A Study in Treason, page 13
“With all due respect, Lieutenant, your premise of guilt will not hold up in a court of law,” Joanna said. “You will require far more solid evidence than you have at hand to squarely place the blame on Henry Miller and Roger Bennett.”
“I plan to obtain it,” Dunn said firmly. “And when I do, I shall have the pleasure of watching the two hang.”
Dunn hurried out of the shed, with a most determined look on his face. Lestrade tipped his derby to us and had to break into a half-trot to catch up with the naval lieutenant. Only after the pair had disappeared into the woods did Joanna begin to shake her head.
“They rush to judgment so quickly while choosing only those shreds of evidence that suit their purposes,” she said. “You must admit that a stable boy and a groundskeeper are the most unlikely of coconspirators.”
“Surely you do not exclude them as suspects,” my father argued.
“To the contrary. I continue to include them, but I do not give them the highest level of suspicion, which Dunn and Lestrade have bestowed upon them.” Joanna’s gaze went to the blanket on the ground and she studied it once more at length. “How could they see so much and observe so little?” she asked. “The clues were set in front of their eyes, yet they ignored them. That is the curse of having a preconceived notion.”
“Are you referring to the blanket?” I inquired, following her line of vision.
“The blanket that was folded,” Joanna said. “Pray tell, who bothers to carefully fold a blanket of good quality and leave it behind, rather than taking it with him?”
My father and I stared back at Joanna in puzzlement, for neither of us had an answer to her question.
“Come now, Watson,” she implored my father. “Why did the thief depart without the blanket? Why would anyone leave it behind?”
My father’s eyes sparkled. “Because he planned to use it again!”
“Excellent, Watson! And what does that tell us?”
My father smiled broadly as the answer came to him. “That he did not obtain what he came for and would have to return to fetch it.”
“Ah! You have outdone yourself, Watson, and confirmed a vital piece of information that I must admit crossed my mind the moment I spotted the blanket lying on the ground,” Joanna continued. “But the blanket tells us a great deal more. In particular, it clearly demonstrates that the missing document was never hidden in the shed, for if it were the thief would not have brought along a blanket to ward off the night’s chill while he waited. Were the document here, he would have simply retrieved the stolen goods and been on his way. Since the thief planned to return, we can now rest assured the missing French Treaty remains on the Halifax estate. And as long as it is here, it cannot fall into the wrong hands.”
“Which should give some comfort to the foreign minister and his fellow cabinet members at Whitehall,” said I.
“As well as hope that the document will soon be recovered,” my father added. “I believe the prime minister himself will no doubt be encouraged.”
A hint of the Mona Lisa smile came to her face, but it quickly faded. “You should hold your optimism until we have the missing document in our hands and the thief in handcuffs. Please keep in mind that we are at a disadvantage, for time is against us, in that the thief knows where the document is and we do not. Thus, we must make haste if we are to avoid a disastrous end.”
“But at least we know that the esteemed Lieutenant Dunn was wrong in his belief that the document had disappeared from the Halifax estate,” I concluded.
“Obviously,” Joanna said.
“But he was not wrong about the guilt of the stable boy and the groundskeeper,” my father noted. “The mounting evidence certainly points to their involvement.”
“What evidence is that, Watson?” Joanna asked.
“A number of findings that are supported by the recent break-in into the shed,” my father replied. “They both knew where the key to the shed’s lock was located and could thus enter without doing damage to the door.”
“Tut! Tut! I can quickly reason that away, Watson,” Joanna said. “Every laborer on the grounds knows the location of that key, not to mention all the young people who no doubt used the shed for their secret, romantic encounters. That piece of evidence will not stand.”
“But what of the groundskeeper’s attempt to hide his knowledge of Eric Stoltmann, the German track coach, who guided him in the art of throwing a javelin?” I asked. “Surely he should have remembered that.”
“So it would seem,” my father agreed. “Athletes often have fond memories of their earlier coaches.”
“Perhaps,” Joanna said dubiously and turned to me. “You were a boxer in your younger days, John, and quite good at it from what I have been told. Can you give me the name of your boxing coach when you were in middle school?”
“Mar-martin or Marshall,” I stammered. “That was his first name, as I recall.”
“And his last?”
“It escapes me.”
“And it probably escaped Henry Miller’s memory while he was under the intense pressure of being cross-examined,” Joanna said, and flicked her wrist dismissively. “Such evidence against the groundskeeper is weak at best.”
“But who else could be responsible?” I asked.
“Someone who has an extensive knowledge of the Halifax estate and the family who occupies it.”
“But that is a considerable number.”
“Which we must quickly narrow down.”
“How do you propose we accomplish that feat?”
“By following the clues we have before us,” Joanna said, and hurried out into the chilly afternoon air.
“Is there one clue in particular that should draw our attention?” I called after her.
“The blanket,” she called back, and disappeared into the woods.
10
A Secret Informant
Joanna excused herself before dinner and asked our forbearance, for she had been contacted by a secret informant in the village who wished to speak with her alone and specifically insisted no one else be present. She saw no danger in the encounter since the meeting was to take place at a small restaurant we had dined at previously and was not far from the inn where we stayed. However, should clues be revealed that required immediate attention, Joanna requested that my father and I join up with her later that evening at the rear entrance to the inn where we would not be noticed. Our meeting place was well away from the secret lodger’s window, and thus we could not be seen nor overheard by him.
My father and I strolled about the wooded garden of the inn and smoked two pipefuls while we eagerly awaited our meeting with Joanna. We timed our walk to end near the rear entrance at the appointed hour, so as not to appear to be loitering and draw unwanted attention. But on our arrival, Joanna was nowhere to be seen. As the minutes ticked past nine o’clock, we became concerned for her safety.
“Let us pray no harm has come to her,” my father said worriedly.
“I should have demanded we escort her, for, as she mentioned on our train ride here, crimes every bit as vicious as those in London can take place in the quietest of English villages,” I noted. “Nevertheless, I take some comfort in knowing that she is quite capable of looking after herself. Were you aware she took instructions in the Japanese sport of jujitsu?”
“That does not surprise,” my father said. “For Sherlock Holmes was likewise keen on the martial arts, and in fact excelled at bare-knuckle boxing. That skill, like the art of deduction, must run in the genes.”
“Indeed.”
“Have you actually seen her perform?”
“I have not. But she has been awarded a purple belt at the school she attends, which indicates a fair degree of proficiency in the Japanese craft of self-defense.”
“That may hold true in the classroom, but not in real-life experience.”
“Father, I have learned over the past year not to underestimate Joanna, for you do so at your own peril.”
We heard footsteps approaching as a shadow came out of the darkness.
“At last!” I breathed a sign of relief.
To our disappointment it was not Joanna, but an old, bespectacled woman, wearing a tattered dress, with unkempt gray hair that looked unwashed and poorly cut. Her eyebrows were equally gray and untrimmed, and there was a smudge of dust on her forehead. As she came nearer, we could not help but notice her limp and bandaged left ankle.
“Are you the gentlemen who called for a proper cleaning woman?” she asked in a raspy voice while dropping a large cloth sack to the ground.
“We are not,” my father answered impatiently. “Now, move on unless you wish to become entangled in official police business.”
“Then I’d better leave, but I wonder, guv’nor, if you could spare a shilling for a worker who has come on hard times?”
“Move on,” my father demanded. “And I will not say it again.”
“Even if I bring news from Joanna?”
“What!” I grabbed the woman by the arm and drew her closer. “Tell us all at once!”
“I will when I am good and ready,” she said, and jerked her arm away.
“Do you realize that withholding information of a crime is a crime itself?” I threatened.
“And who says I am withholding it?”
“I do,” my father growled. “Perhaps you would be more talkative if we called in an inspector from Scotland Yard.”
“Lestrade would only bungle things.” The old woman’s voice changed to Joanna’s. “It is best we exclude him for now.”
My father and I were stunned with amazement as we watched Joanna remove her spectacles, then her wig and fake eyebrows, and finally the thick bandage from her ankle. She then straightened her posture and, with a damp handkerchief, dabbed away the smudge on her forehead.
“So much like Sherlock Holmes,” my father said in a whisper. “One never knew what was to come next.”
“How did you arrange such a disguise?” I wondered, still amazed by the remarkable transformation.
“A simple matter,” Joanna replied. “You will recall the thrift shop we passed on our way to question the tobacconist. Such stores hold a variety of clothes, often including used costumes. I had no problem collecting this getup, and the shopkeeper was good enough to allow me to use a back room to dress, for I told him I was on my way to a costume ball and wanted to surprise my husband. Even he did not recognize me when I reappeared from the dressing room.”
“But why the disguise?” I asked.
“To go places and talk with people who would instantly clam up when questioned by the police or by people of higher rank,” Joanna explained. “The working class fear these types and either hide from them or, if questioned, lie and deceive and then make every effort to disappear. So, with my disguise firmly in place, I went to an inexpensive drinking establishment on the edge of the village where I was welcomed by all, including workers from the Halifax estate and from the Hampshire Inn. They form a clique, you see, and love to share secret stories about their superiors, which they would never divulge to an outsider, much less the police.”
“Sharing a sense of loyalty, I would guess,” my father opined.
“No, my dear Watson,” Joanna said. “They are showing the good sense that, if caught doing so, they could lose their positions.”
“So you had to be careful and not appear to be prying.”
“All I had to do was sip beer and keep my ears open.”
“Ah! The stories they could tell,” my father said knowingly.
“And did tell,” Joanna said, then hooked her arms into ours as we strolled away. “I gathered more from them in an hour than Scotland Yard could learn in a month. Let us begin with the workers at the inn where the most valuable clues lay. I am referring to the chambermaid and waiter who provided the services to the inn’s most secretive lodger. Please recall that the chambermaid was only called upon to clean the room twice a week, on Monday and Thursday between the hours of 6 and 6:30 P.M. She never laid eyes on him, but did note his peculiar demands and ways. In particular, the window was to remain open at all times and, if closed because of rain, was never to be locked. The explanation given for this practice was the lodger’s frequent asthmatic attacks that required immediate fresh air.”
“Sensible enough,” my father said. “Inhaling fresh air can at times abate an attack.”
“Yet the maid told us that the ashtrays in the room were filled with ashes and the ends of cigarettes, and the air contained the heavy odor of stale tobacco smoke,” Joanna countered.
“That does not fit,” my father said at once. “Asthmatics never smoke, for it is a certain way to set off an attack.”
“Thus we can conclude that the occupant of the room did not suffer from asthma.”
“We can indeed.”
“And we can also conclude that he was not a writer,” Joanna continued on. “The chambermaid, who thoroughly cleaned the room, saw pen and ink and stacks of white paper, yet none of the sheets had been written upon. The chambermaid looked for such pages, for she is a reader and was interested in what the lodger might be writing about. Furthermore, there was no trash on the floor, and the trash can held no crushed or discarded papers. As a previous writer yourself, Watson, and one who chronicled the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, what do you make of these findings?”
“All writers have their throwaway pages that are poorly done in their opinion and are thus discarded or pitched into a glowing fireplace,” my father replied. “On many days the floor around my desk was littered with unwanted, crushed sheets of paper.”
“Which leads you to what deduction?”
“That the occupant of that room was not a writer.”
“And what if I told you the chambermaid saw neither books nor reference volumes that any historian would surely depend on when writing about Elizabethan England?”
“It would confirm my suspicion beyond any question.”
“Thus he is neither an asthmatic nor a writer, both of which he claimed to be, so he would be left alone in seclusion and have an open window that looked out onto the forest. Why were these requirements so important to him?”
“The seclusion offers protection that he would not be seen or recognized,” I reasoned. “It also explains why he had a London agent book the room at the inn, rather than doing it himself.”
“Excellent, John! You are indeed coming along wonderfully well,” Joanna said. “Now please tell us the necessity of having an open, never locked window close by the forest.”
“The answer to that is quite obvious,” I replied. “He used the window as an entrance and exit, so he could leave and return unnoticed whenever he wished.”
“Bravo!” Joanna said, and smiled over at my father. “I must say, Watson, there are times when I wonder if John had missed his true calling as a detective.”
“He does have his moments,” my father praised.
“Indeed,” Joanna said as the smile faded from her face. “And it is the window that brings us to the young waiter and the most intriguing clue of all. On his third beer, he told a story that captured the attention of the entire pub. Again recall that the waiter was instructed to serve dinner by leaving the tray outside the lodger’s room at precisely 7 P.M., and to return an hour later to collect the dishes. He performed these duties the night before last, but before returning for the dishes, he stole away for a cigarette break at the rear of the inn. During this time he stayed in the shadows, for the innkeeper does not like to see his employees idling about. As he was finishing his cigarette, the waiter saw the strange lodger alight from the window of his room and dash to the edge of the forest where a woman awaited him. The moon was full that night, so he was able to see the couple, but only for a moment because a passing cloud dimmed the moonlight. Although he cannot swear to it, he believes the man strongly resembled Roger Bennett.”
“The stable boy?” my father cried out in disbelief. “There is no way in the world a stable boy could afford even a meal at the Hampshire Inn, much less a two-week stay.”
“Which was the opinion of all those present in the tavern,” Joanna said. “So they quickly dismissed the idea.”
“But you appear not to have.”
“One should never discard an important clue simply because it does not fit your preconceived notion.”
“But everything argues against the boy being a guest at the inn.”
“It is most unlikely,” Joanna agreed. “Nevertheless, we should not reject the sighting altogether until we have proof to the contrary.”
“But what if it is the boy?” my father mused.
“Yes. What if it is?”
“Then the pieces of the puzzle begin to come together.”
“But wait, Watson,” Joanna said. “There is yet another shoe to drop. Would you care to guess who the woman was?”
“I have no idea.”
“None other than Elizabeth Halifax.”
My father’s jaw opened. “I say!”
“Again the light was less than good, but the waiter firmly believes it was her,” Joanna said. “And I take him at his word.”
“Was it a romantic assignation?” I asked.
“That was not possible to tell, for although they were close together the waiter could not determine if they were touching,” Joanna replied. “But the encounter was brief, lasting no more than a minute or two, so I would be of the opinion that the meeting was a business matter rather than one of romantic attachment.”
My father shook his head sadly. “I simply cannot fathom Elizabeth Halifax, a lady of high standing, being involved in a traitorous act.”
Joanna reached into the large cloth sack for her coat and put it on to cover her tattered dress. She took a final glance at the dark forest before saying, “There are more than a few knots here that need to be untied, for all is not what it appears to be.”
11
The Halifaxes
“It is a close match,” said I, comparing the sketch of the footprint in the clearing to that present on the attic floor. “Very close indeed.”
