A Study in Treason, page 12
“Most unfortunate,” Joanna called back. “For the butler’s attention to proper dress, even in death, may have robbed us of an important clue.”
“Such as?” Dunn asked.
“Such as deep scratch marks on the hands and arms of a prime suspect,” Joanna answered. “So you see, Lieutenant, one clue, no matter how trivial it may seem, could lead to another clue and yet another, which when all pieced together offer a solution to the crime. That is my method and the method of my father before me.”
“Inspector Lestrade warned me of your unique talent,” Dunn said, his voice more appreciative now. “But pray tell, how could you possibly know I speak Mandarin?”
“By a combination of clues,” Joanna recounted. “First, your posture and bearing, along with your short haircut and sharply creased trousers, all tell of a long military background. Secondly, your tattoo consists of a blue anchor that signifies you were either a sailor or marine, with your strict orderliness pointing strongly to the naval sector.”
“I served and continue to serve in the Royal Navy,” Dunn said. “But how can you relate this to my knowledge of Mandarin?”
“There is more,” Joanna went on. “Now, below the anchor is Chinese script, which is characterized by red lettering that is quite square and dense, with no flowery component that is common in written Japanese. This difference was delineated most excellently by my father in his monograph on tattoos. So, with these clues, we have a well-polished naval officer who spent considerable time in China. And this begs the question—what were his duties while stationed there? Well, the best career officers would in all likelihood be assigned as naval attachés to the British Embassy in Peking where Mandarin is the commonly spoken dialect. Since the script below the anchor is written in Chinese, rather than English, I think it reasonable to assume you are familiar with Mandarin.”
“The personification of Holmes,” my father whispered under his breath.
“So you see, Lieutenant, it was all in the clues that were laid out before me,” Joanna concluded. “Trivial clues, you might call them, but they become quite important when placed in proper order.”
“I am still not convinced that a few rapid deductions will solve this most complex case,” Dunn persisted.
“You will be when all is said and done,” Joana responded. “Now tell us, is your visit here connected to the temporary closing of the Deutsche Society on Edgware Road?”
“How did you learn of the closing?” Dunn asked in a rush.
“It was duly noted in the morning edition of the Daily Telegraph.”
“I am not at liberty to share that information with you,” Dunn said, his face closing.
“No matter,” Joanna said nonchalantly. “I will call the First Sea Lord who will provide me with all the necessary details. You see, I am here at his request.”
Dunn sighed so heavily it sounded like a groan. “I was not informed of this. Please forgive me for being so secretive, but the fewer people here who know of my mission, the better.”
“I understand, but your information might be most helpful as I continue in my line of investigation,” Joanna said. “Rest assured that not a word spoken will leave this garage, for I, along with my husband and Dr. Watson, have signed the Official Secrets Act.”
“Very well, then,” Dunn said, lowering his voice while glancing over his shoulder at the door to make certain no one was within earshot. “It all revolves around the groundskeeper, Henry Miller, or Heinrich Mueller if you prefer, and his membership in the Deutsche Society, a German club he helped establish and one in which we have a reliable informant. This club has a membership of over twenty-five men, half of whom still hold citizenship in their native Germany. To a man they love the fatherland and praise Kaiser Wilhelm’s desire to dominate the entire continent. They disparage England and its ways, but never talk openly of sedition, although there is no doubt whose side they would be on should war with Germany ever break out.”
“That Teutonic fervor never leaves them,” my father growled.
“I am afraid you are correct in that, sir,” Dunn said. “But now the trail becomes even more enticing. Our prime suspect, Roger Bennett, visited the club at Henry Miller’s urging where by all accounts he was warmly welcomed. Miller, you see, is beloved by the other members and his allegiance to Germany remains quite strong, for he is the one who sings Deutschland Uber Alles the loudest. In any event, whilst visiting the society, Roger Bennett spoke fondly of Germany and its athletic accomplishments and requested information on living there. He even asked if they could provide a visa form for him to apply. They could not, but directed him to the German embassy where he was spotted and we assume sought the visa application. With all this in mind, we believe Roger Bennett may well be collaborating with members of the society, and thus we have closed it down while we interrogate its members. We also believe that they, along with Henry Miller, may lead us to the whereabouts of our prime suspect. I am here to question Henry Miller who might know the most about Roger Bennett.”
“Such an open investigation could cause the collaborators to bolt,” Joanna proposed.
“Which is our intent, for we have eyes on all twenty-five-odd members and will look for the ones who run.”
“Quite clever,” Joanna said. “But the fox who becomes aware of the hounds often seeks deeper cover.”
“That is the risk we must take, for time is of the essence.”
“Chancy,” Joanna murmured to herself.
“Do you disapprove?”
“I neither approve nor disapprove, but will for now concentrate my thoughts on the evil deed just committed by our villain. There is a reason behind this murder that I believe will lead to the thief and the missing document.”
“Aye,” the naval officer concurred. “The murderer and the thief must be one and the same.”
“And a nasty piece of work he is,” Lestrade said, glancing back at the corpse of Charles Bennett. “What sort of animal kills his own father?”
A drug-crazed one, I was tempted to say, but held my tongue.
9
The Shed
We spent most of the day searching through the butler’s papers and belongings, in hopes of uncovering clues that could lead to his son’s whereabouts. In the top drawer of an oak cabinet we found old letters from the butler’s brother who was a dockworker in Liverpool. They spoke mainly of the brother’s family and how much they enjoyed their summer visits to Hampshire. But the last of the letters had been mailed five years earlier. It contained only a short obituary that stated the brother had died in an accidental fall. We went through all the shelves and other drawers and even turned the cushions of an old couch, but discovered nothing of consequence. As we walked toward the son’s bedroom, we again noticed two framed photographs on the wall, both of which appeared quite dated. One showed a long line of uniformed rugby players, with their coach, the other a large group of family members, with a younger Charles Bennett in the center. There were far more children than adults in the picture from a generation ago.
The son’s bedroom had already been rummaged through by Lestrade and Dunn. If there were any findings of note, they did not disclose them to us. For reasons unknown, the inspector and the naval officer kept us at a distance while they pursued their avenue of investigation. This did not seem to bother Joanna in the least, for she was not impressed by either of them.
“Lestrade is rather unimaginative, and one has to place a subtle clue under his nose before he sees its significance,” Joanna said without rancor. “Dunn is brighter, but very straightforward and by the book, as one would expect with his military background. They refuse to leave the beaten path, which is unfortunate because that is where most of the answers lie. So, for now, it is best they go their way and we go ours.”
“But they may stumble onto something of importance,” my father suggested.
“Which they will share with us when they run into a dead end.”
“And what makes you so certain that will happen?”
“Our past experience with Lestrade is he must be led to the correct deduction,” Joanna replied. “When the tight knot has to be untied, he knows where to turn.”
“Indeed,” my father said, with a nod. “Like his father’s dependence on Sherlock Holmes.”
“It runs in the blood,” Joanna said, and began viewing the disarray in the bedroom left behind by Lestrade and Dunn. Drawers were open and their contents strewn about the floor. The mattress had been lifted and remained askew, a pillowcase removed and thrown aside. Even the posters of track athletes on the wall had been taken down and in some instances torn into pieces.
“Thorough, but messy,” Joanna commented, then looked over to my father who was grimacing and rubbing at his shoulder. “Is your war wound acting up again, Watson?”
“I am afraid so,” my father said, then sat down heavily on the mattress and stretched his arm for relief. “It decides to misbehave at the strangest moments.”
The war wound Joanna referred to was caused by a Jezail bullet that found its mark during my father’s participation in the Second Afghan War. The bullet had shattered bone and grazed the subclavian artery which resulted in great tissue damage that to this day incited intermittent painful episodes. “Perhaps a pain pill would be helpful, Father,” I advised.
“No need,” he refused. “It is passing.”
But I could see the sharp discomfort was taking its toll on my father’s endurance. It seemed to have sapped his strength even further and at the moment he seemed quite old and weary. Joanna noticed the change as well.
She placed a gentle hand on my father’s shoulder and said, “If you wish, Watson, you can lie down for a few minutes and wait for the pain to leave altogether.”
“It is gone now,” he said, and after taking several deep breaths, his vitality gradually returned.
As my father positioned his arm on the mattress to raise himself, he partially crushed an open map of Germany, with the city of Berlin circled in black ink. “His interest in Germany is quite obvious,” my father remarked, and turned the map over. On the back was scribbled a name and partially legible address.
Eric Stoltmann
Alexanderpl
Berl
I leaned in for a closer look. “The Berl no doubt stands for Berlin. Should we assume that Alexanderpl represents Alexanderplace?”
“If you wish to Anglicize it,” Joanna said. “The Germans do not name their streets with a place, but rather with a platz. More likely, the address is Alexanderplatz.”
“This could be Roger Bennett’s contact man,” I thought aloud.
“It could be,” Joanna replied in a dubious tone. “But why leave it out in the open? If it was the name and address of a German operative, even a dullard would know to keep it secret and hidden.”
“Perhaps he had no such hiding place,” I said.
“Everyone has a hiding place,” Joanna said, and returned to the search. She began with the small closet where she carefully inspected a single hanging suit and shirt, and found only a soiled handkerchief. With patience, she went over every foot of the wall and floor, looking for a crack or crevice, but discovering none. Finally she removed every drawer and peered into the rear of the cabinet, but saw only dust. As she replaced the drawers, one refused to slide in completely. Joanna quickly pulled out the drawer and examined its rear section. There was a small envelope glued in place that contained an old, neatly folded five-pound note. Holding it up, she asked, “What do you make of this, Watson?”
“A life’s savings for a stable boy,” my father answered.
“And one he would hardly leave behind if he were on the run,” Joanna said, then furrowed her brow in the deepest thought before adding, “The contradictions continue to mount, yet I am convinced there is a single link that eludes us and will explain all.”
We heard heavy footsteps hurrying into the cottage and turned to find Henry Miller at the bedroom door. He paused to catch his breath, then said in a gasp, “Someone has broken into the forest shed.”
“Is Inspector Lestrade aware?” Joanna asked.
“Yes, madam. He sent me to fetch you.”
We dashed across the expanse of green lawn and over a narrow stone bridge beneath which ran a slow-moving stream. At the edge of the forest was a well-traveled path that wound its way through thick woods until it came to an open belt of grass, beyond which lay a red-colored shed. It was smaller than I anticipated, with dimensions of approximately twenty-five-by-twenty-five feet. Within, everything seemed in order and showed no evidence of tampering. But to Joanna, as I could tell by her peering eyes, there were many clues waiting to be read. She moved quickly around the shed, like a hound picking up a scent, ignoring the dredging equipment and heavy tools that hung from the walls. It was the ground within the shed that held her closest attention, although I must admit I saw nothing of interest. Her gaze went to the door as she asked Henry Miller, “Was the entry lock broken?”
“No, madam. It was intact when I entered for a pickax to clear a small stump. It was then evident to me someone had been in here.”
Joanna stepped over to the door and carefully examined its heavily rusted lock, using her magnifying glass. “No scratches,” she observed, before asking the groundskeeper, “Do you carry the key to the lock with you?”
“No, madam. The key is kept in the corner of the ledge above the door.”
“Do others know of its hidden location?”
“Most of the people who work the grounds do.”
“Thank you, Miller. You may return to your duties now.” Joanna waited until the groundskeeper was out of earshot, then turned to Lestrade and Dunn and asked unhappily, “Was it truly necessary for you to trample back and forth over every foot of earth in the shed?”
“It was required in order to perform a thorough search of the premises,” Lestrade replied.
“Which in the process removed important clues,” Joanna rebuked mildly. “You two have stomped over any recently made footprints, and thus we cannot match them to those made by the thief in the attic.”
“Do you doubt that the thief and the intruder are one and the same?” Dunn challenged.
“I doubt everything I cannot prove,” Joanna said as her gaze went to a woolen blanket in the dirt next to the dredging equipment. “I also note that the blanket has been ruffled and cast aside. Was that your work as well?”
“A neatly folded blanket was found where it now lies,” Lestrade replied. “The groundskeeper assured us it was not an item usually kept in the shed, so we shook it loose looking for clues and found nothing.”
“But disturbed everything,” Joanna said, and moved over to inspect the blanket, which was obviously of good quality. Using her magnifying glass, she carefully pored over the blanket, then sniffed at the wool before dropping it to the ground. “There are no strands of hair that could have defined the hair color of the intruder and perhaps his approximate age. In addition, I detected the aroma of tobacco smoke, but it was so faint I could not identify its origin. Did you find ashes within the shed?”
“No, madam,” Lestrade said.
“Did you examine the blanket for traces of ashes before you vigorously shook it?”
“We did not,” Lestrade replied. “At that moment we were anxious to learn if the blanket contained the missing document or clues to its whereabouts. Ashes, I am afraid, were the last thing on our minds.”
“Clues, clues,” Joanna muttered softly. “Even the most trivial ones may count later on.”
“We do not have time for later on, madam,” Dunn groused. “The vital document remains missing, and it is quite clear that the stable boy, Roger Bennett, came back in the middle of the night to fetch it.”
“Was that before or after he murdered his father?” Joanna asked.
“He could have done both,” Dunn responded sharply. “But I suspect he had help as well, for by all accounts he was not bright enough to pull off such a clever theft by himself. He had an associate who I believe was none other than the groundskeeper, Henry Miller.”
“But it was he who alerted us to the intruder in the shed,” I argued.
“Perhaps to cover his own tracks and throw suspicion elsewhere,” Dunn said. “You see, we now have indications that Henry Miller or Heinrich Mueller was involved and deftly persuaded the stable boy to become an accomplice.”
“Might you share your indications with us?” my father implored.
Dunn hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Please remember that you are sworn under the Official Secrets Act.”
“We are aware.”
“Good, then,” Dunn said, but kept his voice low. “It appears that Henry Miller may well be caught up in a web of conspiracy. When I questioned him earlier, he was less than forthright in describing his activities in the Deutsche Society, for some of his statements contradicted those of our reliable informant. For example, Miller denied urging Roger Bennett to visit the society, saying that he mentioned that only in passing. Yet the club management was expecting the stable boy’s visit and treated him most warmly, even inviting him to return. Then there is the name Stoltmann that Miller could only vaguely remember, despite the fact that Eric Stoltmann is a well-known German track coach who once guided Miller during his javelin-throwing days in Munich. Now the Stoltmanns are of great interest to the allies’ intelligence services, for it was Hans Stoltmann, Eric’s older brother, who was an attaché at the German embassy in Paris and who was recently expelled from France because of presumed espionage activities.”
“We saw the name Eric Stoltmann written on a map of Berlin in the stable boy’s bedroom,” I recalled.
“As did we,” Dunn went on. “And so the pieces of the puzzle come together to form a more complete picture. It now seems clear that the stable boy and the groundskeeper are implicated up to their teeth, and I shall report so when I return to London. I shall also have the sad duty to report that in all likelihood the missing document has been taken from the shed by the thief and may well be on its way to the wrong hands.”
