Victorian Villainy Read Online Free PDF Page A

the professor could be conveyed to the police station.
    It was about four in the afternoon when Sherlock Holmes came banging at my study door. “You’ve heard, of course,” he said, flinging himself into my armchair. “What are we to do?”
    “I’ve heard,” I said. “And what have we to do with it?”
    “That police sergeant, Meeks is his name, has arrested Professor Maples for the murder of his wife.”
    “So I’ve heard.”
    “He conducted no investigation, did not so much as glance at the surroundings, and failed to leave a constable behind to secure the area, so that, as soon as the rain lets up, hordes of the morbidly curious will trample about the cottage and the lawn and destroy whatever evidence there is to be found.”
    “Did he?” I asked. “And how do you know so much about it?”
    “I was there,” Holmes said. At my surprised look, he shook his head. “Oh, no, not at the time of the murder, whenever that was. When the constable came around for the carriage to take Professor Maples away, I happened to be in the stables. The hostler, Biggs is his name, is an expert single-stick fighter, and I’ve been taking lessons from him on occasional mornings when he has the time. So when they returned to the professor’s house, Biggs drove and I sat in the carriage with the constable, who told me all about it.”
    “I imagine he’ll be talking about it for some time,” I commented. “Murders are not exactly common around here.”
    “Just so. Well, I went along thinking I might be of some use to Lucy. After all, her sister had just been murdered.”
    “Thoughtful of you,” I said.
    “Yes. Well, she wouldn’t see me. Wouldn’t see anyone. Just stayed in her room. Can’t blame her, I suppose. So I listened to the sergeant questioning Professor Maples—and a damned poor job he did of it, if I’m any judge—and then went out and looked over the area—the two houses and the space between—to see if I could determine what happened. I also examined Andrea Maples’s body as best I could from the doorway. I was afraid that if I got any closer Sergeant Meeks would notice and chase me away.”
    “And did you determine what happened?”
    “I may have,” Holmes said. “If you’d do me the favor of taking a walk with me, I’d like to show you what I’ve found. I believe I have a good idea of what took place last night—or at least some of the salient details. I’ve worked it out from the traces on the ground and a few details in the cottage that the sergeant didn’t bother with. It seems to me that much more can be done in the investigation of crimes than the police are accustomed to do. But I’d like your opinion. Tell me what you think.”
    I pulled my topcoat on. “Show me,” I said.
    The drizzle was steady and cold, the ground was soggy, and by the time we arrived at the house the body had been removed; all of which reduced the number of curious visitors to two reporters who, having stomped about the cottage but failing to gain admittance to the main house, were huddled in a gig pulled up to the front door, waiting for someone to emerge who could be coaxed into a statement.
    The main house and the cottage both fronted Barleymore Road, but as the road curved around a stand of trees between the two, the path through the property was considerably shorter. It was perhaps thirty yards from the house to the cottage by the path, and perhaps a little more than twice that by the road. I did measure the distance at the time, but I do not recollect the precise numbers.
    We went around to the back of the house and knocked at the pantry door. After a few seconds scrutiny through a side window, we were admitted by the maid.
    “It’s you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, stepping aside to let us in. “Ain’t it horrible? I’ve been waiting by the back door here for the man with the bunting, whose supposed to arrive shortly.”
    “Bunting?”
    “That’s right. The black bunting which we is to hang in the