrow pointed

windows emblazoned with stained-glass shields through which the sunlight, now waning

towards evening, mottled the oaken floor with vivid patches of vert, gules and azure. A short,

thin man who was busy writing at a desk glanced up at our entrance and sprang to his feet

with a flush of indignation upon his sharp-featured countenance.

"How's this, Mr. Holmes," he cried. "There's no scope here for the exercise of your

talents."

"I have no doubt that you are right, Lestrade," replied my friend carelessly. "Nevertheless,

there have been occasions when—"

"—when luck has favoured the theorist, eh, Mr. Holmes? Ah, Dr. Watson. And might I

enquire who this is, if the question may be forgiven in a police-officer?"

"This is Mr. Vincent, who is legal advisor to the Addleton family," I replied. "It was he

who requested the services of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, he did, did he!" snapped Inspector Lestrade, with a baleful glance at the little

lawyer. "Well, it's too late now for any of Mr. Holmes's fine theories. We have our man. Good

day, gentlemen."

"Just a moment, Lestrade," said Holmes sternly. "You've made mistakes in the past, and

it is not impossible that you may make them in the future. In this case, if you have the right

man, and I must confess that up to now I believe that you have, then you have nothing to

lose in my confirmation. On the other hand—"

"Ah, it's always 'on the other hand.' However—" Lestrade added grudgingly, "I do not see

that you can do any harm. If you want to waste your own time, Mr. Holmes, that's your

business. Yes, Dr. Watson, it's a nasty sight, isn't it?"

I had followed Sherlock Holmes to the fireplace at the far end of the room only to recoil

before the spectacle that met my eyes. Across the oak floor stretched a great black stain of

partly congealed blood while the hearth and fireplace and even the nearby wainscotting were

hideously dappled with gouts and splashes of crimson.

Mr. Vincent, white to the lips, turned away and collapsed into a chair.

"Stand back, Watson," Holmes enjoined abruptly. "I take it, Lestrade, that there were no

footprints on—" he gestured towards that dreadful floor.

"Just one, Mr. Holmes," replied Lestrade with a bitter smile, "and it fitted Mr. Percy

Longton's bedroom-slipper."

"Ah, it would seem that you are learning. By the way, what of the accused man's dressing-

gown?"

"Well, what of it?"

"The walls, Lestrade, the walls! Surely the blood-spattered front of Longton's robe goes far

towards completing your case."

"Now that you mention it, the sleeves were blood-soaked."

"Tut, that is natural enough, considering that he helped to raise the dying man's head. There

is little to be gained from the sleeves. You have the dressing-gown there?"

The Scotland Yard man rummaged in a Gladstone bag and drew out a grey woollen robe.

"This is it."

"H'm. Stains on the sleeves and hem. Not even a mark on the front. Curious but, alas,

inconclusive. And this is the weapon?"

Lestrade had drawn from his bag a most fearsome object. It was a short-hafted axe made

entirely of steel with a broad crescent-edge blade and a narrow neck.

"This is certainly a very ancient specimen," said Holmes, examining the blade through

his lens. "Incidentally, where was the wound inflicted?"

"The whole top of Squire Addleton's skull was cleft like a rotten apple," answered Lestrade.

"Indeed, it was a miracle that he regained consciousness even for a moment. An unfortunate

miracle for Mr. Longton," he added.

"He named him, I understand."

"Well, he gasped out something about 'Longtom,' which was near enough to the mark for

a dying man."

"Quite so. But whom have we here? No, madam, not a step nearer, I beg! This fireplace

is no sight for a woman."

A slim, graceful girl, clad in the deepest mourning, had rushed into the room. Her dark

eyes shone with almost fevered brilliance in the whiteness of her face and her hands were

clasped before her in an agony of distress.

"Save him!" she cried wildly. "He is innocent, I swear it! Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, save my

husband!"

I do not think that any of us, even Lestrade, remained unmoved.

"I will do whatever lies in my power, madam," said Holmes gently. "Now tell me about

your husband."

"He is the kindest of men."

"Quite so. But I mean physically. For instance, would you say that he was taller than Squire

Addleton?"

Mrs. Longton looked at Holmes in amazement. "Good heavens, no," she cried. "Why, the

squire was over six feet tall."

"Ah. Now, Mr. Vincent, perhaps you can inform me when it was that Squire Addleton

first began to sell portions of the estate?"

"The first sale occurred two years past, the second some six months ago," replied the

lawyer hurriedly. "And now, Mr. Holmes, unless you require my presence, I propose to take

Mrs. Longton back to the drawing-room."

My friend bowed. "We need not worry Mrs. Longton any further," said he. "But I would