Authors: Unknown
Holmes exhibited a thin smile.
"From your tone, I
might
judge that he is a frequenter of The Haven. He
might
well have seen us pass by it and decided to inves
tigate."
"Well, he's not thought well
of by the townspeople," stated Witherspoon. "Not overly
intelligent and an awk
ward
hand in a row." The medical examiner seemed
nervous.
"If your survey is complete, Mr. Holmes, pos
sibly
we should return to the village proper."
As we started toward Witherspoon's
carriage, I threw
a
quizzical glance at my friend and companion.
"You seemed more interested
in the dormer window.
Holmes,
than the roof itself."
"And a good thing, too,"
was his response. There
was
a trace of that complacency in his words that so
often
proves grating to one like myself who lacks his
unique
abilities. "I presume," he continued, "that the
house
painter, Morris, was eager to finish the job and
his
arguments with the deceased. His work on the window was slapdash
indeed. The paint around the window frame was certainly applied with
more speed than dex
terity.
Though not obvious from the ground, the paint
was
allowed to run from the brush and cake around the
window
slide. I can assure you, gentlemen, that said
window
was not opened following the repainting of the building."
Holmes's surprising statement was
allowed to stand
unchallenged
for a moment as we were all distracted by a sound in the nearby
underbrush.
"A dog, probably,"
guessed Witherspoon, "or more likely, a possum." The
medical examiner's attention returned to Holmes. "If what
you say is true, sir, how did
Amos
Gridley get on the roof?"
Holmes looked solemn as he assumed
his seat in the carriage and I sat alongside him.
"Gridley's being on the roof
to begin with never
seemed
right to me. Another, and more sinister, theory
regarding
his death presents its grim face. That bruise
you
noted, Doctor Witherspoon, which was acquired
prior
to death fits into it rather neatly. A strong man,
adept
at such questionable practices, could well have sandbagged the old
fellow and, while unconscious, carried him to the roof. A shove
and the body slides down
the
incline and falls to the ground. The neck is broken and we have an
accidental death as a convenient cloak
for
murder."
Witherspoon flicked his reins and
the powerful gray
set
out at a spanking pace, anxious to return to his stall and some oats.
There was a silence as we progressed
through
the peaceful countryside. It suddenly occurred
to
me that this was unusual. That I would not challenge Holmes's
deductions was acceptable, for I had good rea
son
to know of their unerring accuracy through the
years.
But Witherspoon advanced no objections to my
friend's
recreation of events even though they would prove most difficult to
sustain in a court of law. Ac
tually,
I realized that as Holmes had, step by step,
delved
into the death of the St. Aubrey resident, the
doctor
had become more and more silent and his some
what
hearty manner had disappeared altogether.
Holmes was not averse to silence.
The sleuth's face
was
placid and I sensed that his mind was happily sorting out random
pieces and fitting them into a mosaic of
fact.
Witherspoon was involved with thoughts of his
own
and his face seemed strained. I fell victim to the silence and tried
to evaluate the incidents uncovered in our journey to this rural
hamlet.
That Amos Gridley had been killed,
I accepted.
Holmes
would not have expounded his theory in such detail, if in doubt. But
what in the antique dealer's pass
ing
by violence had captured the interest of Holmes?
Could
he have been in Constantinople in the shop of
Aben
Hassim? It did not seem likely, yet the man had
had
a lisp, though I did not recall anyone making men
tion
of it in sleepy St. Aubrey.
We were at the top of the rise
when Holmes roused
himself
from his thoughts with a request that startled
me
indeed.
"Could we stop here a moment,
Doctor Wither
spoon?"
The medical examiner instinctively
reined in his
horse
with a questioning glance at Holmes.
"Watson and I are, by force
of circumstances, much
chained
to the city. It being not more than three miles
back
to St. Aubrey, I wonder if you might continue
alone.
A constitutional in these peaceful surroundings
would
benefit us greatly."
Had not Holmes placed me on the
alert with a surreptitious nudge, I might have burst out
laughing. Bucolic surroundings held scant charm for my friend,
but
obviously he was
up to something and I tried to be of
help.
"Capital idea, Holmes. An
hour at a brisk pace will
stretch
our legs."
Witherspoon had a worried look
about him and made an effort to erase it.
"If that is your desire,
gentlemen, I'll meet you at
The
Crossbow on your return."
When Holmes and I had descended
from his car
riage,
Witherspoon allowed his horse to resume motion.
As
the vehicle departed down the road, I noticed Wither
spoon
throw several glances over his shoulder back in our direction. Then a
dip in the hill took him from view
and
Holmes came to a halt.
"Now, Watson, we shall
backtrack a bit. The Haven, referred to by the helpful medical
examiner as the local
den
of iniquity, is of interest to me."
Mystified, I could but follow as
his long stride ate up
the
ground between the road and the country pub.
Its ulterior was unprepossessing.
At one end of a
long,
much-scarred bar, two rough-looking individuals
were
engaged in a mumbling conversation and paid us
no
heed at all. Behind the bar was a short, squat, heavy
man
with a bald head adorned by several scars of a per
manent
nature. He had a dilapidated shirt buttoned at
the
neck. His face was round and jowls hung over his collar. A dark vest,
shiny with wear, did not totally con
ceal
the stains under his arms. He was chewing on a
short
cigar with dirty, yellow teeth as he aimlessly pol
ished
a glass. He regarded Holmes and myself with
small,
somewhat bloodshot eyes.
The sleuth had registered on the
two customers at the
end
of the bar and evidently dismissed them.
"Has Lothar Gridley been here
today?" he asked the
barkeep.
"Who wants ter know?"
"I do," replied Holmes,
in a very quiet tone.
As the worthy removed his cigar
from his mouth with
a
purposeful manner as though eager to stipulate how little importance
he attached to that statement, Holmes
stepped
closer to the bar, his face becoming more visi
ble
in the dim exterior. The man surveyed him again
and
evidentally suffered a change of heart. His raspy
voice
became almost cordial.
"He be here but awhile ago.
Sittin' by the window."
A
thumb indicated a grimy frame of glass and a table in
front
of it. "Then he ducked out, he did."
"Possibly to return,"
commented Holmes. "We'll
see."
I followed my friend who crossed
to the table and
secured
two chairs from an adjacent one. Since there
was
a half-way filled bottle and a tumbler on the plain wooden surface, I
felt the seaman would return all right.
We
were not seated for long before the creaky door be
hind
us opened and a broad-shouldered man with raven hair entered,
marching with purpose toward us and then halting as he became aware
of our presence. He was tall and his clean-shaven skin was weathered
and of that burnished brown produced by sun and salt. He regarded
us
with a scowl.
"Who be you?" he said,
after a pause.
"Two of those just at your
late uncle's cottage," said
Holmes.
"We would appreciate a moment of your
time."
"Time's cheap," was the
response.
"You are Lothar Gridley?"
"I'm not ashamed of it."
Gridley resumed his chair
and
splashed whiskey into his tumbler. He did not offer us any.
Considering that our surroundings were far re
moved
from the Criterion Bar, I approved of this lack
of
hospitality.
"You were watching us a short
while ago," said
Holmes.
"And if I was? The cottage
will be mine shortly."
"I fancy so," replied
the sleuth. "There will be no
trouble
about the insurance money by the way."
"Aye, I gave a guess that's
why you was nosin' 'round. The idea . . . thinkin' that Amos would do
hisself in. Life was
dear to him and that's a fact." With
our
presence apparently explained, Lothar Gridley un
bent
and signaled with a hand gesture. The barman ma
terialized
with two additional tumblers, which he
thumped
on the table. I declined somewhat hastily though Holmes allowed a
sizeable pouring into his
glass.
I noted that he did not drink it.
"Will you be returning to the
sea?" he inquired pleas
antly.
Downing a massive swallow, Gridley
shook his head
as he
wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. His
palm
was horny with callous. "No chance, mate. I'll
find
me a little place like this, though a mite more ship
shape,
and it's the easy life for me. If I drink up some
of
me profits, what's to worry?"
Holmes looked dubious. "Five
hundred pounds might
not
go that far."
Gridley snapped his fingers with a
loose laugh. "The
insurance
money, you mean. We'll nay worry 'bout
that,"
"I'm glad you are well
provided for."
There was sudden suspicion in the
sailor's eyes.
"Did I say that?"
"You did not. But it's
another matter I would have
words
with you about in any case." Gridley's manner
did
not indicate that he would appreciate words on any
subject
but Holmes caught his attention quickly enough.