Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 121, No. 2. Whole No. 738, February 2003

Stately Homes and the Invisible Giant by Arthur Porges

This is not the first time Arthur Porges has provided a delightful parody for the yearly issue in which we join the Baker Street Irregulars, the world’s oldest Sherlockian organization, in honoring history’s most popular detective. On Twelfth Night, the day they assert is Holmes’s birthday, the BSI will hold its annual dinner in New York. Members of the organization claim that Holmes is living in retirement in Sussex, England. Certainly he lives on in the minds of writers and readers.

No one is totally immune to the more subtle effects of ageing. Not even my old friend and — I must say it, although we Sikhs are fiercely independent — patron, Stately Homes (of England).

He was still quite strong and vigorous, despite tending towards long periods of indolence and rarely exercising. His amazing mind, too, was keen as ever, much like the marvelous Analytical Engine of Charles Babbage, which he greatly admired, if a bit less so having learned that the infamous Professor Moriarty had a hand in the inventor’s mathematical logic.

In the case of Homes, what I noted was a significant increase in testiness and impatience. His need for really puzzling crimes got ever stronger; he was no longer content with reflection, and on several occasions, I’m ashamed to admit, I actually hid his violin under our divan. He would search for it rather aimlessly, but then give up, lie back in the armchair, and brood.

So I was relieved, not a typical reaction for me, to hear the clangorous voice of Inspector Briggs Gerard, our old friend from the Yard, expostulating with our invaluable Swedish landlady, Mrs. Hutsut, below stairs. I had no doubt he was bringing Homes another baffling case he himself could not solve.

When he had been escorted in and was seated with a small brandy in hand, the inspector got right to the matter that concerned him.

“When a rich, important man, a public figure, is brutally killed, you wouldn’t believe the kind of pressure we get from the Home Office, gentlemen.” His face dark, he took a sip of the liquor. “We’re near getting to the bottom of the case, but then I thought, ‘This is just the kind of bizarre affair Mr. Homes relishes, so why not do him a sort of favor — for old times, you might say — and give him something to try his theories on.’ Sometimes, I admit,” he added, “they do make a bit of sense out of messy circumstances.”

On hearing this, Homes, to my delight, was instantly transformed. His eyes, which of late had seemed sunken and hooded, sparkled, and his face, so long sober, became greatly animated.

“You heard the man, Sun Wat!” he exulted. “At last a break in the damned dullness of a crime-free London. The game is afoot! Let’s have all the facts, Gerard. Who’s been killed?”

“None other than Sir Nigel Loring, the industrialist, one of the wealthiest men in all England.”

“Ah,” Homes said. “The one they call Loring the Lecher. One very much for the ladies, it’s said.”

“True enough, I’m sorry to say. Very bad for public morality, too.”

“And who inherits all those lovely Consols shares?”

“Wrong turn, Mr. Homes,” Gerard said, not unhappily, I noted. It wasn’t the first time, I thought, that he got some pleasure thinking that my friend might also be baffled, if only briefly. Even an unsolved murder might not be too high a price to pay for that satisfaction, but perhaps I’m too hard on the estimable inspector.

“No, it ain’t that,” the inspector said smugly. “As you may know, his wife died many years ago. Childless; just a few second cousins and such abroad. He left all his money, and even the big house — Elizabethan, they tell me — to the Tottering-on-the-Brink Hunt Club. He doted on the sport.”

“Enough motive to murder right there,” Homes said, his lips twitching. It was good to see him alive again, so to speak. “How was Loring killed?”

“Unusual weapon, you might say. A bronze statue, three feet tall, and very heavy, weighing over eight stone. I’m pretty strong, played a lot of football in my day, yet I could never lift and swing that at a man’s head. The murderer must have been a giant.”

“Statue, eh? Of what?”

“Neptune, I’m told. Taming a seahorse.”

Homes lifted an eyebrow, and a tiny smile touched his mouth.

“Elementary — Robert Browning did it.”

Then, noting our blank stares, he said, “I see you don’t read our best poet. Well, in a recent poem, he refers to just such a figurine, cast in bronze by Claus of Innsbruck.”

“Wrong again,” the inspector said with barely concealed glee. “It was signed on the bottom by a bloke named Jacob Epstein — and he didn’t do it, either; he’s holed-up in France.”

Homes ignored the jibe, saying, “I didn’t think that Young Turk, Epstein, ever did anything as traditional as a Roman God. Last I heard, he was much farther back to Adam, and causing quite a stir.”

“One of my constables, an artsy-craftsy type, did say Epstein is a bit hairy at the heel.”

“Well, as you yourself would say, this isn’t getting us any forrader. Sun Wat, get me the timetable; we shall have to pay a visit to Loring Hall and take a look.”

When Homes had scanned the timetable, he said, “I fancy the one-ten will do us nicely. By the way, Gerard, have you questioned the servants?”

“Only two around,” was the reply. “All the inside people were let off to attend the big Ludlow fair. That left only the gardener’s dogsbody, a slow-witted lad named Rodney Stone, and the gamekeeper, Micah Clarke.”

Here, noting that Gerard’s glass was empty, Homes handed him the carafe, which was accepted with enthusiasm.

“What do you have on motive?” Homes asked him.

“Lummy,” the inspector said. “Half the county would have liked to do Loring in, but especially the lower classes. He was a devil with their young women. That’s why we first closed in on the gamekeeper. He was betrothed to the downstairs maid, Sue Fone, and she ended up, some weeks ago, exiled to a small boardinghouse miles away, carrying Loring’s child, they say. Clarke, naturally, was furious.”

“Then is he under arrest?”

“Unfortunately not. You see, he’s small, almost a dwarf, barely five feet tall. Muscular enough and wiry, but we can’t see him swinging that statue, not just once but repeatedly, as Sir Bernard Spilsbury testifies — and he don’t make any mistakes.”

“Agreed,” Homes said. “Sir Bernard is a great pathologist.”

“Well, there you have it. The assistant gardener was outside all afternoon, and didn’t see any murderous giant go in. Only Clarke, who was in and out several times, to consult with Loring about poachers, he says. No way even to confirm that, since his master was alone, waiting for one of his lady-loves to come by for a little slap-and-tickle later that day, we’re pretty sure.”

“A fine puzzle,” Homes said, rubbing his hands together. “Well, Sun Wat, if you’ll go downstairs and find us a cab, we’ll be off to the station. We can’t do any more without a thorough examination of the scene, and, of course, the bronze figurine, which presents a most intriguing possibility.”

Naturally, I asked for an explanation of that last comment, but just as naturally, as I should have expected and saved my breath, he would say nothing more.

When we got to Loring Hall, a most impressive pile, Homes immediately went to the murder weapon, which was lying as found on the blood-spattered carpet. It, too, was stained. It was a very professional piece of sculpture, but Gerard scoffed that every seahorse he’d seen, always dead and dried on mantels, was tiny, and this one was huge, with great teeth and a flowing mane. Homes told him, with some amusement, that the bronze animal was mythical, unrelated to the little saltwater fishes.

Having made that clear, he stooped, and with obvious effort, strong as he is, righted the figurine and began to examine it with the aid of his magnifying glass.

“Observe the fine detail, gentlemen,” he said. “A master sculpted this, probably by the ‘lost wax’ method.” He then lifted it, frowned, and said, “I agree with you, Inspector. It would take a very powerful man indeed to wield this in a way to cause the fatal wounds.” He was silent briefly, then said, “Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to bring in the gardener. I have some questions to ask him.” Gerard nodded, left, and returned with a tall, thin boy who tugged his forelock at us. He spoke with a very thick Scots brogue, hard to understand although Homes seemed to have no trouble.

“I tell ye again,” the boy said. “Naebody, nae mon, nae bairn went intae tha hoose. Only Clarke, the gamekeeper.”

Further questioning could not shake him, and he was not capable of serious deception, we all realized.

After that, the inspector brought us Micah Clarke. There was nothing stupid about him. Small, very alert, with bright blue eyes, he moved like one of James Fenimore Cooper’s redskins, able to walk on dry leaves, I thought, without making a sound. He spoke slowly, calmly, quietly, with complete assurance. Only when Gerard brought up the matter of Sue Fone did his demeanor suddenly change. His blue eyes became cold and steely, and he said bitterly, “That was an evil act by Sir Nigel; a very evil act, and I cannot mourn his death.” Homes seemed oddly indecisive, as if unwilling to press the man, but finally he asked about Clarke’s repeated visits to the house.

“Sir Nigel was concerned about poachers,” he said, a faint Lancashire accent in his voice. “He kept sending me out for evidence I’d been finding — you know, shell casings and such.”

“The gardener mentioned your carrying packages each time,” Homes said, a question in his words.

“Ah, yes. Well, yes. Those were evidence, the empty shells, some skins where the poachers had taken rabbits. Even grouse feathers.”

Homes gave him a sharp glance, then turned to Gerard and me. “I suggest we three have a conference outside.” Then to Clarke, “Thank you, Micah; you may go, but please stay on the grounds. I may have more questions.” The gamekeeper, his hatchet face expressionless, nodded.

Once we were outside in the garden, Homes looked around, apparently to make sure nobody was in earshot. But there was only the gardener, pruning some shrubs quite far away.

Satisfied, Homes said, his face dark, “What rubbish! I sense a high intelligence and great determination behind this crime, so why such a puerile story about poacher evidence? Poachers leave little or none, and certainly not several big parcels full. Gentlemen, there is a key point here that eludes me. I must have more data. Let’s go back inside. I want to examine the carpet more thoroughly; the killer must have left his traces there.”

In the musty parlor, Homes raised the blinds to let the full afternoon sunlight strike both the carpet and the figurine. He studied the bronze again, using his magnifying glass, then gave a little grunt, but before we could ask about what, if anything, he’d discovered, he dropped to all fours and began to scrutinize the rug, inch by inch. He reminded me, not for the first time, of a blooded hound on the spoor of a wily fox. Then suddenly he froze and delicately picked up something. He looked at it with his magnifying glass, and then arose, handing it to Gerard.

“What do you make of this, Inspector?”

Gerard studied, and smiled. “What do I make of it? Very likely to turn up around a dedicated grouse hunter, Mr. Homes. It’s just a lead shot. Tells us nothing. Only a townie would be puzzled by it,” he added with some malice.

But Homes’s face was oddly bright. “By heaven,” he cried, “all is becoming clear.” He hurried to the bronze, magnifier in hand, scrutinized the back, and taking out his handkerchief, briskly rubbed it. “Aha! As I thought.” He motioned to us, and we hurried to join him. “See that, the round patch about two inches in diameter?”

It was plain to see, but what could it mean? He caught the unspoken question, and smiled. “When I first examined the bronze, it was obvious that it had been cast in two parts. I could detect the seam. But it didn’t occur to me then that the statue was originally hollow, the liquid metal having been poured, as is often done, over a heat-resistant core — firebrick or the like. This murder was devilishly well planned by a man thirsting for revenge.”

He strode towards the sideboard muttering, “I’m sure I saw — ah, here it is,” and returned with a large horn-handled hunting knife. With it, he began to jab strongly at the round patch, which quickly crumbled away to reveal a hole in the bronze. My friend thrust the point of the blade into it, then pulled the knife out to display a lead shot impaled on the tip.

“The final proof!” he exulted. “The clever devil — do you see how it was done?” Then, without waiting for a reply, which might have been slow in coming, since neither the inspector nor I had one, he said, “Clarke, determined to avenge Miss Fone, having noted the figurine, a perfect bludgeon, soon realized there was a way to clear suspicion from himself. How? By making the statue far too heavy for even a very strong man to swing repeatedly. From its heft, he inferred, rightly, that it must be hollow. Convinced of that, he killed Loring with a number of blows, then used a chisel to make a round opening in the back. Making frequent trips, which puzzled Stone but couldn’t be avoided, he brought boxes of lead shot, which any gamekeeper would have in abundance what with all the grouse hunts, into the house, poured them into the figurine — only a few feet from his victim, mind you — and probably tamped them down so that no rattling sound would be heard if anybody moved the bronze, as indeed I did, you’ll recall. After righting the now very heavy figurine, he made a makeshift patch of plaster of Paris or putty, and covered it with dust so that nobody not hunting for it would suspect anything. A brilliant job, I have to say, and one that he almost got away with.”

I was deeply moved by this miracle of close reasoning, a masterpiece of deduction. This man will never age, I thought — how the devil does he do it? — and I combed my black beard with my fingers in a kind of agitation.

As for Inspector Gerard, he seemed dazed. He mumbled something I couldn’t hear, then said almost to himself, “No demmed elusive giant, after all; lummy!” Then, “I must arrest Clarke; it’s the hangman for him.”

“I take no joy in that,” Homes said somberly, “but there can be no excusing cold-blooded murder.”

He gave me a long, strange stare. “Now I’ve a personal mystery to resolve.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“Where the deuce is my violin?”

I had no reply, but could feel myself blushing. And I resolved then and there to suffer his playing with no more childish tricks. After all, there are worse sounds than my friend’s discordant, ear-splitting solos — or are there?

Copyright © 2002 by Arthur Porges.