Sherlock Holmes - Found Dead Read online

  That was true. Who then could the visitor have been? “He said this person was an old acquaintance,” I said slowly. “He did not say the man was an old friend.”

  “No. Melrose was a teacher and apt to be precise in his language. Therefore, while he had known the visitor for some time—one does not use the adjective ‘old’ unless you have known the person perhaps so long as a decade—despite knowing him for years, he did not consider him as more than an acquaintance. So, a man known to our subject for some time and—it may be—not much liked.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  Holmes produced one of his rare smiles. “Think of it thus, Watson. Are there not people you know, when you see them now and again, you may pause to talk briefly, but there is some trait of personality you do not find congenial? It may be simply that they do not agree with your own beliefs, but however that is, you do not wish to spend more time than necessary with them. You do not invite them to dine, you do not lunch with them or attend a play. In short, you exchange greetings in passing, and little more—and that is how you like it. Would you not describe such a person as ‘an old acquaintance?’”

  “Yes,” I said after consideration. “I can think of several people like that, and I can tell you something about them, too, Holmes. I wouldn’t be best pleased to find one of them turning up at my place, not once but three times, and each time staying for an hour or more. People like that wear out their welcome very quickly, and I wouldn’t be happy to have them here at all.”

  “No, there I agree. Yet Melrose permitted this man to enter his house, entertained him on at least three occasions, and did not mention this person’s name, where he came from, or why he called. And that is not the only interesting point, Watson. No one in the village has information about this person, either. The man did not stay at the inn, and he did not enquire as to Melrose’s whereabouts, indicating that he knew before he arrived. He came, but no one saw him arrive, and no one saw how he departed.”

  “The railway,” I suggested.

  “Maybe, yet it is some five miles from the village. Would he have walked so far, when he could have hired a trap or cart?”

  “He could have had insufficient funds? If he were calling on Melrose to ask for money, he may well have been penniless,” I suggested.

  “Then either Melrose gave him money, or he did not,” Holmes stated. “If he did, why did the man not hire a conveyance to return to the railway station? If Melrose gave him nothing, why did this man call again and again, each time staying above an hour?”

  I gave up and said so. “But it does sound as if there is something mysterious about his visitor. He calls a number of times, is not seen to arrive and depart, his name and address are unknown, and Melrose does not claim him as a friend, although he says he has known the man for sufficient time to claim him as an old acquaintance. Nor, apparently, does he forbid him the house, so he is not so much disliked, nor unwelcome.”

  I looked at Holmes. “That is odd. If I knew a person I didn’t want hanging around, I’d hardly invite him inside, not once but three times. Melrose had friends in the village and then, too, there were the Pagets. He could have asked for this chap to be warned off, and there’s no indication he ever did so. What do you make of it?”

  “He did not wish to send him away,” Holmes said thoughtfully. “He knew the man, he knew why he called, and the man must, in some way, have been welcome. It presents intriguing questions, does it not?”

  It did. Knowing my friend, he would now seek out answers. In which I was right, as he next comment showed.

  “We must find this person and uncover his reason for calling, how he came to know Melrose, and what was their business together.”

  “And his description?” I asked again. “Could you obtain a description of this person?”

  “The description is vague. A number of people saw him, but the fellow seems to be a nondescript type. He is of average height and build. His hair a medium brown, his clothing middle-class and neither new nor noticeably old. He did not sport any gentleman’s jewelry, and altogether there was nothing of distinction about him.”

  I uttered a word I learned from a sergeant-major. “That is not helpful.”

  “No. However, a man so undistinguished may provide a description in and of itself.”

  I didn’t quite understand his meaning, but I was ready to be of assistance should Holmes wish it. He nodded acceptance of my silent offer. “If you have the time, Watson, I would be glad of your company. I intend to approach the ticket-collector on that line and see what he may recall.”

  I checked my diary and found that I could manage if I rearranged two appointments—which I did—and announced myself free to join Holmes in his search. Next day we set out after lunch and without great difficulty found the train’s conductor, who was prepared to speak to us as soon as he heard my name.

  “I am a great fan of your stories, Doctor, but I’d always thought them to be tales rather than truth. I’m very pleased to meet you, sir,” he said to Holmes. “Anything I can do, you have only to ask.”

  Holmes replied. “That is good of you, Mr. Barford,” (for so he had introduced himself). “We would like to discuss the passengers you had on your train on these dates.” We had, with some difficulty, ascertained the dates on which the unknown man called on Melrose and we now listed those. Barford’s honest face fell.

  “That’s some time ago, gentlemen. I remember some passengers, since they travel regularly, but I can’t be expected to remember those I seldom see, or those who may have taken my train no more than once or twice. I’ll do my best, that’s all I can say.”

  And he did. Of the first two trips he could remember some passengers, that is, he believed they had travelled that particular day or date, but even of that he could not be certain. At last, and almost unwittingly, I mentioned the Paget family as known to us and Barford’s face lit up.

  “Aye, I know them. Miss Bibi takes the train to London now and again. Always has a smile and a polite word, she does.”

  Holmes nodded. “This third date was only a few days before Miss Bibi would have been on your train. Do you recall that?”

  Barford did. “Aye, I remember it, for she were that downcast I forgot myself to ask if she were all right. She told me a good friend died and this trip were to see his lawyer, poor lass. Why, it were only a few days earlier that she and her ma were on my train to go shopping.” He sighed. “Ah, how seldom we know what will come.”

  With that as an aide memoire we inched forward, until at last Barford seemed to recall that third date. Holmes promptly shifted his ground. “Of course, you see so many passengers, as you say. It would not be at all wonderful if you recalled none of them. I find that humans en masse are as like to each other as a flock of sheep, and there is no description on which you can catch hold. Were I in your position I would look at them and wonder what their stories were. I might imagine their circumstances, and why they travelled.”

  “That’s it, Mr. Holmes, I’ve done that more then once, just as you say. But it isn’t the obvious ones you wonder about so much, it’s them as don’t have anything to stand out. Why, there was one man went several times to that village—now, was it two or three times he went?—I can’t recall. I remember looking at him and speculating. I mean, he didn’t look like the sort of man that’d have business in the village, and then, too, ’tis five mile away by road, and a good three mile on foot even if you cuts across the fields. I looked at him and I said to myself, Barford, maybe he knows someone, but he fell between two stools. Not of the Pagets’ class, and not the farmer type, neither.”

  “A well-set-up man, however?” Holmes insinuated.

  “He were. Not tall nor heavy-set, but he moved well, light on his feet, nothing about him to catch hold of, though. Not tall, not short, plain brown hair and eyes of that light brown shade. His clothes, well, they were like I said. Not the squire’s class, but not the sort of thing you’d see one of the laborers wearin
g. An in-between sort of chap, that was what made me look at him, I daresay. I’d a’ put him in his sixties. He could have been a lawyer, mebbe. He’d that learned look about him.”

  At a glance from Holmes I remained silent. Barford seemed to have got stuck on the subject and so long as we did not interrupt, it was clear my friend thought there could be more to come. And so there was. “No, there was no trap waiting for him that first trip. Nor the second time, neither. Third time I were busy and didn’t notice, but why would you get set down at a halt if you weren’t going to that village, and if you knew you were going, why-for wouldn’t you have some vehicle waiting? He had one t’other end all right.”

  Holmes tensed but remained silent, while I pressed my lips together.

  “Aye, in that other place there were a carriage waiting. Closed, so’s you couldn’t see if anyone were inside. It took him up first two times. Last time there was a pony-trap there, nobody with it. Pony were tied to railings, and he just walked up, unhitched the beast, got in and drove away. I saw him leave just as train were pulling away from the station.” He came to himself. “But I’m sorry, sirs, I’m maundering on, wasting your time, and…”

  I couldn’t help myself. “What of the carriage? Did it have anything that marked it out? Or the pony and trap? Could you describe them?”

  Barford looked puzzled. “Carriage, sir? It were just an ordinary carriage, no crest, nothing like that. Looked like a jobbing one, to my mind. Likely belonged to one of the hotels. As for pony and trap, pony was a nice little beast, mebbe fourteen hands, a gray, cob-type, and he looked to be well-cared for. The trap were like the carriage, shabby but in fair condition. It were dark green with wheels picked out in a darkish brown. Could a’ been his own, hotels don’t usually leave such standing around.”

  Holmes took over the questioning and we added to our knowledge the information that the village of T---- was twice the size of the Pagets’ village, that it had three hotels—although one was more an inn, without so many amenities—and that while the traveler had seemed out of place in Paget’s village, he had seemed somehow to fit in much better in T----. Holmes thanked the conductor gravely, passed over a coin, and we farewelled our informant gracefully.

  Holmes and I rounded a corner out of Barford’s sight and I was jubilant. “We have him, Holmes! We know where he lives, we know the appearance of his pony and cart, and we have only to track down his address and we shall know everything.”

  “If he is willing to talk,” Holmes pointed out. “If his discussions with Melrose were either secret or criminal, or even both, he is not likely to fall upon us and confess to every word that passed between them. No, we must find out who he is and what he does. Once we know more, we shall be in a better position to ask questions and persuade him to supply the answers. But let us return home, for you have appointments tomorrow and I, too, have someone to see.”

  * * * *

  Dinner was ready when we reached Baker Street. We dined, and as I anticipated rising early I retired to bed around nine, slept well, and dreamed of a mysterious man who smiled and told me a different name each time I asked for it. I woke, still complaining of such deception, to find once I reached the table that Holmes had been and gone. That annoyed me also, so that I was in no very good temper when I knocked on the door of my first patient.

  Old Mrs. Everett’s calm greeting disarmed me, however, and the enthusiastic greeting of Max, her dog, put my ill-humor to final flight. No man can be grumpy when a Scottie is bouncing at his knees like a rubber ball and making you feel as if you were the one thing wanting to make his joy complete. I chatted, accepted a cup of tea and a biscuit, patted Max, heard of Mrs. Everett’s general health, and went on to my next patient revived in temper and humor.

  The remainder of my day was pleasant, if rather busy. I returned home at dusk and found Holmes, too, just returned, and we sat down to dinner in good humor. Once our meal was disposed of, I relaxed in my chair and queried my friend as to his day.

  “Useful in one way, Watson, of little use in another.”

  “Ah. You found the mysterious man, but he was of no help?”

  “Yes. He is a Mr. Eustace Montgomery, a retired headmaster, involved with the granting of scholarships.” I groaned. “Exactly. I called on him and explained my purpose, stated that his old acquaintance had almost certainly been murdered, and that it was my job to find out everything about Melrose that I could discover.”

  “How did he take that?”

  “Gravely. He was distressed to hear Melrose may have been murdered, uttered a stream of platitudes, said he knew almost nothing of the man, and ushered me out.”

  I eyed him. Something in his tone struck a false note and abruptly I realized what that might be. “His description, Holmes—the one given by the conductor. That does not entirely sound like a retired headmaster?”

  Holmes nodded. “Nor did it match the man who claimed to be Eustace Montgomery. I walked away until I was out of his sight, circled around, and approached a neighboring house, where I was fortunate enough to find a lady home. I said that I was from a debt-collector, looking for a Philip Montgomery, but that I appeared to have been sent to the wrong address. She agreed, saying that the man at that address is an elderly man, his Christian name is not Philip, he is retired from teaching, and that he is not of the description I gave—I had described the man who claimed to be the occupant.”

  I whistled softly. “That is interesting. So the man is an imposter, but the true Eustace Montgomery does live at that address.”

  “Thus I apprehend. I then went to the nearest shops and asked about Eustace Montgomery. They all knew the man himself, whom, they say, has lived there since he retired three years ago, and whose description matches the one his neighbor provided.”

  I considered that while Holmes drank the last of his tea. “So the real Montgomery is genuine, has lived there three years, and is well-known locally. The false Montgomery is claiming to be the true person to those who call. Why, Holmes? If he is a burglar, why should he bother? If he is a relative visiting, why should he claim to be the other man? It makes no sense.”

  “No,” my friend agreed. “It may have nothing at all do to with the case, but I am determined to discover who this person is and what his motive can be. If you are free tomorrow, Watson, could you assist me?”

  I was delighted to say that I was free and would be more than happy to help, and so immediately after breakfast we returned to the village and set about making enquiries.

  In short order we found that no one knew the younger man who claimed to be Eustace Montgomery. The genuine Montgomery was quite well-known and respected. He was comfortably off, since even in official retirement he was on a scholarship board that paid well, and he now and again acted as a tutor to some well-to-do lad who stayed either at the house, or at the nearest hotel. However, Montgomery had not been seen for several days now. It was thought—on no authority we could discover—that he had gone to London. Everyone we approached seemed to rattle off what they knew, and all were apparently speaking the truth, while knowing little of value.

  At last we found someone who could tell us more, and Holmes approached him.

  The man was a stalwart figure, tall, with a magnificent mustache, an upright carriage and, while at first glance he seemed perhaps rather placid of eye and countenance, I saw his gaze sharpen as we drew near.

  “Yes, sirs?”

  “You are Constable…”

  “George Hampton, sir. And you are…?”

  “Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.”

  I saw at once that he knew Holmes’s name, at least.

  “Aye, how may I assist you gentlemen?”

  “I think I should report that there may be something strange occurring at…” Here he gave Montgomery’s address.

  “Occurring, sir? What sort of occurrence?”

  Holmes took in a breath and laid out everything we knew in a terse statement. That a man migh
t have been murdered, that he had been retained by that man’s heir to ascertain all circumstances, and that on calling on one of the dead man’s visitors he had found another person at his home, claiming to be Eustace Montgomery, while to our certain knowledge he was not.

  “Ah,” said the constable. He stood there, rocking slowly on the balls of his feet. We could see that he was making up his mind to something. “Ah, well, it’s like this, gentlemen. I know of you both. Will you swear to me, that if I share with you certain information, you will take no further action for the moment?”

  Holmes looked at me and I nodded. He turned to the constable. “We agree. But I think I may know some of the story. Eustace Montgomery has another occupation, that of tutor.”

  I recalled that had been mentioned, but was at a loss to see where the information fitted in.

  Holmes continued. “Those who require private tutoring are sometimes of another country and come to stay with the tutor under a false name, for safety’s sake. In this case, the student is from…” Here he leaned forward and spoke a word in the constable’s ear—very quietly, but I could hear the name—that of a small country, often in the news of late.

  George Hampton nodded. “Aye, that’s it. And since you know that much, Mr. Holmes, I daresay it’s safe enough to tell you the rest. It was heard up in London that there could be trouble here. Some dissidents wanting to influence those in power had it in mind to take the boy. He was already here by the time that came to our ears, and a man was put into the address for security. Last night there was an attempt to capture the boy. Waste of time, that was,” he added. “Old Mr. Montgomery and the boy were moved a day before, and them that came looking caught a cold.”

  Holmes tensed. “The intruders, Constable. They were ordinary thieves, were they not?”

  “They were. Said that they’d been paid to play a trick on an old schoolmaster. A man came to them, said he’d always disliked his teacher and that he wanted to pay him back for some of what had been done to him as a lad. They saw no harm in it since they were only told to scare the man, and they were well paid.”