Sherlock Holmes (5 page)

“He has, it seems, an eye for patterns,” said Holmes. “And an ear.”

“That he does.”

“And he was not in any obvious way suicidal?”

“Not as far as the sergeant could tell. He appeared distracted but not agitated or distraught. Eventually my man was able to coax him off the parapet and back down to earth, much to the disappointment of some in the crowd. But that’s not the most outlandish thing Quantock has done.”

“Do tell.” Holmes steepled his fingers.

Tomlinson, in unconscious mimicry, mirrored the gesture.

“There was an incident between him and the Master of Balliol – a contretemps, you might call it. Normally such a thing would not have come to our notice. It took place in the grounds of the college, in the Garden Quadrangle, and what happens in an Oxford college tends to stay within its walls. We police have jurisdiction over the entire city, but the colleges prefer to regulate themselves wherever possible, with their Proctors and Bulldogs. They regard themselves as their own little fiefdoms, set apart from the rest of the world.”

The inspector said this with a cluck of his tongue. I myself had attended the University of London, and while it was by no means as old or prestigious as Oxford or Cambridge, it was a similar kind of ivory tower, with its own idiosyncratic formalities and traditions.

“Quantock and the Master were arguing over some matter,” said Tomlinson, “one which aroused such passion that they exchanged heated words and very nearly came to blows. In fact, Quantock did accuse the Master, Professor Caird, of laying hands on him. Caird denied it vehemently, but Quantock still wanted to prosecute. That’s how we in the constabulary became involved, when Quantock stormed in to this very station demanding to make a statement. I gently persuaded him that there was nothing to be gained by bringing legal action against Caird. He is a man of great probity, for one thing.”

“A moral philosopher, if I remember right,” said Holmes. “I’ve read his book reconciling Hegelian rationalism with Christianity.”

“I’ve yet to borrow that one from the library myself,” said Tomlinson drolly. “He is a theologian, that much I do know. He is also Balliol’s first lay Master, but I reckon him nonetheless as upright and unimpeachable as any bishop. I pointed out to Quantock that the act of taking such a man to court would surely rebound on him to his disadvantage. Besides, as I subsequently ascertained, eyewitnesses to the altercation, Fellows and Scholars amongst them, denied there had been any physical contact between the two men. Voices had been raised but not fists.”

“Do you know what they were arguing about?”

“I interviewed Professor Caird at his lodgings as a matter of procedure. He insisted that he and Quantock had simply had a difference of opinion. It was to do with the line of research Quantock was pursuing and the amount of his time being taken up by pursuing it. At first Caird was none too amenable with me, seeming to feel it wasn’t worth his while explaining high-flown intellectual matters to a mere policeman. I did some kowtowing, though, a bit of the old tugging the forelock, begging him to take pity on a poor rustic plod, and eventually he came clean. Nothing like flattering a man’s intelligence to get him to open up. In that practice I was taking a leaf out of your book, Mr Holmes – the way you sometimes disguise yourself as humble folk in order to gather information and catch the villains out. Not that there’s anything villainous about Professor Caird, I might add.”

“The line of research in question was Quantock’s Thinking Engine,” said Holmes.

“It had become a preoccupation, Caird said, a fixation. Quantock was neglecting his lecturing and tutorial duties. Day and night he was working on the blessed thing, to the detriment of his students and possibly even his own mental equilibrium. But there was more to it, or so I divined – a deeper source of friction. Reading between the lines, it seemed Quantock’s contention that his machine can replicate the thought processes of any man sat ill with Caird’s more spiritual inclinations. Caird, with his theologian’s perspective, did not take kindly to the idea of a mechanical device capable of achieving the level of sentience which God has granted to just one species in all of Creation.”

“I imagine you yourself haven’t taken kindly to Quantock’s insistence that his Engine is on a par with any police officer.”

Tomlinson gave a grin that showed off gritted teeth. “It would be impolitic of me to furnish you with my heartfelt response to that particular remark. Let us say I disagree, and leave it at that.”

“The occurrences you have described – am I to take it that Professor Quantock has been behaving in an erratic fashion and come to your attention only since he began developing the Engine?”

“I don’t know the exact chronology of it. All I know is that until a year ago I had never heard of Malcolm Quantock. I would not have been able to pick him out from any of the other hundred mortar-boarded worthies of this town. But Professor Caird said that Quantock started work on his invention this time last year, more or less. So, putting two and two together, I think we can safely say there is a correlation.”

“It is not uncommon,” I said, “for people of an obsessive nature to become so consumed by their labours that they lose a few of their social graces.”

I glanced sidelong at Holmes, who put on a thin-lipped smile but refused to return my gaze.

“I thank you for your confidences about Quantock,” he said, addressing Inspector Tomlinson. “I shall share them with no one. Watson will do the same. There is one further item I would like to discuss, however.”

“Let me guess. The Jericho murders.”

“It is the case which the Thinking Engine is due to provide a solution to, tomorrow. I should like to solve it myself, if I can, prior to that. At the very least I should like to be able to check that the answer this marvellous machine comes up with is the correct one, and if it proves to be in error and I know better, then I shall be able to say so.”

“Not only that but, in the latter instance, you would be five hundred pounds richer.”

Holmes sniffed indifferently. “The prize will be the victory, not the spoils.”

“I wouldn’t turn down five hundred quid.”

“I never said I would turn it down. I will gladly take Lord Knaresfield’s money, and spend it with an untroubled conscience. But, for me, what counts is defeating the Thinking Engine and repudiating Professor Quantock.”

“I would not be unhappy to see that,” said Inspector Tomlinson. “Here is all I know about the killings. I should warn you, however. It is a grim and grisly business.”

Tomlinson’s face was grave as he laid out the facts. A bricklayer by the name of Nahum Grainger was the chief suspect in the slaying of his wife Tabitha and their two daughters. Grainger had an unenviable reputation as a drunkard and a ruffian. He was forever getting into fistfights and, according to his neighbours, beat Mrs Grainger regularly and terrorised the children. When he imbibed too much, which was often, he was known to fly into a blind rage, knocking his wife about until she was black and blue while the girls cowered upstairs, quaking in fear. Sometimes he might take his belt to them as well, for good measure.

“What a charming individual,” Holmes commented.

“Why ever did his family remain with him?” I wondered. “Surely the wife must have had some relative who would have offered aid and shelter?” I thought of my own dear Mary, and her seemingly unending supply of maiden aunts and distant cousins.

“It appears Mrs Grainger had no one she could turn to, her parents dead and her only living relations in Canada,” Inspector Tomlinson said. “She had no employment, Mr Grainger being the sole provider. How would she have fed her children, they being only nine and seven years of age? Yet we have cause to believe that Tabitha Grainger did finally decide that enough was enough. A week ago she confided to a friend that she was going to tell her husband that she was leaving him and would take their children with her, even if it meant the workhouse. Two days later, all three of them were dead.”

I shuddered. “The poor things. Grainger was responsible, no doubt.”

“That’s just it, doctor. Yes, one can easily imagine his anger, his pride in tatters. One can also imagine it festering within him until he could bear it no longer and resolved that his family were better off dead than free, the fire of such thoughts fuelled by gin and ale. He is the prime suspect. The trouble is, he couldn’t have killed them.”

“A-ha,” said Holmes, angling forward in his chair. “And why not?”

“He has a watertight alibi. The three Grainger females were murdered at around four in the morning according to the sawbones, but Grainger himself was not at home. He was staying with a friend a few doors down. He had complained that his wife was making his life miserable and that he could not abide being in the same building as her.”

“
She
was making life miserable for
him
!” I declared. “It is beyond irony.”

“Now, the friend backs up Grainger’s claim. This man – Tobias Judd by name – has said that Grainger was at his house all night and did not go out.”

“Might we not assume Judd is lying?”

“We might, Mr Holmes. It would not be out of the question. He is a wheedling, craven sort who, like Grainger, treats his wife meanly. I have no doubt that Grainger could have browbeaten him sufficiently that he would agree to provide exculpatory testimony. The problem is not Judd himself but Judd’s dog.”

“Judd’s dog?”

“A foul-tempered mongrel, huge and vicious. It barks at any and all who pass by the house and is liable to hurl itself on strangers. It can barely be restrained. In fact, the constable who called on the Judds to take their sworn statement nearly fell victim to the animal’s savagery, and has the torn trouser cuff to prove it.”

“The dog, you’re saying, would have prevented Grainger from stealing out of the Judds’ to go to his own house and kill his family?”

“Perhaps not physically, but had he attempted to do so the creature would have barked sufficient to awaken half the street and draw unwanted attention to his activities. It simply will not tolerate anyone coming in or leaving without putting up a racket. Even its own master is greeted as though he were an intruder rather than the householder.”

I felt a surge of triumph. “Why then, surely that proves that Grainger was never in the house in the first place! If the dog was not heard when Grainger
entered
the Judd residence, we have no proof that he ever did so. The evidence of the dog is null and void!”

Inspector Tomlinson grimaced. “I myself had the same thought, Dr Watson. However, Grainger was seen entering the Judds’ home at around eight. The elderly woman who lives opposite swears she saw him, and that damned dog surely did too, for the noise it made, according to the neighbours. We therefore have two witnesses, one at least I consider trustworthy, saying that Grainger entered that house and never left it.”

I was a little put out but tried not to show it. “Perhaps you might have mentioned that earlier,” I mumbled. “So the dog did nothing in the night-time?”

“We have encountered a similar curious incident before, have we not?” said Holmes.

“Don’t tell me.” Tomlinson raised a finger, frowning. “That hideous murder in Surrey, the stepfather who murdered his stepdaughter with a snake. He owned a menagerie of animals, as I recall. Was there a dog amongst them? I’m trying to remember the title… Ah yes, I have it. ‘The Speckled Band’.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” I said. “Holmes was referring to the Silver Blaze affair.”

“Silver Blaze! Of course.” Tomlinson grimaced. “How daft of me. At any rate, the Judds’ dog did nothing, least of all bark. The immediate neighbours on either side can attest to that, and they would have nothing to gain by lying. One of them told us the animal makes his life a torment with its din and he would willingly take a shotgun to it if the opportunity arose, yet he is adamant that on the night in question it was silent until six in the morning, when Judd leaves for work.”

“Therefore Grainger must have stayed indoors all night, as Judd maintains.”

“Just so, Mr Holmes. But that’s not all. Tabitha Grainger and the two girls, Elsie and Flora, were stabbed to death, and from the shape and depth of the wounds we have been able to infer that a particular item was used as the murder weapon.”

“Namely?”

“A boathook. Have you been to Oxford before?”

“I studied for a couple of years at Cambridge,” replied Holmes, “albeit not to take a degree but simply to pursue some research of my own relating to chemistry and biology. Cambridge excels in those subjects and the sciences in general. My brother Mycroft, though, was an Oxford man, and has very fond memories of his time here, although they seem to consist largely of drinking and dining with certain exclusive and sometimes rowdy clubs.”

“Alas, we have more than our fair share of those,” said Tomlinson with feeling. “Gilded youth enthusiastically tarnishing themselves. I asked, however, mainly in order to establish if you know anything of the city’s geography.”

“Precious little.”

“Jericho is an area to the west of the town, built on low-lying land hard by the canal. The canal is frequented by barges ferrying coal, stone, wool and agricultural produce down from the Midlands. It connects both the Grand Union Canal and the Coventry Canal with the Thames, which it joins here. Traffic to and fro is constant. It’s one of Britain’s busiest commercial waterways.”

“I see. So a bargee might easily have been the culprit, as the boathook would seem to imply. Jericho’s proximity to the canal makes it a plausible scenario.”

“It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that one such person might have sneaked into the Grainger house under cover of darkness and committed the wicked deed. There were no signs of a break-in, but then the back door had been inadvertently left unsecured that night. The streets in Jericho are arranged in a grid pattern, so the back gardens of the houses adjoin one another. The walls between are low, and on that particular street there is open access to them from one side where an alley runs down to the canal.”