chaps, what do you suppose this is?” Or he leapt to his feet screaming, “It’s blood! It’s blood! Something horrible has happened here.” I tend to prefer the latter version, but perhaps it’s only the alliteration that appeals to me.
The young men, feeling that someone inside the cottage might require assistance, pounded on the door. When they got no response, they tried the handle and found it locked. The windows all around the building were also locked. They broke the glass in a window, unlocked it, and they all climbed through.
In the hallway leading to the front door they found Andrea Maples, in what was described as “a state of undress,” lying in a pool of blood-presumably her own, as she had been badly beaten about the head. Blood splatters covered the walls and ceiling. A short distance away from the body lay what was presumably the murder weapon: a mahogany cane with a brass duck’s head handle.
One of the men immediately cycled off to the police station and returned with a police sergeant and two constables. When they ascertained that the hard wood cane belonged to Professor Maples, and that he carried it about with him constantly, the policemen crossed the lawn to the main house and interviewed the professor, who was having breakfast. At the conclusion of the interview, the sergeant placed Maples under arrest and sent one of the constables off to acquire a carriage in which the professor could be conveyed to the police station.
It was about four in the afternoon when Sherlock Holmes came banging at my study door. “You’ve heard, of course,” he said, flinging himself into my armchair. “What are we to do?”
“I’ve heard,” I said. “And what have we to do with it?”
“That police sergeant, Meeks is his name, has arrested Professor Maples for the murder of his wife.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“He conducted no investigation, did not so much as glance at the surroundings, and failed to leave a constable behind to secure the area, so that, as soon as the rain lets up, hordes of the morbidly curious will trample about the cottage and the lawn and destroy whatever evidence there is to be found.”
“Did he?” I asked. “And how do you know so much about it?”
“I was there,” Holmes said. At my surprised look, he shook his head. “Oh, no, not at the time of the murder, whenever that was. When the constable came around for the carriage to take Professor Maples away, I happened to be in the stables. The hostler, Biggs is his name, is an expert single-stick fighter, and I’ve been taking lessons from him on occasional mornings when he has the time. So when they returned to the professor’s house, Biggs drove and I sat in the carriage with the constable, who told me all about it.”
“I imagine he’ll be talking about it for some time,” I commented. “Murders are not exactly common around here.”
“Just so. Well, I went along thinking I might be of some use to Lucy. After all, her sister had just been murdered.”
“Thoughtful of you,” I said.
“Yes. Well, she wouldn’t see me. Wouldn’t see anyone. Just stayed in her room. Can’t blame her, I suppose. So I listened to the sergeant questioning Professor Maples-and a damned poor job he did of it, if I’m any judge-and then went out and looked over the area-the two houses and the space between-to see if I could determine what happened. I also examined Andrea Maples’s body as best I could from the doorway. I was afraid that if I got any closer Sergeant Meeks would notice and chase me away.”
“And did you determine what happened?”
“I may have,” Holmes said. “If you’d do me the favor of taking a walk with me, I’d like to show you what I’ve found. I believe I have a good idea of what took place last night-or at least some of the salient details. I’ve worked it out from the traces on the ground and a few details in the cottage that the sergeant didn’t bother with. It seems to me that much more can be done in the investigation of crimes than the police are accustomed to do. But I’d like your opinion. Tell me what you think.”
I pulled my topcoat on. “Show me,” I said.
The drizzle was steady and cold, the ground was soggy, and by the time we arrived at the house the body had been removed; all of which reduced the number of curious visitors to two reporters who, having stomped about the cottage but failing to gain admittance to the main house, were huddled in a gig pulled up to the front door, waiting for someone to emerge who could be coaxed into a statement.
The main house and the cottage both fronted Barleymore Road, but as the road curved around a stand of trees between the two, the path through the property was considerably shorter. It was perhaps thirty yards from the house to the cottage by the path, and perhaps a little more than twice that by the road. I did measure the distance at the time, but I do not recollect the precise numbers.
We went around to the back of the house and knocked at the pantry door. After a few seconds scrutiny through a side window, we were admitted by the maid.
“It’s you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, stepping aside to let us in. “Ain’t it horrible? I’ve been waiting by the back door here for the man with the bunting, whose supposed to arrive shortly.”
“Bunting?”
“That’s right. The black bunting which we is to hang in the windows, as is only proper, considering. Ain’t it horrible? We should leave the doors and windows open, in respect of the dead, only the mistress’s body has been taken away, and the master has been taken away, and it’s raining, and those newspaper people will come in and pester Miss Lucy if the door is open. And then there’s the murderer just awaiting out there somewhere, and who knows what’s on his mind.”
“So you don’t think Professor Maples killed his wife?” I asked.
The maid looked at me, and then at Holmes, and then back at me. “This is Mr. Moriarty, Willa,” Holmes told her. “He’s my friend, and a lecturer in Mathematics at the college.”
“Ah,” she said. “It’s a pleasure, sir.” and she bobbed a rudimentary curtsey in my direction. “No, sir, I don’t think the professor killed the Missus. Why would he do that?”
“Why, indeed,” I said.
“Miss Lucy is in the drawing room,” Willa told Holmes. “I’ll tell her you’re here.”
“I see you’re well known here,” I said to Holmes as the maid left.
“I have had the privilege of escorting Miss Lucy to this or that over the past few months,” Holmes replied a little stiffly, as though I were accusing him of something dishonorable. “Our relationship has been very proper at all times.”
I repressed a desire to say “how unfortunate,” as I thought he would take it badly.
Lucinda came out to the hall to meet us. She seemed quite subdued, but her eyes were bright and her complexion was feverish. “How good-how nice to see you, Sherlock,” she said quietly, offering him her hand. “And you’re Mr. Moriarty, Sherlock’s friend.”
Holmes and I both mumbled something comforting.
“I’m sorry I didn’t see you when you arrived earlier, Sherlock,” Lucy told him, leading us into the sitting room and waving us to a pair of well-stuffed chairs. “I was not in a fit condition to see anyone.”
“I quite understand,” Holmes said.
“I am pleased that you have come to the defense of my-of Professor Maples,” Lucy said, lowering herself into a straight-back chair opposite Holmes. “How anyone could suspect him of murdering my dear sister Andrea is quite beyond my comprehension.”
“I have reason to believe that he is, indeed, innocent, Lucy dear,” Holmes told her. “I am about to take my friend Mr. Moriarty over the grounds to show him what I have found, and to see whether he agrees with my conclusions.”
“And your conclusions,” Lucy asked, “what are they? Who do you believe committed this dreadful crime?”
“You have no idea?” I asked.
Lucinda recoiled as though I had struck her. “How could I?” she asked.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” I said. “Did your sister have any enemies?”
“Certainly not,” Lucy said. “She was outgoing, and warm, and friendly, and loved by all.”
“Andrea went to the cottage to meet someone,” Holmes said. “Do you have any idea who it was?”
“None,” Lucy said. “I find this whole thing quite shocking.” She lowered her head into her hands. “Quite shocking.”
After a moment Lucy raised her head. “I have prepared a small traveling-bag of Professor Maples’s things. A
