there.
‘We are at Victoria Station,’ he said, and looked about him. ‘We are in the freight yard and nobody watches us, so you may step down. Once the boxes have been unloaded we shall load up again with empty crates and wait here until you return, Mr Holmes.’
We thanked him and made our way to the passenger ticket office to book to Burriwell.
It was a warm, sunny morning, and the walk from Burriwell Station to the village was a pleasure, but our ring at Miss Wortley-Swan’s doorbell was not answered.
Holmes stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Let us look around,’ he said, and we made our way completely around the house. All the doors and windows were closed and, so far as we could see through the windows, there was no sign of any disturbance.
At the kitchen door Holmes paused and stooped, lightly touching the doorstep.
‘There was somebody here earlier today,’ he announced.
‘How on earth can you tell?’ I asked.
‘The milk,’ he said, shortly. ‘When the milkcart came this morning a can was filled at this doorstep and a few drops were spilled. They are still slightly moist, so they must derive from this morning’s delivery, not last evening’s.’
He looked at the kitchen windows, then took a clasp knife from his pocket, slipped its point into one of the window catches and, in an instant, had slipped the lower part of the window upwards.
‘Come, Watson,’ he invited. ‘We have a way in,’ and he levered himself into the opening and slithered into the house like nothing so much as a great dark serpent. I was less agile, but succeeded in following him at a second attempt, so that soon we both stood inside the kitchen.
Holmes stood very still at the centre of the red-tiled floor and looked about him slowly. By pointing his stick he drew my attention to certain things, like the two cups and saucers which stood upside down on the draining board, and a folded paper lying on top of a newspaper on the big deal table.
When he had completed his survey he sat at the table and picked up the paper.
‘It is a note,’ he said when he had scanned it, ‘dated today, from Miss Wortley-Swan to her
housekeeper. She keeps no resident servants, but the housekeeper and a maid arrive daily.
This note tells them that she will be absent all day and that they may take the day off. It also says that, if she has not returned tomorrow, they should await her instructions.‘
‘And there is no indication of where she intended to be?’ I asked.
‘None,’ said Holmes, ‘and her decision to leave was evidently a sudden one.’
‘Why do you say so?’ I said.
‘Consider the evidence, Watson. It seems entirely probable that Miss Wortley-Swan answered her own door to the milkman and took a can of milk, as though she expected herself and her two servants to require milk during the day. Some time after that she changed her mind and pencilled this note to the housekeeper, who had evidently not arrived by then.’
‘Maybe the post brought an urgent summons,’ I suggested.
‘There are no signs of letters here, but there would not be,’ he said. ‘Let us look for her writing desk. If I recall correctly it is in the corner of her sitting room.’
He rose and had reached the kitchen’s internal door when the front doorbell rang.
‘Quickly, Watson!’ he hissed. ‘Anyone walking round will see us.’
He stepped through the door into a dark passage and pulled me after him, shutting the door behind us.
We stood silent while the bell rang twice more. When it ceased I went to move, but Holmes held me back.
‘They may do as we did and look around the outside,’ he pointed out.
We waited again and, after a while, we heard sounds at the kitchen window.
‘You failed to close the window behind you, Watson. Still, there is no harm done. It has served to encourage our visitor to enter.’
He drew his pistol from his pocket and stepped back against the wall of the passage. The noises we could hear indicated that someone was having more difficulty with the kitchen window than I had, but soon we heard boots alighting on the tiled floor. The intruder did not pause in the kitchen, but stepped straight across to the door of the passage.
As he opened the door and stepped into the gloomy passage, Holmes deftly entwined his walking stick in the newcomer’s legs and sent him crashing past me to sprawl on the floor.
Before he could gather his wits, I was standing over him with my pistol. Holmes swung the kitchen door wide to let in more light and both of us recognized our prey simultaneously.
‘Mr Poliakoff!’ exclaimed my friend. ‘We seem fated to meet rather unceremoniously. Might I ask what brings you here?’
‘Mr Holmes!’ said Poliakoff, as he sat up and rubbed an elbow. ‘I was looking for Gregori and Anna.
Do you know where they are?’
‘No,’ said Holmes, ‘nor, before you enquire, do I know where Miss Wortley-Swan has gone. She left her home early this morning.’
The huge Russian nodded his head. ‘She telegraphed to Gregori, at least I think she did. He had a wire and he sent me out and when I came back they were both gone. I did not see the wire, but Miss Wortley-Swan telegraphs Gregori. I think it was from her.’
‘I do not like this,’ said Holmes. ‘If they are up to something rash between them it could all end very badly. We were about to look at the lady’s writing desk, Poliakoff. Come with us.’
We made our way to the sitting room, where, as Holmes had remembered, a writing desk stood in the corner. Its lid was unlocked and the writing surface lowered, but nothing lay on it except a blank notepad. Holmes looked quickly into the waste-paper basket below the desk, but found nothing.
‘There have been no letters,’ he said, and, picking up the notepad, he carried it over to the window.
He had examined the pad for a minute or two when he asked, ‘Watson, do you happen to have a
cigarette about you?’
I had seen him use the technique before and quickly provided him with a cigarette. After a few puffs he tapped the accumulated ash on to the notepad and spread it out very gently with his fingers.
After a moment he said, ‘Ah! You were correct, Mr Poliakoff. The traces revealed by the ash are where her pencil on the sheet above pressed as it wrote her message. It is a telegram to Professor Gregorieff to meet her at Paddington. Unfortunately, the same message has been written twice on two separate sheets and the first one is not so clear that I can distinguish the addressee. Who else has she summoned to join them, I wonder?’
‘At least we now know that she is going to Paddington,’ I remarked.
‘Oh, indeed,’ said Holmes. ‘A convenient mustering point in London, from which they may have gone to Birmingham, Wales or Land’s End, Watson. We have still not found any clue as to why she went or where she is bound, but I fear that the mustering of her supporters indicates her purpose.’
He began to examine the books and documents that were stored in the compartments above the writing surface.
‘Aha!’ he exclaimed, suddenly. ‘Look at this, gentlemen. A scrapbook of newspaper cuttings, all relating to Count Skovinski-Rimkoff. Look!’
We turned the pages and saw that she had filed meticulously every least reference in the press to the count’s movements or doings.
‘There is no reference to today,’ said Holmes as he closed the book. ‘It was not, apparently, a newspaper which set her off.’
‘It may have been,’ I said. ‘There was one on the kitchen table.’
‘Great Heavens! You’re right!’ said Holmes, and plunged away through the house, followed by the Russian and me.
In the kitchen he snatched the paper from the table and skimmed through it rapidly.
‘Curses!’ he snarled. ‘Look at this, Watson. She has cut out an item here.’ He showed me where a few inches of one column had been cut away.
