4
The sanatorium lay at the top of a winding stone staircase just above the study. It was little more than a well-lit, high-ceilinged room with a wash-room to one side. There were four beds, three of them unoccupied, and a central table with upright chairs. It appeared to be the domain of a grey-haired nurse, Sister Elliston. She seemed admirably untroubled by having as her patient one who was a condemned thief and an attempted suicide.
As we entered, Patrick Riley was sitting on his bed turning the pages of a picture magazine. His situation was not to be envied. For ten days he had been almost entirely isolated and with no idea of what was going on or what might happen to him. He was forbidden to speak to or associate with any other boy. Frankly, if he were not an attempted suicide an environment like this might go far to make him one. He got to his feet and stood at attention in his blue uniform with its tell-tale grey braiding of the Engineer Cadets.
He was indeed the lightly-built but nimble fourteen-year-old of Holmes’s description. His appearance was hardly memorable, the soft features yet to be defined by manhood. An unruly flop of fair hair was perhaps the most prominent characteristic, through not while wearing his cap. His expression was downcast, as it well might be, but he appeared and sounded apathetic rather than distressed. No doubt he believed that the worst had happened and that no one would trust his explanations. He had little emotional energy left for histrionics.
“Patrick Riley?” Holmes spoke quietly as he stepped forward and held out his hand, “I am Sherlock Holmes. It is possible you may have heard of me.”
Riley nodded and said, “Yes, sir,” only because he felt he must say something rather than nothing.
“May we sit round the table and talk?” Holmes continued courteously. “I am here at Admiral Fisher’s request to ensure that justice is done, and I fear it may not have been so far. That is all. You have nothing to fear so long as you speak the truth.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy repeated, still as if he did not care much either way. “They said you were coming.”
“I propose to see if truth is not on your side,” Holmes said more firmly, obliging Patrick Riley to recognise his presence.
“I don’t see how you can ensure anything, when all their minds are made up. How can you?”
“Because, my boy, I am Sherlock Holmes and there is very little I cannot do once I put my mind to it—and once those for whom I fight supply me with a little ammunition.”
He smiled, lifted his arm and laid it on the boy’s shoulder, shepherding him towards the table. He was not at his best with the very young, but so far he had not made an irretrievable mistake with Patrick Riley. The miniature cadet stared at him and then, to my very great relief, returned the smile, albeit half-heartedly.
So the ice was broken. I guessed there had been few smiles in the boy’s life recently. But Riley was now encouraged to see himself as the hero of his own adventure story with Sherlock Holmes at his side.
“Sit here,” said Holmes politely, drawing out a chair.
So the interview began. Riley now looked up at us with a helpless appeal.
“It was just a joke, Mr Holmes! A bit of fun!”
To my dismay, I thought Riley was about to blurt out a confession to the theft and plead that it had been a prank. So—I am sure—did my friend, from the expression on his face. “A joke” must be one of the oldest and certainly least successful defences to a charge of fraud.
“What was a joke, Patrick?” Holmes asked quietly, and I held my breath. The use of the boy’s Christian name made the question somewhat more sinister because it closed his retreat into a shell of apathy.
“Writing names was a joke, Mr Holmes. I don’t remember when we first did it. I sat next to Porson in class. We sat together in the evening too, when we did whatever prep the masters set. If we finished our prep before the bell went we used to mess around, writing, playing battleships on paper, all sorts of things. Porson sometimes wrote my name in my writing and I wrote his. Lots of fellows did things like that. It was a game. It wasn’t forgery or theft any more than it’s murder when you point your finger and say ‘Bang, you’re dead.’ It was just fooling about.”
“Very good,” said Holmes approvingly. “And how successful were these imitation signatures?”
“I don’t know, sir. How can you tell? They looked a bit the same.”
“Believe me, I can tell. How many other people knew that you were doing this?”
“Anyone could watch us, if they wanted to. They must have seen but they wouldn’t think anything. Lots of fellows played games like that.”
“Did they? And how many other fellows’ signatures did you copy?”
The young face clouded with uncertainty.
“I don’t remember that I did. Perhaps I did. But no one else that I can remember. I played this game with Porson because we sat next to one another. I could see his name written on his prep book and he could see mine.”
“And Porson has always been in the same class with you? He is an Engineer Cadet like you?”
“We’re all engineers in our class. That’s why we sit together in school prep. Lower Middle Engineers. We’re above the junior engineers but below the Upper Middle and the seniors.”
“Have you got a copy of your imitation of Porson’s signature that you can show me?”
He shook his head.
“We never kept them, sir. They were thrown away. It was just a game.”
“Could you do one now?”
“Not without one to copy from. Nobody could.”
“It is said that you wrote a signature at the post office as you had copied Porson’s for a game. Did you?”
“No! I couldn’t do it! I was never at the post office on that afternoon!”
It was a wail of protest and despair, uttered so often in the past ten days. No hawk-nosed cross-examiner in wig and gown could resemble a bird of prey more suggestively than Holmes just then. But Riley had returned the answer of an innocent defendant.
“Very well. Now then, you must help me. Could you, for example, copy your own signature?”
The boy sat back and shook his head slowly, not in refusal but exasperation.
“Any fellow could copy his own!”
“I think you misunderstand me. I do not want you to repeat your signature but to copy it exactly. As a criminal expert it is my business to know about such things. I may tell you that even in the most innocent way, no signature is precisely the same on two successive occasions. And besides, you will please write the first one with your eyes closed. I am offering you a chance to prove your innocence, but you must do this much for me. Write it as you would normally write your signature and do not worry what it will look like.”
The boy nodded. Holmes produced a fountain-pen and a sheet of paper from his pocket, handing them to him.
“You had better put your glasses on,” he said casually. “You will certainly need them for the copying.”
The boy looked as if he was about to ask Holmes how he knew about the glasses, but my friend anticipated him.
“There is a slight mark either side of your nose, evident to a student of physiognomy. That is unusual in one of your age. It is plain that you spend a commendable amount of time in reading and study. You do not wear glasses otherwise, but I believe you should. There is a sluggishness of movement on one side which suggests that you suffer from what is called a lazy eye.”
Riley was visibly disconcerted by this impromptu oculist’s diagnosis.
“Have no fear,” said Holmes cheerily. “It is my business to notice such things. I believe, however, it may be of importance in your case.”
The lad’s inability to copy a signature without his glasses might be of importance to our inquiry, but for the
