The Casebook of Newbury & Hobbes (6 page)

Bainbridge coughed noisily and placed the stub of his cigar in the ashtray. “I take it from your tone that this was not to be the case?”

“Quite so. In fact, as the hansom drew up outside of the house it became clear that the structure was not in such an alarming state of disrepair as it had at first seemed. Certainly, it was in need of urgent cosmetic attention, but the building itself appeared to be sound and the welcome I received from the manservant, Chester, was enough to immediately put me at my ease. I clambered down from the cab and followed the wispy-haired old chap into the house.

“Once inside I was taken directly to the drawing room to meet Crawford, whom—judging by his expression—was more than a little relieved to see another friendly face. He pumped my hand rather vigorously and bade me to take a seat.

“I could tell almost immediately that Crawford was an honourable man. He was clearly concerned for his old friend, and the strain of the situation had begun to show in his face. He was in his mid-forties, with a shock of red hair and a full moustache and beard. His skin was pale and he was obviously tired. He sent Chester away to fetch tea. I asked him where Hambleton was and he offered me a rather sheepish look. He said that he’d sedated him an hour earlier and left him in his room to get some rest. Apparently it was the only way that Crawford had so far managed to force his friend to sleep.”

“Sounds like a rum job for a medical man. Was there no housekeeper who could have helped with all that?”

Newbury shook his head and regarded the bowl of his pipe thoughtfully. “I think they were all a little in awe of the man. Later I would witness the manner in which Hambleton bustled around the house barking directions at his staff, giving orders like he was running some sort of military operation. Which I suppose he was, in many respects, marshalling his troops to search the local area for evidence of his missing wife.” He paused. “Still, I’m getting ahead of myself.” He smiled, and Bainbridge nodded for him to continue.

“With Hambleton asleep in his room, Crawford took the opportunity to fill me in on the circumstances of the case. He explained that Hambleton had barely spoken a word for days, and spent all of his time waiting on news of his missing wife, or sitting in her room staring at her belongings, as if they could somehow reveal to him what had become of her. It was soon clear from Crawford’s testimony that Hambleton was on the verge of a complete breakdown.

“After Crawford had finished recapping the details he had already disclosed in his letter, I explained that I had not had any real contact with the family since my time at Oxford, and asked Crawford to fill in any gaps. He went on to explain that Hambleton had inherited the family fortune—such as it was—after his father had died a few years earlier and had invested heavily in farming and agriculture. He was currently engaged in a project to develop a method of better preserving fruit and vegetables after harvesting, and until recently had spent long hours locked away in his workshop; time, Crawford was not afraid to add, that he felt Hambleton should have been spending with his wife. Nevertheless, Crawford was quick to establish that Hambleton did in fact dote on his young wife, and that if truth be told the doctor was worried about how Hambleton would be able to carry on without her.

“Soon after, Chester returned with the tea, and our conversation moved on to more practical considerations. I promised I would do all that I could to help resolve the sorry situation, and that, first thing in the morning, I would examine Mrs Hambleton’s room for any signs of evidence that may have been missed. Crawford promised that I would be reacquainted with Hambleton later that evening over dinner, and while the doctor was yet to enlighten his friend about my visit, he was sure that Hambleton would be pleased to see an old friend from Oxford.” Newbury smiled. He eyed Bainbridge over the rim of his glass as he took a sip. “Can you begin to imagine how Hambleton
really
felt about my unannounced visit?”

Bainbridge shrugged. “Well, I’d imagine he’d be less inclined to reminisce about his schooldays than Crawford seemed to be suggesting, but glad of the extra help in searching for his missing wife, no doubt.”

Newbury shook his head. “I fear that could not be further from the truth. I parted from Crawford after tea and Chester kindly showed me to my room. It was small but pleasant enough, furnished with oak panelling and an ostentatious four-poster bed, but with a wonderful view of the grounds. I unpacked my case and took a while to refresh myself, before heading down to the dining room to meet the others for dinner.

“No sooner had I approached the door to the dining hall, however, than I became aware of a heated debate being played out on the other side. Unsure what else I could do, I hesitated on the threshold, awaiting an opportunity to politely make an entrance.

“It seemed that Crawford had finally informed Hambleton about his invitation and my subsequent arrival at the house, and the news had not been received well. I heard Hambleton cursing the doctor. ‘She’s left me, Crawford, can’t you see that? I need to be left alone to my misery.’ Crawford then uttered some sort of bumbling reply, and I decided that was the point at which to make my entrance. I strolled through the door as if oblivious to the tension between the two men, and made a point of greeting Hambleton like an old school friend would.”

“Did he alter his temperament upon seeing you?”

“Not at all. He greeted me gruffly and without emotion. He refused to look me in the eye, and showed no real sign that he recognised me from our time at Oxford together. It was as if he saw me as an interloper, come to interfere and ogle at him as he wallowed in his misery. He hardly spoke a word throughout dinner, and then made his excuses and repaired to his room, claiming he needed an early night to be fresh for the morning.” Newbury shrugged, pausing to gather his thoughts. “Crawford had certainly been right about one thing. Hambleton was indeed in a funk, and a dire one at that. The man looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week. His hair was in disarray, he had neglected to shave, his shirtsleeves were filthy and he bore the haunted look of a man who was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. It was clear that he truly cared for this girl, and that he blamed himself for whatever had become of her, to the exclusion of all else.”

“So how did you handle the man? It can’t have been easy trying to help someone in that state of mind, no matter how understandable their disposition.”

“I decided to carry on regardless. At that point in proceedings I was still unsure whether I’d actually be able to shed any light on the case, but with no other means to help the poor fellow I decided to follow Crawford’s example, and together we retreated to the drawing room to plot our next move. Over a brandy we discussed how we could get to the bottom of the situation. We both felt that our influence on Hambleton could only prove beneficial, and that, whatever had happened to his wife, it was clear he was in need of answers. If we were able to shed even the tiniest sliver of light on the subject, we should do our damnedest to try. I reiterated my intention to search the lady’s room at first light. Then, downing the rest of my brandy and offering Crawford all the reassurance I could muster, I retreated to my bed to take some rest.

“It was at this point, however, that things began to take a turn in an entirely different direction.”

Newbury stared at the flickering gas lamp on the wall, lost momentarily in his reminiscences. Bainbridge edged forward in his seat. He was caught up in Newbury’s story now, anxious to know what happened next.

“How so?”

Newbury smiled. He ran a hand over his face before continuing. “Wearily I made my way to my room, tired from my long journey and more than a little distracted by the shocking appearance of my old school friend. I spent my usual hour reading before settling in for the night—a rather lurid novel entitled
The Beetle
—and a short while later fell into a light doze. Sometime after that I found myself rudely awakened by a terrible banging sound from elsewhere in the house. I sat bolt upright in bed, unsure what to make of the despicable racket. It was as if someone was beating panels of metal sheeting, and the sound of it quite startled me from my bed.

“Pulling my robe around my shoulders, I took up a candle and crept from my room, anxious to understand the nature of the bizarre noise. The hallway outside of my room was dark and deserted. The entire episode had the quality of an intangible dream and I wondered, briefly, if I weren’t acting out the fantasies of a nightmare, inspired by the gothic novel I had indulged myself with just a few hours earlier. Yet the banging was so loud and persistent that I knew it had to be real. I crossed the hall, feeling the chill draught as it swelled up the stairwell. The sound was coming from deep within the bowels of the house, far below where I was standing. I wondered why there was no sign of Crawford or any of the staff. Surely they must have been awoken by the thunderous sounds?”

“Remarkable. Did you find out what it was?”

Newbury laughed. “Yes. Indeed. And I fear it was nothing as sensational as you might have imagined, Charles. At the time, however, I admit I was perplexed. I made my way down the stairs in the darkness, my candle guttering and threatening to leave me stranded alone in the shadowy hallway at the foot of the stairs. Then, startled, I heard the shuffling sound of approaching footsteps and all of a sudden Chester was upon me.”

Bainbridge frowned. “The manservant? Had he set upon you in the darkness?”

“No, no. But he certainly gave me a fright. His face loomed out of the gloom like some sort of ancient, otherworldly spirit. He was dressed in a robe and his candle had been extinguished, burned down in its holder. He appeared to be heading towards the stairway, returning from a brief sojourn elsewhere in the house. He asked if he could help me with anything, evidently unclear as to the reason for my appearance in the hallway at such a late hour. Puzzled, I enquired about the banging sounds, which were still ringing loudly beneath us—underneath, I realised, the ground floor of the house itself. I surmised that there was obviously a large cellar somewhere far below.

“Chester, who seemed entirely nonplussed by the intolerable sound, shook his head and smiled. ‘Nothing to be alarmed about, sir. The master often works late into the night. Best to leave him to his labours.’ He put his hand on my arm as if to shepherd me back to bed. Unsure how else to respond, and realising there was little I could do about the noise, I resigned myself to a sleepless night and retraced my steps, following Chester up the creaking stairs and along the galleried landing to my room. After I had heard Chester retreat to the servants’ quarters I lay awake for some time, disturbed by the noise, but also suspicious of the manservant and the reasons for his midnight stroll around the house.”

Bainbridge stroked his moustache thoughtfully and searched around in his jacket pockets until he located his walnut cigar case. Withdrawing a cigar, he snipped the end with his silver cutter and flicked the brown cap skilfully into the ashtray. Then, taking up one of Newbury’s matches, he lit the fat tube with a brief flourish and sat back in his chair, regarding the younger man. “For how long did Hambleton continue with his bizarre nocturnal pursuit?”

“Hours. There was little peace that night, and if truth be told, I rather abused Crawford’s patience by taking the opportunity to rise late the next day. I was still groggy from lack of sleep and I admit I found myself a little out of sorts.

“The others were finishing their breakfast when I finally made my way down to the dining room, and even though I was suffering from a terrible bout of lethargy, I was keen to discover more about the nature of the work that had kept Hambleton busy so late into the night.”

“I suspect he looked done in, after spending most of the night beating metal?”

Newbury shook his head. “That was one of the strangest things about the entire episode. Hambleton looked fresh-faced and clean-shaven, as if he’d had a good night’s rest and had risen early for breakfast. He was sitting at the table finishing a plate of eggs and bacon when I entered the room. I remember it distinctly, the manner in which he eyed me warily as I took a seat beside him. Of course, the first thing I did was enquire about the banging and the nature of his work in the cellar.”

“And was he forthcoming?”

“Only in as much as he acknowledged that he
had
been working through the night and apologised for keeping me awake. I pressed him further on the matter, politely at first, but he was loath to give away any real details. I held firm in my questioning, and eventually he relented. His explanation tallied with what Crawford had told me the previous day. He said he was working on a machine that would aid in the preservation of fruit and vegetables after picking, a means by which to maintain the freshness of the produce before it found its way to market.”

“Did he show it to you?”

“No. He was dismissive of the whole enterprise. Told me it was ‘far from finished’ and that there was ‘very little of consequence to see’.”

“How odd. Did this not raise your suspicions about the man in any way?”

“I certainly had a sense that there was more going on at Hambleton Manor than I had initially suspected. Nevertheless, I was also acutely aware that Hambleton was suffering a great deal of distress following the disappearance of his wife, so perhaps I was a little more forgiving than I may have been in different circumstances.

“Feeling that I should not press the matter any further, I finished my breakfast—indulging in copious amounts of coffee to stave off the fatigue—and agreed with Crawford that he would show me to the missing woman’s bedchamber directly. Hambleton, for his part, did nothing but stare at his empty plate as we left the room.

“As we crossed the hall I felt the tension dissipating, and Crawford gave an audible sigh of relief. ‘He’s not his usual self. Poor man. Please forgive him his brevity of conversation. At any other time I’m sure he would be delighted to reacquaint himself with an old school friend, but with Frances gone...’ The doctor clearly felt he needed to apologise for his friend and patient. I allowed him to do so, offering platitudes where necessary. I am much too long in the tooth to let such minor offences concern me.