Sherlock Holmes Stories of Edward D. Hoch (7 page)

“It’s a waste of time, Watson. If this convict was the killer, why would he leave playing cards in his victims’ hands? No. We are dealing with something much more sinister here.”

“In this peaceful country setting?”

“I have said before that the vilest alleys in London are nothing compared to the beautiful countryside. In the city, the machinery of justice is swift to act. Out here, deeds of hellish cruelty can go unpunished.”

He was right about the convict, of course. There was no trace of him in the manor house or anywhere on the grounds. It was established that the knife had come from the kitchen, but anyone could have taken it. And Agnes Baxter might well have been killed before the other guests set out on their ride. Sir Patrick’s wife Elizabeth was especially upset as the summer house party seemed to collapse about her. Dr. Prouty and his wife had departed with Agnes’ body, to complete the necessary funeral arrangements. I had thought the others might leave too, but, at Elizabeth’s urging, the actress and her agent stayed on.

Dinner that night was a somber affair. The six of us tried to speak of other things, but it was Madeline Oaks who brought the subject back to the killings.

“That’s two of them in six days,” she said. “Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson can be ruled out, because they were not present when Rhinebeck died. But the other four of us are all suspects.”

“That’s nonsense!” Sir Patrick burst out. “Why would I kill my own book publisher and that poor young woman? Why would any of us, for that matter?”

“What could be the meaning of those playing cards?” Maxwell Park asked. “The ten and jack of spades!”

The events at Stacy Manor were indeed baffling, and I could see that Holmes was greatly troubled.

“I fear the killings are not over,” he confided to me, as we went up to our room later. “There is a pattern here which has yet to reveal itself.”

“Then none of us is safe.”

“Have you brought your revolver, Watson?”

“It is in my bag.”

“Good! We may have need of it before the night is over.”

I took it out and made certain it was loaded, then laid it on the table between our beds. Neither of us donned our nightclothes, though I, for one, quickly drifted into a deep sleep. I gather Holmes was sleeping, too, when we were both awakened toward dawn by human screams and a lion’s deep-throated growl.

“Quick, Watson, your revolver! I never thought of the animals!”

We hurried downstairs and already some of the others had appeared in their doorways, awakened by the sounds. Holmes was first out the door, heading toward the cages we’d inspected the previous day.

When we reached the large lion’s cage and heard again the savage growls of the beast, Holmes grabbed the revolver from my hands and thrust it between the bars. The lion turned from its grisly task and, by now, there was enough morning twilight for us to recognize Haskin’s limp and bloody figure. Holmes fired three shots, carefully aimed at the beast’s head, and the lion went down in a heap.

He pulled on the door of the cage, but it was padlocked from the outside. By this time, Sir Patrick and his wife had joined us, with the actress, her agent and the servants bringing up the rear.

“Where is the key to this?” Holmes demanded.

“There’s an extra in the kitchen,” Sir Patrick said, sending the butler for it. They were all in their nightclothes and robes, with Sir Patrick limping badly without his special shoes.

In a moment, we had the key and Holmes entered first, holding the revolver ready. I was right behind him, reaching the body to turn it over and reveal a face so torn and bloody as to be unrecognizable. It was Holmes who found the playing card—a queen of spades—beneath the body.

The local police and Scotland Yard were back on the scene within hours. What might have been a tranquil Sunday morning had been shattered by a third murder, and even our host was deeply shaken as he spoke to authorities. Elizabeth sat by his side, clasping his hand.

The officer in charge had his notebook open.

“I understand the deceased was an employee of yours. Could you give me his full name and position?”

Sir Patrick moistened his lips, his face ashen. “His name was Haskin Zehn. He was a German gypsy with a great affinity for wild animals. He accompanied me on my African journeys and, because of my bad leg, he did much of the actual capturing. He was a fine worker, unmarried, about thirty-five years of age. He lived here at the house.”

“Could this have been an accident? He seems to have been dressed in his normal work clothes.”

Holmes spoke up then. “The cage had been padlocked from the outside. It appears he was knocked unconscious and then locked inside with the lion.”

“He wouldn’t have gone into the cage before dawn,” Sir Patrick agreed. “This was murder.”

Holmes nodded. “When we turned over the body, hoping he was still alive, there was another playing card beneath the body.”

The officer, whose name was Wegand, nodded. “The ten, jack and queen of spades, Mr. Holmes. What does that tell us?”

“That there will be more murders unless we put a stop to this.”

Elizabeth White seemed confused. “But what could it mean? Why was the jack of spades left with a female victim and the queen with a male? Is the next to be the king?”

“The king of beasts,” Sir Patrick speculated. “But my lion is dead.”

Finally, when things had calmed down a bit, the cook served a light breakfast. When he’d finished, I noticed Holmes checking the schedule of trains back to London. A closed wagon had arrived for the removal of the latest victim and, when he saw it, he hurried outside. Curious, I followed him.

“What is it, Holmes?”

He was bent over Haskin’s body, examining the man’s belt and shoes.

“Interesting,” he said. “All right, you can take him away now.”

He straightened up and smiled at me. “I believe we must return to London, Watson, on the first available train.”

“You are abandoning the investigation?”

“Merely trying a new course to the truth.”

We went back inside while he explained to Sir Patrick that he must continue the investigation in London.

He turned to the officer who had questioned us. “Sergeant Wegand, we have only forty-five minutes to catch the next train. If you are going back, could you give us a ride to the station?”

Sir Patrick protested. “My butler could take you.”

“No, no. The sergeant is going our way.”

Wegand grumbled a bit, but Holmes spoke to him in a soft voice and he agreed. We quickly packed our bags and said goodbye to all. The actress, Madeline Oaks, seemed sorry to see me go, and I promised to attend her next London opening.

On our journey to Reading Station, a thought occurred to me.

“Dr. Prouty and his wife departed yesterday. Is it possible one of them might have returned to kill Haskin?”

“Anything is possible, Watson. Let us see what we find at our destination.”

We arrived at Reading Station with only minutes to spare. Already in possession of our return tickets, we hastened to the platform. I was a bit surprised to see Sergeant Wegand coming with us and wondered what Holmes had said to him.

The three of us boarded the train together, avoiding the first-class carriages and going directly to the coaches. Holmes strode down the aisle quickly, eyes straight ahead, and it was not until we’d passed through to the second coach that he suddenly pounced, reaching across an empty seat to fasten upon an unshaven man in dirty clothes who sat staring out the window at the platform.

“Here, Sergeant!” Holmes announced. “Arrest this man! He is the triple killer you are seeking.”

The officer was taken by surprise. “My God! The escaped convict?”

“No, no. Let me introduce you to Mr. Haskin Zehn, returned from the dead, but no less dangerous for that.”

Later, after we’d returned to Stacy Manor for the explanations Holmes felt they deserved, we sat once again in the library with Sir Patrick and his wife. Their other guests had departed soon after we did, perhaps fearing more violence. But Holmes assured them it was over.

“I can’t believe that Haskin would do such a thing,” Elizabeth White said. “What could possibly have been his motive?”

“His original motive involved only the publisher, Oscar Rhinebeck. You told me, Sir Patrick, that Rhinebeck had suggested greatly enlarging your zoo, hiring a professional staff and opening it to the public. Haskin feared his beloved animals would be taken away from him and, in a moment of anger, he struck Rhinebeck with a poker, inflicting a fatal wound.”

“What about the playing cards and the other killings?” Sir Patrick asked.

Holmes, relaxing at last, had taken out his pipe as he spoke.

“The business with the playing cards was meant merely to confuse us, and it did just that. I overlooked one crucial clue for too long—it might even be called the clue of the clue. The bloody trail showed that the first victim, Rhinebeck, had dragged himself to the card table and used his final moments of life to choose that ten of spades as a clue to his killer’s identity. But consider the later killings and you’ll note some vastly different circumstances. Agnes Baxter was stabbed in the chest in her bedroom, killed instantly. The third victim died in a locked lion’s cage. Certainly neither of these was in a position to choose a playing card in their final seconds of life.”

“Of course not!” Sir Patrick agreed. “The murderer left them!”

“Obviously. And yet the first card, that ten of spades, had been chosen by the victim. The bloody trail told us so. Conclusion? After that first, legitimate clue, the killer left more playing cards in sequence to confuse us. Instead of looking back at the first clue, the ten of spades, we looked ahead, speculating on where the series was going, seeking an overall pattern that didn’t exist.”

“What could the ten of spades have meant?” Elizabeth wondered.

“The spade was simply the first ten he came to. It was the ten that was important. The Germanic Rhinebeck was trying to tell us his killer’s name was Haskin Zehn…the number ten in German!”

“Of course!” Sir Patrick slapped his knee with an open palm. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten too much of my public school German.”

“But Agnes Baxter hadn’t. She accused him, perhaps threatened him, and she had to die, too. By that time, it must have been obvious he was in deep trouble. My presence, if I may say so, must have added to his growing concern. Then, last evening, a solution presented itself, virtually out of the blue. The escaped convict, for whom the police were searching, appeared at your zoo…perhaps trying to steal some of the animals’ food. Haskin came upon him and realized at once that the man was his own size and weight, with the same hair coloring. His escape had presented itself. The convict was knocked unconscious and hidden for a time. I believe Haskin wounded him and disfigured his face with a sharp garden tool. Then he changed clothes with the man and pushed his body into the lion’s cage with an appropriate playing card. I fear I was too quick in killing the lion for a death he only partly caused.”

“How did you know Haskin would be on the London train?”

“He could not afford to remain in this area where he might be recognized, and the schedule showed that on Sunday, the London train was the next one out. I knew he couldn’t have caught an earlier train because he had to walk all the way to Reading Station.”

“You were so sure that the body wasn’t Haskin Zehn?”

Holmes nodded. “When I finally heard his last name for the first time, I was virtually certain of the truth. I examined the body, especially the belt and shoes, and found confirmation. The belt buckle was one hole tighter than it had ordinarily been worn, and the shoes fit a bit too loosely on the feet. That was all the proof I needed.”

It was the following week at the Diogenes Club when I met Sherlock’s older brother Mycroft for the first time. Early in the conversation, Mycroft asked about the Manor House Case.

“It was Adams, of course?”

“Yes, it was Adams,” Sherlock agreed.

“I was sure of it from the first.”

Later, when we were alone, I asked why he had told Mycroft that the convict was the killer.

Sherlock Holmes smiled slightly. “It was just a bit of brotherly rivalry, Watson. He will learn the truth soon enough, and realize that he was wrong for once.”

I
T WAS ON CHRISTMAS
Day of the year 1888, when I was in residence with Mr. Sherlock Holmes at his Baker Street lodgings, that our restful holiday was interrupted by the arrival of a most unusual client. Mrs. Hudson had already invited us to partake of her goose later in the day and, when we heard her on the stair, I assumed she was coming to inform us of the time for dinner. Instead, she brought a surprising announcement.

“A gentleman to see Mr. Holmes.”

“On Christmas Day?” I was aghast at such a thoughtless interruption and immediately put down my copy of the Christmas Annual I’d been perusing. Holmes, seated in his chair by the fireplace, seemed more curious than irritated.

“My dear Watson, if someone seeks our help on Christmas Day, it must be a matter of extreme urgency. Either that, or the poor soul is so lonely this day, he has no one else to turn to. Please send him up, Mrs. Hudson.”

Our visitor proved to be a handsome man with a somewhat youthful face, though his long white hair and the lines of his neck told me he was most likely in his mid-fifties. He was a little under six feet tall, but slight of build, with his fresh face giving the impression of extreme cleanliness. Holmes greeted him with a gentle handshake.

“Our Christmas greetings to you, sir. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my dear friend, Dr. John Watson.”

The man shook my hand, too, and spoke in a soft voice. “Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. I am pleased to meet you, sir and I…I thank you for taking the time to see me on this most festive of days.”

As he spoke, I detected a slight stammer that trembled his upper lip as he spoke.

“Please be seated,” Holmes said, and he chose the armchair between the two of us. “Now, tell us what brought you out on Christmas day. Certainly it must be a matter of extreme urgency to keep you from conducting the Christmas service at Christ Church in Oxford.”