The Mammoth Book of the New Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes

The Adventure of the Black Owl

Mr Sherlock Holmes was undoubtedly an enthusiast, if a somewhat eccentric one. For some men, the discovery of a rare stamp or a broken fragment of ancient pottery is the occasion for joy approaching almost to ecstasy. For others, such joy comes from the chance discovery of an old, forgotten book, or a rare and dusty bottle of wine. For my friend, Sherlock Holmes, the world’s first consulting detective and a man of the most singular tastes, those things which aroused the greatest enthusiasm in his breast were crime and mystery. It should not be supposed, however, that his interest in such matters was at all sordid or sensationalist. Indeed, those crimes which tend to fill the front pages of the more lurid newspapers were generally among the least interesting to him. Whether the crime had been marked by violence, or had involved any celebrated public figures, these facts were perfectly immaterial to Holmes’s interest. For what he valued most highly was the mystery with which crimes are so often enveloped, and the more impenetrable the mystery, the more my friend’s interest and enthusiasm were aroused.

Fortunately for Holmes’s taste in these matters, he had, at the time of which I am writing, achieved a certain celebrity in the solution of mysteries, criminal and otherwise, and it was thus rarely necessary for him to actively seek out the conundrums which would give his brain the exercise it craved, for any mystery worthy of the name would almost inevitably be brought to his attention sooner or later. Thus it was in the case of the Holly Grove Mystery, a crime which, as readers may recall, shocked the whole of London. One or two of the daily papers had carried a brief report of the matter on the morning following the murder, and a day later they were all full of it, but Holmes, who had been closely engaged in other work, had passed no comment. When I tried to interest him in the matter, he rebuffed my efforts, and it was clear that he did not regard it as likely to offer any opportunity for the exercise of those analytical powers for which he was renowned. His opinion was to change, however, following a visit that evening from our old friend, Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard.

Our supper concluded, the remnants had been cleared away and we had settled to our evening reading, mine a treatise on diseases of the nervous system, Holmes’s a report he had received from Dublin on a case which interested him, when there came a sharp tug at the front-door bell. A moment later, Inspector Gregson was shown into the room.

‘Ah! Gregson!’ said Holmes in an affable tone, as he brought another chair up to the fireside for the policeman. ‘What brings you here this evening, I wonder? Surely not more difficulty with the Kensington forgery case?’

‘No, that was straightforward enough, after you put me on the right track, Mr Holmes. Yes, I will have a whisky and soda, Dr Watson – that is very civil of you. My problem now,’ he continued as I passed him the glass, ‘concerns the Highgate murder. No doubt you have read something of it in the paper, Mr Holmes?’

‘Dr Watson read me a brief account earlier. A shocking business, no doubt, but it did not strike me as possessing any great features of interest.’

‘So I thought, too, when I began my inquiries,’ responded the policeman. ‘However,’ he continued, taking a sip of his drink, ‘it has taken one or two turns in the complicated direction, if you know what I mean.’

‘Oh?’ said Holmes with interest. ‘Perhaps you could describe it to us.’

‘With pleasure. I am very keen to know what you make of it.’

‘Very well, then,’ said Holmes, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. ‘You have my full attention. Begin at the beginning, as if we know nothing of the matter, and omit no detail known to you, however trivial it may seem.’

‘In the first place,’ said Gregson after a moment, ‘you ought to know something of the dead man’s household. It is soon described, for it is not a large one. Professor Humphrey Arbuthnot and his wife, who did not have any children, have lived at the house in Holly Grove, Highgate, for more than twenty-five years and are both fairly advanced in age now. Professor Arbuthnot used to be the most famous medical psychologist in London, but retired from practice about ten years ago, since which time he and his wife have lived a quiet, secluded sort of life. Indeed, the professor, who has been in poor health for some time, had scarcely left the house in the past ten years. The wants of this elderly couple have been few, and their domestic staff has accordingly never amounted to more than a cook and two maids at the most. At the moment, since one of the maids left their employment at the end of July, it is not even that, but amounts to just two, a cook, Mary Cartwick, who has been with them for eight years, and, as general housemaid, a young girl by the name of Ruby Parrish, who came to them about six months ago.

‘The house itself is a substantial, double-fronted one. A short, straight path, of perhaps twenty yards, connects the garden gate to the front door. On the left of the door is the dining-room, and on the right a drawing-room. The garden, which contains some very big trees, and is thus rather shady, continues round the right-hand side of the house. There, towards the back of the house, there is a pair of French windows to the professor’s study. It was in this room that the crime took place, the evening before last.’

‘Were the French windows open at the time?’ queried Holmes, without opening his eyes.

‘Yes, they were, but there was nothing unusual about that. It seems it was the professor’s habit to have the windows open whenever he was working in the study, even in the evening. He was a man who liked fresh air, so I am told, and, being round the side of the house, it was, of course, perfectly private. On the day in question, he had, apart from a short break for lunch, been working in the study all day, and had not left the house.’

‘I see. Pray, continue!’

‘The Arbuthnots did very little entertaining and had not had anyone to dinner for a year or more, but on the evening in question they were expecting two dinner guests. The first of these was an old colleague of Professor Arbuthnot’s, Dr Ludwig Zyss. He now makes his home in Vienna, but is at present visiting London, staying at the Belvedere Hotel on Southampton Row. The second was Professor Arbuthnot’s sister, Lady Boothby, whose late husband, as you may recall, was under-secretary at the foreign office some years ago. Apparently, Lady Boothby rarely goes out these days and it was only because Dr Zyss was to be there that she had agreed to attend the dinner. The history of these two men, Arbuthnot and Zyss, is an interesting one. Some years ago, they had a joint medical practice in Harley Street, which was renowned throughout Europe, so I am told, but they fell out quite badly about a dozen years ago and subsequently went their separate ways, Dr Zyss returning to his native Austria. This did not, however, end the dispute or ill-feeling between them, for although the two men never met again, nor communicated with each other in any way, they pursued their quarrel for several years in the pages of various learned journals, and neither, so I am informed, ever missed an opportunity to vilify the other. Thus the fact that Dr Zyss had an appointment to call upon Professor Arbuthnot on Wednesday evening is somewhat surprising. One can only presume it was an attempt to bury their differences, let bygones be bygones, and so on. That seems to be the general belief. My information is that Dr Zyss, who is about the same age as Professor Arbuthnot, is also not in the best of health, and may not be long for this world, so it may be that he wished to effect a reconciliation with his old colleague before it was too late for such things.’

‘You speak of the information you have concerning Dr Zyss,’ interrupted Holmes. ‘Have you not interviewed the man himself?’

Inspector Gregson shook his head. ‘I shall come to that problem in a moment,’ said he.

‘Very well. Pray proceed!’

‘Dr Zyss was expected to arrive at about quarter to seven. However, a message was received at about half past six, informing them that Dr Zyss would not be able to fulfil the appointment after all. Learning this, Mrs Arbuthnot, who had been sitting reading in the drawing-room for some time, sent a note to her husband’s sister telling her that the dinner party was cancelled, and then went to the study to inform her husband. To her horror, she found him lying dead on the study floor, blood everywhere, and a dagger protruding from his breast.’

‘What a dreadful business!’ I cried.

‘It is, Dr Watson; and such a frail and defenceless old man, too!’

‘Who brought the note concerning Dr Zyss?’ queried Holmes.

‘A messenger of some kind. Mrs Arbuthnot saw him walking up the path holding the note in his hand as she was closing the drawing-room curtains, so she went to the front door to see what he wanted, whereupon he handed her the message. He also took her message to Lady Boothby.’

‘Was any reason given for Dr Zyss’s non-attendance?’

‘No. The note was very brief, she said, and simply stated that he couldn’t come. Mrs Arbuthnot says she assumed that he must be ill; but of course she couldn’t know one way or the other. Anyway, as I say, she went to inform her husband, found him dead, and sent the maid to find the local constable, who is usually somewhere in the vicinity at that time in the evening. It was then about quarter to seven. The maid arrived back with the constable about ten minutes later, and having made a preliminary examination of the scene of the crime, and established that Professor Arbuthnot was definitely dead and that nothing could be done for him, he locked up the room and went to inform the local station of what had happened. They at once communicated with Scotland Yard, and the information was passed to me. I set off as soon as I could, and reached Holly Grove at about half past eight.

‘My first impression when I opened the study door was that there had been a considerable struggle in there. The professor was lying on his back on a rug in the middle of the room. He had been stabbed through the heart with a sharp paper-knife, and had bled freely. All about him was chaos and disorder. A chair and a small table had been knocked over. Books and papers which appeared to have been knocked off the desk were scattered about on the floor. It was clear that, advanced in years though he was, Professor Arbuthnot had not given up his life without a fight.’

‘Such a struggle can hardly have been noiseless,’ observed Holmes, ‘and yet it would appear to have passed unheard; for no one came to see what was happening, and Mrs Arbuthnot only discovered that her husband was dead when she took him the note concerning Dr Zyss.’

‘Yes, that is surprising,’ agreed Gregson; ‘but the house is a very solidly built one, with thick walls, and the cook and the maid were in the kitchen with the door closed, preparing the meal, and no doubt making noise of their own. It is perhaps more surprising that the professor’s wife did not hear anything, but she says she did not. Anyway, after the body had been removed, I examined the whole room carefully, looking for any clue as to what had occurred there. In the course of this examination, I picked up a few pencils and suchlike that had obviously been knocked off the desk, and it was while I was doing this that I encountered something surprising.’

Gregson put his hand in his jacket pocket and produced a small object which he held out for us to see. It was a small black figure of an owl sitting on a bough, about three inches tall. Holmes took it and examined it for a moment, then passed it to me, and I was at once struck by the surprising weight of the little figure.

‘Why,’ I said, ‘it feels as heavy as cast iron!’

‘Lacquered brass, I think,’ said Holmes. ‘It is evidently a paper-weight. What is it you find so surprising about it, Gregson?’

‘Mrs Arbuthnot happened to pass the open doorway of the room just as I was picking it up from the floor,’ responded the policeman, ‘and she asked me what it was.

‘“Does it not belong to your husband?” I returned in surprise. “I assumed it had been knocked off the desk.”

‘She shook her head. “I have never seen it before in my life,” said she.

‘I later showed it to the maid and the cook, and both stated that they had never seen it before.’

‘That is strange,’ said Holmes. ‘Why should anyone bring a paper-weight to the house? I take it that it wasn’t used as a weapon – to strike the professor on the head for instance?’

‘No,’ said Gregson. ‘Apart from the savage wound in the chest, there were no other marks of violence on the body. I had examined his head very carefully, to see if he had been struck there, but he hadn’t.’

‘Did you find anything else of interest in the professor’s study?’ asked Holmes, but the policeman shook his head. ‘Very well. Pray proceed with your account. When was the last time Mrs Arbuthnot saw her husband alive?’

‘About five o’clock. She went into the study to speak to him on some trivial matter, and was there about five or ten minutes. While she was there, the maid brought him in a cup of tea, and informed Mrs Arbuthnot that she had placed a cup for her in the drawing-room. A few minutes later Mrs Arbuthnot left the study for the drawing-room, and did not see her husband again. She says that when he was at work on something, he had an intense dislike of being disturbed. So we can say for certain that the assault took place between about ten past five and half past six, when the messenger from Dr Zyss arrived.’

‘Had anyone else called at the house during that time?’ queried Holmes.

Gregson hesitated. ‘Just one person – and that a rum one, if the maid is to be believed.’

‘Pray be precise,’ said Holmes.

‘Well, the maid says that at about a quarter past six, there was a ring at the front-door bell. She was in the kitchen at the time, helping the cook, but she quickly wiped her hands and hurried to the front door. When she opened it, she says, she saw to her surprise that there was no one waiting on the doorstep; but at the other end of the path, near the gate, stood a woman dressed all in black, who seemed to be just staring at the house. The maid called to her “Yes, madam? Can I help you?” or something of the sort, but the woman did not reply. For a moment, the girl says, the woman just stared with a fixed gaze at the house, then she slowly raised her arm and pointed at it. After a few moments, she turned away and, without a sound, passed through the gate and out into Holly Grove. The maid was frightened, so she shut the door quickly, and ran back to the kitchen to tell the cook what she had seen.’

‘Did the maid recognise the woman?’

The policeman shook his head. ‘She was wearing a heavy black veil, which completely concealed her face. The girl described her as looking, she said, “like a great black bird standing on the path”, and when she raised her hand and pointed with her finger at the house, the girl said it was “like the claw of a bird”.’

‘So, leaving aside the poetic description, she has no idea who it was?’

‘When I put the point to her later in the evening, in the course of my inquiries, she surprised me by saying that she thought she did know.’

‘Oh?’

‘“Yes, sir,” said she, nodding her head vigorously, “I didn’t know then, but I do now. That woman was Death, come to call the master away.”’

‘I see,’ said Holmes in a dry tone. ‘That is an example of what I classify as a non-helpful hypothesis. Did anyone else see this apparition?’

‘No,’ replied Gregson. ‘So, of course, we have only the girl’s word for it. But both the cook and Mrs Arbuthnot had heard the door-bell.’

‘It seems odd that Mrs Arbuthnot saw the man with the note, but not this woman in black,’ observed Holmes.

‘It might have been odd, had she been in the drawing-room at the time; but in fact she wasn’t. After finishing her tea, at about half past five, she had gone upstairs to her bedroom, which is at the back of the house, to change for the evening, and was up there for about forty-five minutes. She says that she heard the door-bell, and supposed that it was Dr Zyss arriving. Of course, when she came downstairs, she saw that there was no one there. She was standing at the drawing-room window, in the act of drawing the curtains – for the light had almost gone, and night was setting in – when the messenger opened the gate and walked up the path, which is why she happened to see him before he rang at the bell.’

‘I see,’ said Holmes. ‘What sort of a lock is on the front door? Is it possible to open it without a key?’

Gregson shook his head. ‘It is a modern sprung lock, which engages every time the door is closed. No one could get in that way without a key.’

‘So we must assume as a working hypothesis that whoever killed Professor Arbuthnot entered his study by the French windows.’

‘So I concluded, Mr Holmes. Unless, of course, he was murdered by his wife, or by one of the two domestic servants. But that is practically unthinkable. Besides, all three of them are small women, and none of them looks powerful enough to have engaged in the struggle which there must have been in the study to disarrange it so much.’

Holmes nodded. ‘Very well,’ said he. ‘Pray proceed with your account!’

‘I interviewed Mrs Arbuthnot, and elicited all the facts I have mentioned, as to her whereabouts and those of her husband at the time of the tragedy, and also confirmed with her that nothing appeared to have been stolen. Then, having concluded, as you say, that the murderer must have gained access to the house by way of the French windows in the study, I made a preliminary examination of the ground outside. The night was a dark one, though, and I couldn’t really see anything, so I instructed the constable to make sure that the ground remained undisturbed until I had had a chance to examine it properly. I then left the house in the care of the constable, and made my way into town, to the Belvedere Hotel, with the intention of interviewing Dr Zyss. My view, you see, was that it seemed something of an odd coincidence that he should have abruptly cancelled his visit to the Arbuthnots’ house on the very day that the professor was murdered. Of course, I realised that there might be nothing in it, but it was a little odd, anyway, so I intended to ask Dr Zyss why exactly he had decided to cancel his visit.

‘It was half past ten by the time I reached the hotel, so I was not very surprised to be informed that Dr Zyss had already retired for the night. The night porter who was on duty told me that he had seen Dr Zyss earlier in the evening, and that he hadn’t looked at all well. He had apparently left the hotel at some time in the afternoon – the porter could not say when, exactly, as he had not been on duty then – and had returned at about seven in the evening, in the company of a lady who was dressed all in black, and who wore a heavy black veil over her face. On entering the hotel, Dr Zyss immediately sat down heavily on a chair by the door. He was breathing in a laboured manner, and appeared, said the porter, as if he could hardly stand without assistance. His companion approached the porter’s desk and asked for the doctor’s room-key, saying that the gentleman felt a little ill, and would not be requiring dinner that evening. The porter asked if she wished a medical man to be called, but she declined the offer, saying that Dr Zyss had simply over-taxed himself during the day, and would probably feel adequately restored after a good night’s rest. The lady then assisted Dr Zyss to his room and, about twenty minutes later, returned to the porter’s desk with the information that Dr Zyss was very tired and did not wish to be disturbed, but that if he had not risen by nine o’clock the following morning, he would appreciate a call then and a cup of tea. After the lady had passed on this message, the porter informed me, she did not leave immediately, but sat for a while near the door, looking out through the glass panel at the street outside, and glancing at the clock from time to time, as if waiting for someone. She was there seven or eight minutes, he says, but then he was called away from his desk for a couple of minutes and when he returned she had gone.

‘I thanked him for this information, wrote a note for Dr Zyss, to say that I should call in the morning, and left it at that. I couldn’t see that there was much else I could do. The following morning, I called round at the hotel at half past nine, but when I enquired for Dr Zyss the porter on duty gave me an odd look and suggested I speak to the manager. I explained my purpose in being there to that gentleman, at which he shook his head.

‘“I’m afraid it will not be possible for you to speak to Dr Zyss,” said he.

‘“Why?” said I. “Has something happened to him?” In truth I feared, from what I had heard of his condition, that he had died in the night.

‘“I can tell you nothing about him,” said the manager, “for he has vanished into thin air.” He explained to me that as Dr Zyss had not come down for breakfast, a cup of tea had been taken to his room as requested, but the chambermaid who took it had found the room empty and its occupant gone. It appeared, said the manager, that Dr Zyss had risen much earlier than usual and left the hotel before breakfast.

‘“Did no one see him go?” I asked.

‘The manager shook his head. “We were very busy for a while this morning,” he said, “dealing with a large party who had arrived in London on the overnight train from Edinburgh. Dr Zyss did not hand in his room-key at the desk, but simply left it in his room, and nor did he pick up the note you had left him, so I suppose he just stepped out without speaking to anybody.”

‘I at once ascended to Dr Zyss’s room. There were numerous heaps of documents and books on a side table, but, apart from that, and the bed, the covers of which had been thrown back, the room was in fairly good order. I decided to get as much information as I could from the hotel staff, and hoped that while I was doing so Dr Zyss would return. What I learnt was that Dr Zyss had been staying at the Belvedere Hotel for six days, during which time he had generally worked in his room in the mornings, and then gone out shortly after lunch and returned about tea-time – that is to say, between about four o’clock and five o’clock. The porter on duty at the desk was my chief source of information. He had seen Dr Zyss go out every afternoon and, except for the previous day, had never known him not to return by five at the latest. He was able to give me a description of the missing man, which I have since circulated to all the police stations in London, so I am very hopeful of finding him somewhere. He is apparently quite a thin man, of medium height, with a trimmed grey beard and thick spectacles. The porter informed me that his eyesight is very poor, as is his hearing. His customary outdoor garb is a grey woollen overcoat, and soft felt hat, also in grey. This description tallies with that given to me by the night porter the previous evening, and as these garments are not in his room, that is certainly what he was wearing when he left the hotel in the morning.

‘The porter had one other interesting thing to tell me and it is this: as well as the previous day being the only one on which Dr Zyss had not returned by the time the day porter went off duty at six o’clock, it was also the only day on which he had received a visitor at the hotel. This struck me as another interesting coincidence and I questioned the porter on the matter.

‘“About eleven o’clock in the morning,” he said, “a lady entered the hotel and asked me to inform Dr Zyss that Mrs Routledge had arrived. I did so, and a few moments later he descended from his room. After a brief exchange by the desk, he ordered a tray of coffee to be brought to the morning-room, to which he escorted the lady. There they sat in conversation for about an hour and a half. The lady then departed, and Dr Zyss returned to his room. He subsequently took lunch at the hotel as usual, but then returned once more to his room, worked there for a further couple of hours, and did not go out until nearly four o’clock, which was much later than his usual habit. That was the last time I saw him.”

‘I asked the porter if he had ever seen this Mrs Routledge at any other time, but he said not. He described her to me as a lady of medium height and late middle age. He said she was well dressed in black, with a veil on her hat, but she lifted her veil as she spoke to Dr Zyss by the porter’s desk, and he said he was confident he would recognise her again.

‘“Did you overhear any of their conversation?” I asked him.

‘“No, sir,” said he.

‘I then had another look in Dr Zyss’s room, to see if I could find a letter from Mrs Routledge. I thought it likely, for it seemed from what the porter had told me that her arrival at the hotel was not unexpected. After ten minutes I found what I was looking for. I have the letter here,’ he continued, pulling a bundle of papers from his pocket. He sifted through the bundle for a moment, then selected one and passed it to Holmes, who studied it for a few moments, then handed it on to me.

It was a plain white sheet. The address at the top was 14 Trenchard Villas, Gospel Oak, the date 19 September, and the message ran as follows:

‘As she wrote the letter on Saturday,’ said Gregson, ‘Dr Zyss no doubt received it on Monday and sent a reply which Mrs Routledge received on Tuesday, naming Wednesday morning as a suitable time for their interview. Of course I had no evidence that this lady had anything to do with Dr Zyss’s mysterious disappearance, far less with the tragic events at Highgate; but in the absence of any real clues, I thought I had better interview her and see what she had to say for herself. I therefore took myself up to Gospel Oak yesterday morning. Unfortunately, the lady was not at home, and the maid who answered the door said that her mistress had gone to visit friends in St Albans and would not be returning until Saturday. Of course, I could have taken the train to St Albans to see her, but I had other things to do, so I decided to postpone the interview until tomorrow.

‘I therefore returned to the Arbuthnots’ house in Holly Grove, where I examined the lawn very carefully, especially that part of it which extends round the side of the house to the French windows of the study. The earth is somewhat damp there, and overhung with trees, so there were several well-preserved footprints. From these it was apparent that my initial surmise that the murderer had entered the study by the French windows was correct. There were very clear footprints crossing the lawn from the garden gate to the French windows, both coming and going. To make sure that these were indeed the footprints of the murderer, and not those of some innocent party who had called earlier, I asked Mrs Arbuthnot if they had had any visitors in the past couple of days. There had been only one, she informed me, that being the professor’s nephew, Lady Boothby’s son, Terence Chalfont, who had called early in the afternoon the previous day.

‘“Did Mr Chalfont walk round the garden to the professor’s study?” I asked, but she shook her head, and said that he had rung the front-door bell and been admitted in the usual way. I asked if Mr Chalfont was a frequent visitor, but again she shook her head.

‘“No,” said she. “He and my husband did not get on very well, and had a severe falling out a couple of months ago, since which time we have hardly seen him here at all. I was the one he had come to see. He did suggest that he went in to speak to my husband, who was working in the study at the time, but I dissuaded him from that. As I mentioned to you, my husband disliked being disturbed when he was working.”

‘“Mr Chalfont’s visit was a purely social call, I take it.”

‘Mrs Arbuthnot hesitated. “Of a sort,” she said at last. I asked her what she meant. “Mr Chalfont is a playwright,” she explained after a moment, “and moves in the world of actors and other such shallow and insubstantial people. He writes plays which are said to be highly artistic, and are put on occasionally at some of the smaller theatres. They are generally praised highly by the critics – most of whom seem to be personal friends of his – but are utterly unremunerative. His visit yesterday was partly to ask if we would care to contribute to the cost of staging his latest play, but I told him we certainly would not.”

‘The lady seemed unusually vehement on the matter, and I asked her why.

‘“Really,” said she in a tone of exasperation. “This is all perfectly irrelevant! If you must know, Inspector, Terence’s latest play, in so far as I understand what he has told me, is to be concerned with the subject of mental illness and the treatment of it.”

‘“Your late husband’s profession, in fact.”

‘“Precisely. Not at all a suitable subject for a theatrical presentation, especially in the hands of a self-indulgent young man like Terence Chalfont.”

‘“Why so?”

‘“Because he is the sort of young man who has always had his own way. Indulged appallingly by his mother – my late husband’s sister – especially since his father died, he now presumes to argue and quarrel about subjects of which he knows nothing at all.”

‘“It was on this subject that he fell out with your husband?”

‘“Yes it was,” said she with great emphasis. “He felt qualified to argue from a position of complete ignorance with the man acknowledged as the greatest psychologist in Europe. It was this that infuriated my husband so.” She paused. “But if you are thinking that Terence Chalfont might have had anything to do with my husband’s death, you are utterly mistaken. He called here at about half past two, stayed barely half an hour, then left, and I did not see him again. He may be a worthless and impertinent young fool, who likes the sound of his own voice too much, but he is certainly not violent. He is too feckless and feeble to have any violence in him!”

‘“Of course,” I said; but I took down Mr Chalfont’s address nonetheless, and made a mental note to go and see him. For it seemed to me possible that, despite Mrs Arbuthnot’s belief to the contrary, he might have returned to Holly Grove later in the afternoon. Knowing that he was not going to get any money from Mrs Arbuthnot, he might have gone directly round the side of the house to catch the professor in his study, and ended up having a violent row with him. Up until that point, I had presumed that the murder was the work of a chance intruder, but the information concerning Mr Chalfont and his fraught relations with his uncle gave me another line of inquiry.

‘Chalfont lives in Hampstead, where he occupies a set of rooms over a baker’s shop in Heath Street. I went there directly from Highgate, but found no one at home. At least, no one answered my knock at the door, although I thought I heard some slight sounds from inside the apartment. There was nothing more I could do there, so I took myself down the road to Belsize Park, where Professor Arbuthnot’s sister, Lady Boothby, has a house. The poor old lady was in a state of the utmost shock and mourning, as you can imagine, and I got no useful information from her. She was aware, of course, that Dr Zyss was visiting London for the first time in ten years, but said she had not seen or heard from him. Nor could she shed any light on her son’s whereabouts, as she had not seen him in the past fortnight.

‘I therefore returned to Scotland Yard, to see if we had had any news of Dr Zyss, but I was disappointed in that enquiry, too. We had had several reports concerning possible sightings of him, from Stepney, Walworth, Finchley, Ealing and another half dozen places, but although I spent several hours following them up, they all turned out to be false leads. This brings me to today.

‘I had left a note at Chalfont’s apartment to say when I should call again, and duly went up there this morning and found him waiting for me. He is about thirty years of age, with a manner which struck me as unduly defensive and argumentative. I questioned him about his recent visit to Holly Grove and he confirmed the account that Mrs Arbuthnot had given me.

‘“You did not see Professor Arbuthnot on Wednesday?” I asked.

‘“No,” said he, “as I’m sure you’re already aware.”

‘“You did not, for instance, walk round the side of the house after you left, to the French windows of the study?”

‘“No.”

‘“Or return to the house later for any reason?”

‘“Certainly not.”

‘“I understand,” I said, “that your latest play is to be about the work of a medical psychologist, which one would imagine would have been of interest to your uncle and his wife, but I gather they were somewhat unenthusiastic. Why was that?”

‘“How would I know?” said he brusquely.

‘“Well, you are the one writing the play, you are the one who has discussed it with them.”

‘“Oh, all right,” said he at last, in a tone of annoyance. “They didn’t like the sound of my play, Inspector, because they realised that it would be more than simply a paean of praise to the wonderful, highly esteemed Professor Arbuthnot!” These last words were spoken in a tone of great sarcasm.

‘“Am I to take it, then, that it is critical of him or his work?”

‘“It just aims to tell the truth, that’s all. Look, Inspector, I fail to see the relevance of any of this, and I don’t see any point in discussing it further.”

‘“You didn’t like your uncle?” I ventured.

‘“Not much, no.”

‘I didn’t get any more of interest from Mr Chalfont, but just as I was leaving, I heard a slight sound from an adjoining room. “Oh, that’s just Martin,” Chalfont said by way of explanation, “an actor friend of mine. I’m putting him up for a few days. He never rises before lunchtime.”

‘I returned to Scotland Yard then. There had still been no word of Dr Zyss, so I sent a message to our colleagues in St Albans, asking them to go to the address at which Mrs Routledge was staying and inform her that I should be calling at her house in Gospel Oak on Saturday. I also asked them to make inquiries about Dr Zyss, in case he was staying in St Albans with her, or had been seen anywhere in the vicinity. They later reported that there was no trace of him there. I seemed to have reached a dead end, and could not think what to do next. Then, about five o’clock, a message reached me from Hampstead which sounded more promising, so I took myself back up there. But if it had already been a puzzling case, with no obvious explanation, this latest information took it almost into the realm of absurdity. It is this that has brought me to see you, Mr Holmes, to see if you can see any chink of light in the business where I cannot.’

‘You intrigue me,’ said Holmes. ‘Pray, what is this latest information?’

‘An elderly woman by the name of Tuttle had been into Hampstead police station earlier and made a statement. A friend of hers, she said, a Miss Cracknell, who was, she said, too shy to come forward herself, had taken tea with her that afternoon. In the course of their conversation, Miss Cracknell had said, “You will never guess who I saw crossing the high street this morning, Minnie! It was one of those old professors! I thought at first it was Professor Arbuthnot, then I realised it was the other one – Dr Zyss – the one with the thick glasses. I haven’t seen either of them for years – I didn’t even know if they were still about – and, in any case, I thought Dr Zyss had moved to Austria or Germany or somewhere like that. Anyway, he didn’t see me, but just seemed to sort of float across the road like a spirit. He had a far-away look on his face, and was staring straight ahead. I called to him, but he didn’t hear me. Then he turned into Church Row and walked on towards the church. Please don’t think me fanciful, Minnie, but there seemed something ethereal, unworldly almost, about him. I couldn’t help but think that he wasn’t long for this world. I was going that way myself, so I followed him along the street. Without pausing, he went into the church, so, on the spur of the moment, I did, too. But I got a terrible shock, I can tell you. Inside the church, there wasn’t a living soul, not one! Dr Zyss had just vanished into thin air!”

‘As Miss Cracknell was recounting her experience, Miss Tuttle was, she says, in a state of shock. “Susannah, have you not heard?” she said at length. “Professor Arbuthnot was murdered on Wednesday night and Dr Zyss has disappeared!”

‘So that was that,’ said Gregson. ‘Miss Tuttle and her friend decided that we should be informed of this sighting, but apart from confirming that Dr Zyss is still in the area, it doesn’t really help us very much. He may have reappeared, but only to vanish once more!’

‘Do you know what connection there was between these two elderly ladies and the two psychologists?’ Holmes asked after a moment.

‘Apparently,’ replied Gregson, ‘both Professor Arbuthnot and Dr Zyss used to give public lectures on their theories at the Hampstead Educational Institute, which were well attended. Some of those who attended became almost like disciples, I understand, and used to help them with practical work, keeping records and so on. Miss Tuttle and Miss Cracknell had been two such disciples, so I am given to understand.’

Holmes nodded. ‘So,’ said he after a moment, as Inspector Gregson leaned back in his chair and sipped his whisky, ‘to sum the matter up: Professor Arbuthnot, a prominent, retired psychologist, has been murdered in his own home, apparently by an intruder, although no such intruder was seen or heard by anyone. Nothing appears to have been stolen, but an unusual little black owl has appeared in the murdered man’s study. An old colleague of Arbuthnot’s, Dr Zyss, was due to call that evening, but sent a note to say that, after all, he could not. This gentleman has subsequently disappeared from his hotel and his whereabouts are unknown. A woman who visited him at his hotel on the morning of the same day has also disappeared – temporarily, you hope. The maid at the murdered man’s house reports that a veiled woman rang the front-door bell on Wednesday evening, but did not respond when addressed, instead turning and walking away, and today a woman reports seeing Dr Zyss in the middle of Hampstead High Street, but he then proceeded to vanish for a second time, even more mysteriously than the first time.’

‘That just about covers the matter,’ said Gregson with a rueful chuckle.

‘And you would like me to look into it for you?’

‘Well, I would very much value your opinion, Mr Holmes – if one can form an opinion about such a confusing business!’

‘Very well,’ said Holmes after a moment. ‘We can do nothing this evening, so what I propose is this: you come round here at nine tomorrow morning and we shall be ready to set forth.’

In the morning, however, it happened that Inspector Gregson was detained elsewhere and could not join us as arranged. Shortly before nine we received a message from him containing a signed authority for us to view the body of the murdered man, which was at the police station on Kentish Town Road, and to make any enquiries we saw fit, and also a note of the time he intended to interview Mrs Routledge at her house in Gospel Oak, when he hoped, he said, that we would be able to meet up and share our conclusions. It was a chilly morning and I warmed myself before the fire as I glanced over the morning papers.

‘Any fresh news of the matter?’ asked Holmes as he stood up from his desk, where he had been studying a map.

I shook my head. ‘It remains as puzzling as ever. How do you intend to proceed?’ I asked as my friend put on his hat and coat.

‘I have been considering the matter from a geographical point of view, Watson,’ he replied. He took an envelope from his desk and held it up. ‘If we say that this envelope represents roughly the extent of Hampstead Heath, Parliament Hill and so on, then here, at the bottom right-hand corner, is the police station in Kentish Town Road where the professor’s body lies; here at the top right-hand corner is Highgate itself, scene of Wednesday’s tragedy. The top of the envelope represents the long road across the north side of the Heath, from Highgate to Hampstead, which lies here, at the top left-hand corner. In Hampstead is the home of the Arbuthnots’ nephew, Mr Terence Chalfont, who visited their house on Wednesday afternoon. It is also the place where Miss Cracknell saw Dr Zyss, as he floated in a spiritual manner across the street, before disappearing once more. Down here,’ he continued, running his finger down the side of the envelope to the bottom left-hand corner, ‘is Belsize Park, the home of Lady Boothby, sister of Professor Arbuthnot, and here, in the middle of the bottom edge, is Gospel Oak, home of the mysterious Mrs Routledge. That is, approximately, the route I propose to take. Are you free for a few hours?’

‘Certainly. I am at your disposal.’

‘Excellent! I have booked a four-wheeler for the day, so we shall not be short of transport. Ah! Here it is now!’ he continued, as there came a peal at the bell.

In a minute we were in the cab and rattling through the busy streets of north London. Twenty minutes later, we alighted at the police station, where the duty sergeant conducted us to a back room in which the professor’s body was lying. In the left breast was a sharply edged puncture wound, and it was evident from a brief examination that the weapon had penetrated the ribs and entered the heart. For a few moments Holmes examined the body carefully, then he turned his attention to the bundle of clothes on a side table nearby, holding up the jacket and waistcoat of a greenish-brown tweed suit, and examining them closely with the aid of his magnifying lens. Something on the jacket seemed to particularly arrest his attention. In answer to my query he indicated a slit in the lining.

‘Made by the knife that killed him, no doubt,’ I remarked, but Holmes shook his head.

‘No,’ said he. ‘This little cut was made separately, which is what makes it so interesting.’ He replaced the clothes and took up a pair of brown shoes which lay beside them.

‘May I borrow these?’ he asked the sergeant. ‘I wish to compare them with the footprints in the garden of the professor’s house.’

‘By all means,’ replied the other. ‘We have no immediate use for them. If you will just sign for them, you may keep them for forty-eight hours.’

We returned to our cab and began the long ascent up the steep hill to Highgate village, perched on top of the ridge overlooking north London. Holmes had said nothing as we left the police station, but there was a thoughtful look upon his features, as if he were turning the matter over in his mind. Although I attempted to discuss the case further, however, my friend would not be drawn. Presently, at the summit of the hill, we alighted in a short, pleasant tree-lined road, which a sign identified as Holly Grove. A police constable stood on duty beside a green-painted wooden gate, but admitted us without demur on being shown Inspector Gregson’s letter of authority. On either side of the gate were large trees, the branches of which met overhead, forming a shady arch. Within the garden a straight paved path led to the front door of the house, as Gregson had described. To the left of this lay a narrow strip of grass, a flower-bed and a tall hedge, and to the right, a larger expanse of lawn which passed out of view round the side of the house. Beyond this lawn was another tall, dense hedge.

Our ring at the bell was answered by a young maid, who showed us into a drawing-room. A moment later we were joined by the lady of the house. She was dressed in black, and her features were drawn and showed evidence of the tragedy which had so recently come upon the household. In answer to our questions, she described to us the events of Wednesday evening, much as we had already heard them from Gregson.

‘You say you heard the door-bell ring while you were upstairs in your bedroom,’ said Holmes. ‘Did it surprise you, then, when you descended, to find that there was no one here?’

Mrs Arbuthnot hesitated a moment, as if struggling to remember.

‘I suppose it did,’ she said at last; ‘but then I thought it was perhaps someone collecting for some charitable cause or other and I thought I would ask Ruby about it later.’

‘And shortly after that you saw the man approaching the door with a note in his hand?’

‘Yes. Just as I was drawing the curtains.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘Not really. I mean, he was rather nondescript. About thirty years of age, I suppose, with a black moustache. I really can’t remember anything else about him.’

‘And then, when you took the note to show your husband in the study, you found him dead, stabbed?’

‘That is correct.’

‘May we see the study?’

‘By all means. But you must excuse me. I do not wish to enter that room. I will wait in here to answer any further questions you may have.’

The study was situated immediately behind the drawing-room. A large desk, covered with papers, stood in the centre of the room and in front of it was a small rug, its pattern obscured by an irregular dark stain, which I needed only the briefest of glances to identify as blood. In the wall opposite the door was a pair of French windows, through which I could see the shady garden.

‘So,’ said Sherlock Holmes, as he prowled about the room, his keen eyes darting here and there to take in every detail of the scene of the tragedy, ‘the professor is seated behind his desk, working at his papers; someone enters through the French windows; the professor stands up, comes round to this side of the desk, either to talk to or to confront the intruder. Hum! Let us take a look outside!’

He opened the French windows and stepped out, and I watched from the study as he began slowly circling round on the lawn. After a few minutes, he dropped to his knees and examined closely some mark upon the lawn.

‘Would you be so good as to bring me the shoes, Watson?’ he called without looking up. ‘Make sure you keep well to the side!’

I unwrapped the parcel and took him the shoes. He turned them over and studied the undersides for a moment, then returned his gaze to the ground. Then he shook his head.

‘They do not match,’ said he. ‘These prints are therefore those of another man.’ He took a handkerchief from his pocket and placed it on the ground by the footprint, then continued his examination. After a few moments he dropped to his knees again. ‘A very clear print here, in this small muddy patch,’ he murmured. ‘Same as the first one. It seems – ah, yes! – this person is turning back in, towards the house wall. Here is another – and another! But wait! Here are some other prints, quite different from those! Let us see!’ He looked again at the shoes he was carrying, then back again at the ground. ‘It is a perfect match!’

‘So the professor was out in the garden, as well as the other man,’ I observed.

‘So it would appear,’ returned Holmes. ‘Of course, there is nothing remarkable about a man taking a walk round his own garden. And we cannot yet say whether the two men were in the garden at the same time or not. Let us cast our net further afield!’

‘Is it of any significance when the professor was in the garden?’ I enquired, as Holmes moved slowly away, his keen, hawk-like eyes fixed upon the ground at his feet.

‘It might be,’ he answered without looking up. ‘If the two men walked about together, it would of course suggest that they knew each other and had been strolling about whilst in conversation.’

My companion then fell silent once more as he continued his examination of the lawn. In a few minutes he had covered the whole extent of it, and reached the garden gate. There he stood for a while, his chin in his hand, evidently pondering his findings, before making his way back to where I stood, near the corner of the house.

‘If the two of them had been walking together,’ he remarked, ‘one would expect the two sets of prints to be closely aligned; but they are not. It is true that they come together in one or two places, but that is evidently mere chance, for where they cross, they are going in opposite directions. In every case where the two sets of prints intersect, those of the other shoes are overlaid upon those of the shoes we have here and were therefore made later.’

‘It appears, then,’ I said, ‘that the professor simply took a walk earlier in the day and the other man arrived later. You therefore cannot tell from the prints whether the other man was someone known to the professor or not. From that point of view the prints are of no use to you.’

Holmes chuckled. ‘The fact that one set of prints was certainly made later than the other is not the only discovery I have made,’ said he. ‘Footprints can tell you a great deal, if you read them carefully, Watson! I have, as you know, written a short monograph on the subject. But come!’ he continued, as I made to ask him more. ‘I shall make a quick sketch of one of the prints made by the other shoes for future identification and we can then return to the house.’

In the study, Holmes resumed his close examination of the room. After a few minutes, he paused before a framed photograph, which was hanging on the wall behind the desk. In it, a group of perhaps fifteen or sixteen people were standing on the steps of what appeared to be a college of some kind. Most of them were men, almost all of whom were bearded and bespectacled, and staring at the camera with such an intensity that they appeared like nothing so much as a row of owls sitting on a perch. After a moment, Holmes unhooked the photograph from the wall and, indicating that I should follow him, led the way through to the drawing-room.

‘That photograph was taken about twenty-five years ago,’ said Mrs Arbuthnot, in answer to Holmes’s query. ‘A conference was held in Oxford, at Montgomery College, and people came from all over Europe to contribute to the discussions. It was a great success.’

‘Is your late husband in the picture?’ asked Holmes.

‘Yes. That is he, there,’ she answered, indicating the end figure of the front row of intense-looking, bearded men.

‘And Dr Zyss?’

‘Two to the left of my husband, the man with the spectacles.’

‘And this woman, standing at the side?’

‘Yes, that is me. Of course, I was much younger then. I dare say I have changed rather a lot. Sometimes it seems to me that women age less well than men.’

‘Not at all, madam,’ responded Holmes suavely. ‘And this other woman: could that be Mrs Routledge?’

‘Mrs Routledge?’ repeated Mrs Arbuthnot sharply. ‘Certainly not! Whatever made you think such a thing? Why should Mrs Routledge be there?’

‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Arbuthnot. I have evidently spoken in error. I had heard the name of Mrs Routledge in connection with your husband or Dr Zyss and assumed, perhaps incorrectly, that she was a professional colleague of his. If I have made a mistake, I apologise.’

‘You certainly have made a mistake!’ said Mrs Arbuthnot with feeling. ‘Mrs Routledge was the mother of one of my husband’s patients and nothing, if I may say so, but a troublemaker. Her own husband had died, she had brought up her son alone and was devoted to him. I say “devoted”, but “over-devoted” would perhaps be more accurate. That, in my husband’s opinion, was the source of the young man’s troubles, but, of course, the mother would not hear of it. My husband had been treating him for some time, on the recommendation of their own family physician, when unfortunately, and to everyone’s great surprise, the young man took his own life. The mother, Mrs Routledge, was naturally terribly distraught, which was understandable; but after a few days she began to lay the blame for what had happened on my husband and Dr Zyss. She accused them of putting strange ideas into his head, which was quite untrue and a wicked thing to say. At first my husband excused these accusations as the reaction of a sorrowful, bereaved mother and did not respond; but after a time her lies began to affect his professional standing and he could no longer simply ignore them. He therefore applied for a court injunction to prevent her from spreading these malicious and unsubstantiated falsehoods. The case was won and Mrs Routledge was thenceforth restrained, but serious damage had already been done to my husband’s reputation, and it took some time for the practice to recover. That was about a dozen years ago.’

‘Was it not also about that time that Dr Zyss returned to Vienna?’

‘Yes, approximately.’

‘Was there any connection between the Routledge case and Dr Zyss’s decision to leave?’

‘No. He had been considering for some time returning to Vienna, to set up his own practice there. He and my husband had had various professional disagreements – I will not bore you with the details – and for that reason, also, decided to go their separate ways.’

Holmes nodded. ‘I see,’ said he. ‘I understand that although retired from active practice, your husband continued to write and publish in the professional journals.’

‘That is correct. My husband’s work was his life’s passion and nothing could have kept him from it.’

‘What was the subject of his latest work?’

‘I cannot see the relevance of the question, but, as you ask, it concerned the treatment of those suffering from a depressive illness, young people especially.’

We returned to the study then and, after hanging the photograph back up, Holmes continued his general examination of the room. After a while he looked up from where he was examining something by the fireplace, a thoughtful expression on his face.

‘I don’t think there is much more we can learn from this room,’ said he, ‘but while I finish off here, Watson, perhaps you could ask Mrs Arbuthnot about Terence Chalfont’s visit on Wednesday, if you wouldn’t mind?’

‘Not at all.’

Mrs Arbuthnot was still seated in the same position as I had last seen her, staring into the hearth. I put the questions to her that Holmes had suggested and she shook her head with a sigh.

‘As I have already told Inspector Gregson,’ she replied, ‘Mr Chalfont called at about half past two in the afternoon, stayed about half an hour and then left. His reason for calling was purely social, a family matter, and can have nothing to do with what has occurred.’

‘Was he a frequent visitor to your house?’

‘No, he was not. My husband did not encourage visitors.’

‘When was the last time he called?

‘I’m not sure. About three weeks ago. What does it matter?’

I could not think what else to ask, but at that moment, Holmes put his head in at the door and announced that he had finished in the study. ‘Do not trouble to ring for the servant, madam,’ said he. ‘We shall let ourselves out and bother you no longer. Good day!’

‘She did not really add anything to what we had already heard about Chalfont’s visit,’ I remarked, as our cab set off in the direction of Hampstead.

‘That is no more than I had expected,’ returned my companion, then fell into a profound silence. ‘No doubt you observed, Watson,’ he said at last, breaking his silence as we rattled along the road across the north side of the heath, ‘that some of Professor Arbuthnot’s papers are missing. Most of the sheets are dated, but there are none dated more recently than about three weeks ago, and none which appear to relate to his most recent work, as his wife described it to us. It is evident, however, that some sheets have been burnt in the fire, for there are several charred corners of paper lying in the hearth.’

I shook my head. ‘What does it mean?’ I asked.

‘It means, Watson, that what has not been burnt has been taken.’

‘But why? Could that be the motive for the crime?’

‘Ah! That is what we must discover!’

We alighted from the cab in the centre of Hampstead and soon found the front door to Chalfont’s apartment, at the side of a bakery in Heath Street. Our knock at the door was answered by Chalfont himself, a thin, pale, clean-shaven young man. He appeared none too pleased to see us, but agreed, in a reluctant fashion, to answer our questions.

‘I have already told the policeman everything I know about my uncle’s death,’ he said, as he led the way up a steep flight of stairs to his apartment. ‘As I said to him, it amounts to precisely nothing.’

As he was showing us into a small sitting-room at the top of the stairs, there came some slight noise from beyond a closed door at the side of the room.

‘That will just be my lodger leaving,’ he remarked in an off-hand tone, as we looked in that direction.

‘I was not aware there was another way out,’ said Holmes.

‘Only by the window,’ replied Chalfont in a matter of fact voice. ‘Martin often leaves in that way. He owes a little money to various people, which is why I’m putting him up here at the moment. He probably heard you coming and thought you were debt collectors. Now, please ask your questions and let’s get it over with.’

‘You called upon the Arbuthnots on Wednesday afternoon, at about half past two, but did not stay long and did not see the professor,’ said Holmes.

‘That is correct. If you know all this, why are you asking me?’

‘You didn’t call again later, for any reason?’

‘No.’

‘Mrs Arbuthnot says that you are not a very frequent visitor these days.’

‘That is true. What of it?’

‘I understand that you were hoping that they would make a financial contribution to the production costs of your latest play. Was that your main reason for calling?’

‘That came into it,’ Chalfont responded after a moment. ‘After all, people do sometimes contribute to worthy things that are of interest to them. At least, they used to. It’s become harder lately to raise the money you need. People are getting meaner. As for the Arbuthnots: trying to get money out of them was like trying to get blood out of a stone. I’d thought that the new play might be of interest to them, considering that it’s all about the professor’s line of business. You would have thought they’d have welcomed a little free advertising for his racket. But they weren’t interested.’

‘You had spoken to them before about it?’

‘Yes, two or three weeks ago.’

‘Forgive me for pursuing the point, Mr Chalfont,’ said Holmes after a moment, ‘but I am interested in this play of yours. I have the impression that you intend it to be somewhat critical of what you describe as “the professor’s line of business”. If that is so, why would you expect Professor Arbuthnot or his wife to contribute to its production?’

Chalfont did not reply at once. He sat down heavily in an armchair and, by a wave of his arm, indicated that we should do the same. ‘Because,’ he replied at length, ‘I was being dishonest. I make a big show of detesting dishonesty in others, but there was I, being just as dishonest as anyone else. When I first told them of the play, I tried to make out that it would simply be about the difficulties involved in that line of work, but as we discussed it, my own opinions inevitably came out, even though I tried to keep them to myself, and the professor and I ended up having a blazing row. That was three weeks ago. My visit on Wednesday was to try and smooth things over a bit, and tell them that they might have gained a misleading impression of the play. But that, too, was dishonest.’

‘In reality, then, you had always intended it to be critical of the professor’s work?’

‘Yes,’ he replied after a long moment of reflection.

‘You have studied your uncle’s work closely?’

‘Closely enough. Listen, Mr Holmes, when I was a boy, old Arbuthnot often used to call at our house and make personal remarks about me to my mother, sometimes when he thought I couldn’t hear what he was saying, and sometimes even in my presence, as if I was of no account compared to his almighty opinions. Grossly offensive, I call that, and damned impertinent!’

‘I see,’ said Holmes after a moment. ‘Is your new play based on your own experiences, then, or on a specific case?’

‘Neither precisely,’ replied Chalfont in a cautious tone. ‘I didn’t want to embarrass anybody or get into trouble by following a real case too closely. So it’s a blend of incidents and themes from several different cases I’ve read about, with some of my own experiences thrown in for good measure.’

‘And how, if I may ask, does it end up? Which character in your play comes out better?’

‘I really don’t see what your interest is, but as it happens, the issue is not so simple as that. The patient deteriorates, but I leave it ambiguous as to whether this is the psychologist’s fault, or whether the young man would have got worse anyway. At least, I think I leave it ambiguous; I am at present rewriting the final scenes. I am conscious that I lack some telling incident, some crucial detail which will make the point I wish to make in an unequivocal way.’

‘Are you acquainted with Mrs Routledge?’

‘No I am not. I’ve never heard of her. Who is she, anyway?’

‘No matter. Do you know anything of a black owl?’

Chalfont’s features expressed puzzlement and he shook his head. ‘I thought most owls were brown,’ he said.

Holmes glanced at his watch as we boarded our cab once more. ‘We are running a little late now,’ said he. ‘I think we should postpone our visit to Professor Arbuthnot’s sister and get along to our meeting with Inspector Gregson at Gospel Oak.’

My companion fell silent then, as our cab rattled down Rosslyn Hill and along the south side of the heath towards Gospel Oak. As our cab turned into Trenchard Villas, however, he turned to me with an odd smile on his face.

‘That last interview took somewhat longer than I had expected,’ said he, ‘but I think it was worthwhile. Chalfont was lying, of course. It is inconceivable that he has researched the subject of psychic illness for his proposed new play, a subject upon which his own uncle has been one of the leading writers for many years, and has not encountered the Routledge case, a case which, from what we have heard, caused quite a disturbance in that field ten years ago.’

‘The same thought had struck me,’ I returned. ‘It certainly sounds as if there are similarities between Chalfont’s play and the Routledge case. But if he does know Mrs Routledge, why should he deny it?’

Holmes shook his head. ‘It is proving a more interesting case than at first seemed likely,’ he remarked. ‘I hope that Gregson has—ah, yes! There he is!’

A four-wheeler was standing at the side of the road and, as we approached, a man in a bowler hat clambered out.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen!’ said Gregson as we alighted on the pavement. ‘This is the place,’ he continued, indicating a neat gabled villa, set back behind a small front garden. ‘I thought I would wait for you, Mr Holmes, so that we could conduct the interview together.’

We were shown by a maid into a tastefully decorated parlour and a moment later Mrs Routledge entered. She was a neatly dressed woman of medium height, with faded sandy hair tied back in a bun. Gregson introduced us and explained the nature of his investigation, at which Mrs Routledge shook her head.

‘Of course I have heard what has happened,’ said she. ‘It is a shocking business that Professor Arbuthnot should be murdered, but I don’t see how I can help you in the matter.’

‘You called upon Dr Zyss at the Belvedere Hotel on Wednesday morning?’

‘I did, but I fail to see what that has to do with anything.’

‘Dr Zyss and Professor Arbuthnot were old colleagues.’

‘Yes, of course I am aware of that.’

‘Dr Zyss has disappeared. He is nowhere to be found.’

I observed her face closely, but she remained composed and it was difficult to tell whether this information was news to her or not.

‘How very strange,’ she remarked after a moment in a quiet voice.

‘You will appreciate, then, madam,’ said Gregson, ‘that your visit to Dr Zyss is not quite so unimportant as you suggest.’

‘I don’t see how my visit has any bearing on the matter,’ Mrs Routledge responded in a dismissive tone. ‘I can understand that you would wish to interview everyone who has seen Dr Zyss recently, if he has, as you say, disappeared. But I only saw him for an hour or so, quite early in the day, and he seemed perfectly normal then, I can assure you.’

‘You have not seen him since that meeting – on Wednesday evening, for instance?’

‘No.’

‘Did you also see Professor Arbuthnot on Wednesday?’

‘No.’

‘You did not go up to his house?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘But you know where it is?’

‘Yes, it is in Highgate. I have been there once or twice, but not for many years.’

‘What did you do when you left the Belvedere Hotel?’

‘I took lunch at a restaurant in Holborn, did a little shopping there, then walked over to the British Museum where I spent a pleasant couple of hours in the company of the Egyptian antiquities. I then took a cab to St Pancras station, from where I caught a train to St Albans, to visit my friend, as I had previously arranged.’

‘What time did you arrive at St Albans?’

‘Just before six o’clock, which was the time my friend was expecting me. She lives only a short walk from the railway station.’

‘What was your purpose in visiting Dr Zyss?’ interjected Holmes.

‘A purely private matter.’

‘Concerned with your son?’

For a moment, Mrs Routledge appeared surprised and discomfited, but in a moment she had recovered her composure. ‘I repeat,’ she said, ‘that my conversation with Dr Zyss was private. I am not prepared to discuss it further.’

‘Come, come, Mrs Routledge,’ said Holmes in a voice that was quiet but firm. ‘Your refusal to speak serves no purpose. We are aware of the tragic history of your son, and aware that you blamed Dr Zyss and Professor Arbuthnot for what happened.’

‘If you know so much, then why ask me about it?’ responded Mrs Routledge sharply.

‘We simply wish to confirm the details of your visit to Dr Zyss on Wednesday.’

‘Very well. Yes, I discussed the case of Nicholas with him.’

‘Could anything in the conversation have caused Dr Zyss to alter or cancel his own arrangements for later in the day?’

‘I should not have thought so. We were largely discussing the past.’

It was evident that we should get little further information from Mrs Routledge and a few moments later we rose to take our leave. At the doorway, however, Holmes spoke a few words to Gregson, who turned once more to Mrs Routledge, taking from his pocket as he did so the little black owl.

‘Have you seen this object before?’ the policeman asked her.

For a moment she hesitated and a variety of emotions passed in rapid succession across her face. ‘No,’ said she at last. ‘I have never seen it before.’

Outside, on the pavement, Inspector Gregson shook his head, as he pushed the little brass owl back in his pocket.

‘She’s lying,’ he said. ‘Your guess was right, Mr Holmes. She certainly has seen this owl before, or my name is not Tobias Gregson! What it means, I don’t know, but she is definitely implicated in the murder!’

‘Not necessarily,’ returned Holmes, as the three of us climbed into our cab. ‘The fact that she has seen the owl before scarcely proves she is a party to murder.’

‘But why, then, does she lie about it? You could see the guilt written all over her face. And I’ll tell you another thing: her account of her afternoon is not satisfactory. Two hours at the British Museum! I don’t believe it!’

‘Such recreation is not unknown,’ remarked Holmes with a chuckle.

‘Perhaps not,’ Gregson conceded, although he still sounded unconvinced; ‘but that’s not all that is suspicious about her afternoon. The railway line from St Pancras to St Albans passes right through this part of north London, not far from Gospel Oak, and, more significantly, not far from Highgate. She could easily have left the train at an intermediate station and walked up to the Arbuthnots’ house at Highgate, afterwards returning the same way and continuing her journey to St Albans.’

Holmes nodded his head. ‘Yes,’ said he; ‘the geographical possibilities were not lost upon me, Gregson. What you suggest would certainly have been possible.’

‘Aha!’ cried the policeman. ‘So you, too, suspect Mrs Routledge of having a hand in this affair?’

Holmes shook his head. ‘I did not say that,’ he returned, and would not be drawn further on the matter.

‘It’s a rum business, all right!’ said Gregson to me as our cab rattled its way westwards, towards Belsize Park. ‘I’ve seen plenty of men knifed – more than I’d care to count – but, between you and me, Dr Watson, the victims were very often no better than the villains that did for them. This, though, is the sort of case that just makes you scratch your head,’ he continued, taking off his hat and suiting the action to the word. ‘Why would anyone want to murder a harmless old retired professor? Have you formed any opinion?’

I shook my head. ‘I feel as much in the dark as you,’ I said. ‘It seems like nothing more than insane brutality.’

Our cab set us down before a large stucco-fronted house, in a side-road off Haverstock Hill. Our ring at the bell produced no immediate response and Gregson turned to us as he gave it a second sharp tug.

‘Lady Boothby’s servants are a little hard of hearing,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Between you and me, they are somewhat on the aged side. Most of them have been with her for around thirty years.’

The front door was eventually opened by an elderly maidservant, who showed us into a drawing-room on the left of the hall. There came the sound of footsteps overhead, then, after a few moments, the maid returned and conducted us to a room at the rear of the house. There, in a high-backed armchair drawn close to the fire, Lady Boothby was seated. She apologised for receiving us in the dining-room.

‘The fire is better in here,’ she explained, ‘and at my age I feel the cold rather badly. Do take a seat,’ she continued, indicating the chairs at the table. ‘Now, Inspector, what can I do for you? I was under the impression that I had answered all possible questions on your previous visit.’

‘There are one or two points we wished to clear up,’ Holmes interjected. ‘In the first place,’ he continued, as she turned to him with a look of curiosity on her face, ‘I should be obliged if you could tell us what you know of Mrs Routledge, the mother of a former patient of your brother’s.’

Lady Boothby’s features assumed an expression of distaste.

‘A wretched woman!’ she responded after a moment. ‘Her son was the subject of odd delusions and was being treated by my brother – quite brilliantly, I might add – when he unfortunately took his own life. His mother instantly put it about that my brother was to blame, quite overlooking the fact that the treatment he had been giving the boy had been his only hope of leading a normal life. When that woman’s slanderous lies began to reach a wider audience, my brother was obliged to take legal action to restrain her. She was duly bound over to keep the peace and we heard no more of her lies.’

‘You followed your brother’s work very closely, I take it,’ remarked Holmes.

‘Indeed, and always admired it greatly. It was work of genius, from a man of genius. One day my brother’s name will be honoured as one of the greatest figures – perhaps the very greatest – in the history of this unappreciative country!’

‘And Dr Zyss? Is he also a man of genius?’

‘Certainly not! Ludwig Zyss was always a mere follower of the insights of others. He achieved a certain celebrity by his association with my brother; but since their partnership was dissolved he has quite faded into obscurity.’

‘Does he not practise in Vienna?’

‘I believe he does – in an obscure sort of way and with many wrong-headed ideas.’

‘His ideas were not quite the same as those of your brother, then? Did the breach in their partnership come about because of these differences of opinion?’

‘Partly, yes – and in every case Dr Zyss was wrong, and Humphrey was right.’

‘Did they disagree in the case of Nicholas Routledge?’

‘I cannot discuss individual cases with you. It would not be proper to do so.’

‘But you could perhaps tell us whether they disagreed on the matter.’

‘Very well. Yes, they did disagree on the matter, very strongly. It was this disagreement which precipitated the rift between them; but the rift would have occurred eventually in any case, as the disparity between their respective talents became more apparent.’

‘What will become of Professor Arbuthnot’s papers now?’

‘They will be collected and edited by his wife and myself, and published as soon as possible. The world must not be denied the opportunity to behold the fruits of my brother’s genius.’

‘Had your brother been working on anything in particular recently?’

‘Yes. He has never ceased to push back the boundaries of human knowledge. His most recent work had been on certain species of mental illness to which young men in particular are prone, and the best treatment thereof.’

Holmes asked Gregson for the little black owl, which he held out for Lady Boothby’s inspection. ‘Have you ever seen this before?’ he asked, at which she shook her head. ‘It did not belong to your brother, perhaps?’

‘Certainly not. Is it brass? It looks to me like a paper-weight. I seem to remember reading somewhere that Charles Dickens had something of the sort on his desk, whilst writing his novels.’

A few minutes later, our interview concluded, Holmes, Gregson and I stood by the cab at the pavement edge.

‘The old professor certainly seems to have inspired an uncommon degree of loyalty and admiration in his womenfolk,’ remarked Gregson in a low tone. ‘I would like to think that Mrs G would speak in similar tones of me, if I was no longer here, but somehow I doubt it. Still, that’s neither here nor there – which is pretty much where we are in this case, it seems to me: neither here nor there! Between us we’ve spent several days plodding round the place, but have blessed little to show for it!’

‘Come, come!’ said Holmes. ‘We have learnt a great deal!’

‘Have we?’ asked Gregson in a dubious tone. ‘I can’t say that I have, Mr Holmes. We have an elderly, retired professor murdered in his study; a wife and sister who both think he was wonderful; an old colleague of the professor’s who seems to have disappeared; a woman – the mother of a former patient of the professor’s – who probably holds a grudge against him; a nephew who is writing a play which may or may not be based on one of the professor’s cases. It doesn’t seem to amount to much to me! What do we actually know? The only thing I feel really confident about is that Mrs Routledge lied to me about that blessed owl – and what the devil that might mean, I have no idea!’

‘Being lied to is an inherent hazard of our profession,’ returned Holmes with a dry chuckle. ‘If it is any consolation to you, Gregson, I can tell you that every single person I have interviewed today has lied to me about something. Of that I am certain!’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Gregson, shaking his head, ‘but that doesn’t help me much. What can I put in my report, to show to my superiors? Who murdered Professor Arbuthnot and why? Where is Dr Zyss? And what the blazes is the significance of that brass owl?’

Holmes chuckled. ‘I think I can answer some of your questions,’ he said. ‘As for what you can tell your superiors,’ he continued; ‘would the address at which the murderer is to be found be of any use?’ He took out a little note-book from his pocket and scribbled a few words on a sheet, which he tore off and passed to the policeman. ‘In my opinion, that is where you will find the murderer,’ he remarked as he put the note-book back in his pocket.

‘What!’ cried the policeman, as he read the note. ‘Eight, Belsize Park Crescent! But that is Lady Boothby’s house, where we have just been! This is not the time for jokes, Mr Holmes!’

‘I quite agree, Gregson. Look,’ he added, as a uniformed policeman appeared round the corner from Haverstock Hill, ‘here is the local constable! I suggest you enlist his aid, re-enter Lady Boothby’s house and make your arrest!’

‘But this is madness!’ persisted Gregson. ‘I cannot possibly do as you say! I should make myself a figure of ridicule and lay myself open to legal action!’

‘Very well, then,’ said Holmes, in a measured tone. ‘I shall accompany you and take upon myself all responsibility for the business. If I do anything legally improper, you have my permission to arrest me instead!’

After a moment, Gregson agreed to this, but his features expressed the doubts he evidently still entertained about the proposal. He crossed the road and intercepted the constable, who was passing by on the other side.

‘You do not object to forming the audience for our expedition, Watson, do you?’ Holmes asked me, as I watched Inspector Gregson speaking to the constable.

‘Not at all,’ I returned. ‘I am curious to see what you have in mind. I confess I have no idea at the moment what it is.’

Gregson returned with the constable, introduced to us as PC Harper of the Hampstead Division, and a moment later we were ringing the bell once more at the front door of Lady Boothby’s house.

We were conducted by the elderly maidservant directly to the dining-room at the back of the house, where Lady Boothby still sat in the armchair by the fire.

‘Well?’ she asked, in a voice full of irritation. ‘What is it now?’

‘We should be obliged,’ said Holmes, ‘if you would ask him to come down.’

Lady Boothby’s mouth fell open in surprise. ‘Who?’ cried she. ‘Who should I ask to come down? What are you talking about?’

‘Your brother, Humphrey,’ said Holmes in a calm tone. ‘He has been staying here since Wednesday night, has he not?’

The lady’s cheeks burnt bright red. ‘How dare you!’ cried she. ‘How dare you speak in this way, when my brother has been struck down in his prime, less than three days ago, and his body is scarcely cold yet!’

‘The body which is scarcely cold is that of the unfortunate Dr Zyss,’ interjected Holmes in a firm voice, ‘who was killed by your brother in the course of a quarrel. The body was deliberately misidentified by your sister-in-law, Mrs Arbuthnot, so that her husband could complete his latest work, which is why he took the papers relating to it away with him.’

‘What nonsense!’

‘You had called at the house, to be present at the meeting which your brother had informed you was to take place between Dr Zyss and himself. But Dr Zyss had arrived before you, and the two men had already had a violent quarrel, which had ended with Professor Arbuthnot seizing the paper-knife from his desk, and plunging it into the breast of his opponent, killing him instantly. His wife heard the disturbance, entered the study and saw what had happened. Professor Arbuthnot and his wife thereupon concocted the idea of letting it be thought that it was the professor who had been struck down by an unknown assailant. No doubt they had been impressed by the great similarity in appearance of the two men, for if Dr Zyss’s spectacles were removed, only those who knew them well could have told them apart; and as your brother had scarcely left the house in ten years, and received no visitors save yourself, they must have been confident that this deception would not be uncovered. It remained only to prevent the domestic staff from learning the truth of what had occurred, and for the professor to make his escape from the house. To this end, having gathered up the papers he required, he left the study by the French windows, intending to meet you when you arrived and leave with you in your carriage. Unfortunately for his plan, he saw as he reached the corner of the house that you had already arrived, and had just rung the front-door bell. He signalled to you to go back down the path to the gate. Before you reached it, however, the maid opened the front door of the house and spoke to you. Unsure what to do, you hesitated for a moment, then turned away again and walked to the gate. A moment later, the maid had shut the door, whereupon your brother quickly joined you and left with you in your carriage. Is my description of the events correct, madam?’

Lady Boothby did not reply. All colour had drained from her face, and she sat rigid and unmoving.

‘Yesterday morning,’ Holmes continued, ‘your brother decided to take a walk up to Hampstead. No doubt he was confident that he would not be recognised, as he had seen no one he knew for the best part of ten years. Unfortunately for him, he was seen by a lady who had attended lectures he gave many years ago, who mistook him for Dr Zyss. He pretended he had not seen or heard her and walked quickly on, making for the church. She followed him there, however, and he was obliged to hide somewhere in the church until she left. She later reported this incident to the police, but they made nothing of it.’

Without speaking, Lady Boothby reached out her hand and gave the bell-rope a tug. A moment later, when the maid entered, Lady Boothby instructed her to ask Professor Arbuthnot to come to the dining-room.

For a minute we sat in silence, then the door opened again, and a thin, elderly man with a grizzled beard entered the room.

‘What is it?’ he began in an irritable tone, but stopped when he saw us. ‘Who are these men?’ he asked his sister.

‘It’s no good, Humphrey,’ she replied. ‘These men are from the police. They know the truth.’

With a cry of anger, he advanced upon her. ‘You have betrayed me!’ he cried. ‘Have you no thought for my work?’

‘Professor Arbuthnot,’ said Gregson, rising to his feet, and placing his hand on the other man’s shoulder, ‘I am arresting you for the murder of Dr Ludwig Zyss.’

‘No!’ cried Arbuthnot in a wild voice. ‘No, you are not!’ In one swift move, he had stooped and snatched up the poker from the hearth. ‘You will never take me!’ he cried, swinging it violently at the policeman’s head.

As one, Holmes and I sprang up and seized the professor’s arms, as Gregson ducked to avoid the blow. For several moments we struggled violently to hold him, for the old professor seemed possessed of amazing strength for such an elderly man. Eventually he was subdued, the poker was wrenched from his grasp, and Inspector Gregson clapped a pair of handcuffs on him. Lady Boothby had shrunk into her chair while this violent conflict had been in progress. Now, she turned away, and made only a silent, dismissive gesture as we led her brother from the room.

We accompanied Gregson and his prisoner to the Hampstead Police Station, where he was formally charged with his crime and taken to the cells. A few minutes later, Gregson rejoined us in the front office.

‘Well, that’s that!’ he declared, rubbing his hands together. ‘Mad as a hatter! What do you think, Dr Watson?’

‘I’m inclined to agree,’ I replied. ‘I shouldn’t think he will be judged fit to stand trial.’

Gregson nodded. ‘Still, we’ve caught him! That’s the main thing! Now, Mr Holmes,’ he continued, turning to my friend, who was sitting on a bench, smoking his pipe in a contemplative fashion, ‘you must tell me how you worked it all out. How did you guess that it wasn’t the professor but Dr Zyss who had been done to death, what made you think he was at his sister’s house and where, precisely, does that blessed black owl fit into the matter?’

‘Guessing doesn’t come into it,’ rejoined Holmes sharply. ‘I never guess: there is no surer way of destroying the logical faculty. As to the little owl, it appeared earlier that Mrs Routledge knew more about it than she was prepared to admit, so what I propose is that we call on her again now and repeat our questions. I rather suspect that the news of Professor Arbuthnot’s arrest will free her tongue. As to the other points of interest in the case, I will gladly enlighten you on those, such as they are, on our way there.’

Thus it was that, five minutes later, we were once more in a cab, bound for Gospel Oak.

‘One of the first things that caught my attention,’ said Holmes, as we rattled along in the fading daylight, ‘was a curious little cut in the lining of the dead man’s jacket, which I examined at the police station. It was not caused by the knife that struck its wearer down, for although the knife blade had passed through the waistcoat, there was no corresponding cut in the fabric of the jacket, which must therefore have been unfastened and open at the time of the assault. Yet it was evident that the cut in the lining had been made very recently, for the fabric, a shiny, satin-like material, had scarcely frayed at all along the edge of the slit. I examined the lining more closely with the aid of a lens, and two things at once became clear. The cut had been made with a small pair of nail-scissors – the irregular line of the slit made that apparent – and a series of small holes, in line with the direction of the cut, indicated that something had previously been sewn to the lining of the jacket. I followed this line of thread-holes, and found that they enclosed an area two inches by three. The solution of this little mystery then seemed obvious: a label of some kind – probably the tailor’s own label – had been sewn inside the jacket, but had been recently removed, in the course of which the scissors had accidentally pierced the lining and cut a small section of it.

‘Of course, I realised that this trivial matter might be of no relevance to the case, but it was at least possible that there was a relevance there, if I could see it. Why should anyone wish to remove the label? Presuming that the jacket belonged to Professor Arbuthnot, I could see no point to it. What would it matter to anyone where the professor had had his suit made? But, applying the law of contraries, it followed that if there were some significance to the act of removing the label, then the jacket did not belong to the professor at all. This made great sense; for the obvious hypothesis was that the label had been removed to prevent the discovery of this fact. The label might, for instance, be that of a tailor working far away from London, whom the professor could not have visited. But the dead man had certainly been wearing that tweed suit when stabbed, for the fatal blow of the knife had, as I mentioned, passed straight through the waistcoat, which was of the same material as the jacket, and therefore part of the suit. Why, then, should Professor Arbuthnot have been wearing someone else’s suit when he was murdered and why was someone else concerned to conceal this fact? Of course, this is an absurd question, and the absurdity of it at once suggested the correct solution: the murdered man was not in fact Professor Arbuthnot at all, but someone else.

‘I reconsidered then what you had told me of the case, Gregson. As far as I could recall from your account, after Mrs Arbuthnot had discovered the body and had sent the maid to find a policeman, no other family member had seen the body, nor any of the domestic staff. The identification of the body had therefore been made by Mrs Arbuthnot alone and it was possible that she had lied. The obvious explanation for this course of action was that it was Professor Arbuthnot himself who had committed the murder and his wife was seeking to protect him.

‘You see, then, that even before we reached the scene of the crime at Highgate, I had formed a preliminary hypothesis which explained the matter satisfactorily and was completely at variance with the officially accepted course of events.’

‘You say your hypothesis explained the matter,’ I interrupted, ‘but it left unanswered the identity of the victim.’

‘That is true, Watson, but there was of course one outstanding candidate for that unfortunate role, namely Professor Arbuthnot’s old colleague, Dr Zyss. Except for the spectacles he wore all the time, his description was not so different from that of Professor Arbuthnot himself – medium height, spare build, grey hair and beard. I could not really doubt, then, that the dead man was Dr Zyss. Of course, Mrs Arbuthnot stated that Dr Zyss had sent a note to say that he could not keep his appointment that evening; but if she had lied in her identification of the dead man, how much more easily might she have lied about the note.

‘I had taken the dead man’s shoes with me to Holly Grove and, with the aid of these, I examined the footprints in the garden. I very quickly found that there were just two significant sets of footprints upon the lawn. The first, which exactly matched the shoes I had brought with me, passed in a regular and even manner from the garden gate towards the corner of the house, and on towards the French windows. I examined the whole of the garden very closely, but could find no further traces of these prints. Had the shoes from the police station really been those of Professor Arbuthnot, as was supposed, this discovery would have been most mysterious. The only rational explanation would have been that the professor had left the house by the front door, walked down the path to the gate, and then returned to the house by way of the lawn and the French windows to the study. This would have been possible but unlikely, especially as the other evidence – the testimony of the servants and so on – was that he had not left the house all day. However, as I believed the shoes to be those of Dr Zyss, the track across the lawn made perfect sense. Clearly, when Dr Zyss had arrived – being no doubt familiar with his old colleague’s habits – he had decided not to bother ringing the front-door bell, but to walk round to the study window, where he would have been confident of finding the professor at work.

‘The second set of prints, made by shoes which were of a similar size to the first but of a slightly different shape, began just outside the study window. From there they followed the side of the house to the corner of the building, where their owner appeared to have remained standing for a moment – to judge from the large number of prints close together there – and then proceeded to the gate. Between the corner of the house and the gate, the impressions of this second pair of shoes were very much lighter, and hardly ever showed the heel distinctly, from which I inferred that the owner of these shoes had been moving with great haste. These footprints I could only regard as those of Professor Arbuthnot himself. Evidently, he had left the study – taking with him, incidentally, all the papers relating to his current work – just as his sister arrived and rang the bell at the front door. From the corner he must have signalled to her to return to her carriage, which was waiting in the street. No doubt puzzled by this strange behaviour, she nevertheless complied with his request and had almost reached the gate when the front door was opened by the parlour-maid, Ruby. Lady Boothby turned, but as she could see – which the maid could not – that her brother was urging her to leave at once, she did not respond when the girl spoke to her. When she raised her arm and pointed at the house, in the way that the maid found so menacing and frightening, she was no doubt simply trying to indicate to her brother that the front door had been opened and someone was standing there. Then she turned away and went out at the gate. Thereupon, the maid hurriedly shut the front door, Professor Arbuthnot no doubt left his hiding-place round the corner of the house, and ran across the lawn to join his sister in her carriage and furnish her with an explanation of this strange behaviour.

‘To sum up the matter, then,’ Holmes continued after a moment: ‘Dr Zyss probably arrived shortly before six, saw Arbuthnot in his study, had a quarrel with him and was stabbed. Although Mrs Arbuthnot stated that she had heard nothing of what had taken place in the study, that was an obvious lie. When I was in the study, I asked Dr Watson to put some questions to her in the drawing-room and I listened as he did so. Although I could make out few individual words, I could hear both their voices quite clearly, as Mrs Arbuthnot must have heard the voices of her husband and Dr Zyss. Knowing that Lady Boothby would probably be arriving shortly, the Arbuthnots made the plan to smuggle the professor away in his sister’s carriage, pretend that a note had been received from Dr Zyss to say that he could not come and make out that it was Arbuthnot himself that had been murdered. Of course, there was in reality no message from Zyss, no message from Mrs Arbuthnot to Lady Boothby and the messenger himself did not exist.’

Inspector Gregson nodded his head. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You must be right, Mr Holmes. That must be how it happened. But what made you so sure that Arbuthnot was at his sister’s house?’

‘That seemed to me practically certain,’ replied Holmes. ‘In the first place, according to my theory he had left Holly Grove in her carriage with her on Wednesday evening. In the second place, our information was that he had had little social contact with anyone else in the past ten years, so where else could he be? In the third place, when one of those elderly ladies thought she had seen Dr Zyss in Hampstead, I considered that it must in fact have been Arbuthnot she had seen and this indicated that he was in the vicinity of his sister’s house, for Hampstead High Street is, of course, only a short walk from Belsize Park. In the fourth place, Lady Boothby’s servants were, as you informed us, all elderly and long-serving, which made it less likely that they would question Arbuthnot’s presence there, or betray him to the authorities. In the fifth place, on our first visit, I heard someone pacing backwards and forwards on the floor immediately above the drawing-room. They were certainly not, I judged, the footsteps of a servant. I believe that Lady Boothby realised that we might hear her brother moving about in the room above the drawing-room and that was the true reason she elected to receive us in the dining-room; the fire had nothing to do with it. In the sixth place, when we first saw Lady Boothby, she did not ask you, Gregson, if you had any news, or if you had caught the murderer, which, it seems to me, would have been very natural questions, but instead presumed that you simply wished to interview her again. The reason, of course, that it did not occur to her to ask you if you had caught the murderer was because she already knew you had not, as the murderer was at that moment upstairs in her own house.’

Gregson shook his head ruefully. ‘You have me there with that last point, Mr Holmes,’ he said. ‘I should have noticed that. People often give themselves away not by what they say, but by what they don’t say because of what is in the back of their minds.’

‘But what of the evidence of the porter at the Belvedere Hotel?’ I asked. ‘He stated quite clearly that Dr Zyss had returned to the hotel in the evening, before subsequently disappearing again.’

‘It seems a certainty that the callers at the Belvedere Hotel on Wednesday evening were in fact Professor Arbuthnot and his sister.’

‘But surely the porter would have realised that the man before him was not Dr Zyss?’

‘Not necessarily, Watson. You must remember that the porter in question was the night porter, and as Dr Zyss had previously left and returned to the hotel only during the daytime, this particular porter had probably never seen him before at close quarters. Professor Arbuthnot would have been wearing Dr Zyss’s spectacles, hat and overcoat, to improve the likeness. You will recall also from the porter’s account that the man did not approach the desk, but sent his companion to ask for his room-key. After the two of them had ascended to Dr Zyss’s room, if you remember, the lady returned to the entrance hall of the hotel, where she remained seated for some time, as if waiting for someone. After a while, the porter was called away from his desk for a few moments and when he returned the lady had gone. What I suggest is that all she was in fact waiting for was the porter’s absence, so that Professor Arbuthnot, who was no doubt loitering on the stairs, could take the opportunity to pass through the hall unseen, and thus leave the hotel without being observed to do so.’

‘But why did they go there at all?’ I asked in puzzlement. ‘Why risk discovery in that way?’

‘Evidently there was something in Dr Zyss’s room that the professor wished to get his hands on, no doubt papers of some kind, and probably something that Dr Zyss had mentioned in the course of their quarrel. If that is so, then that brief period of the evening, between the death of Dr Zyss and the murder becoming general knowledge, was the only opportunity there would be. But, yes, it was a dangerous course of action and we can only assume that the professor’s desire to acquire whatever it was he sought was a strong one. More than that we cannot say at present. It may be that Mrs Routledge will be able to cast some light on that aspect of the case, as she had spoken to Dr Zyss at some length earlier in the day.’

Holmes’s supposition proved correct. Mrs Routledge was startled to see us back so soon after our previous visit, and there was a look of fear in her eye; but once my friend had told her of the arrest of Professor Arbuthnot, and had explained what we had learnt, she recovered her composure.

‘Although I cannot say that I expected such an outcome,’ said she in a sombre tone, ‘I am not altogether surprised. Professor Arbuthnot was always such a dogmatic, fanatical man. Indeed, I have often thought recently that that was the fundamental cause of the trouble between us. There was something in his nature which prevented him from ever admitting that he might be wrong about anything, or that he had ever made a mistake in his life. You are certain that your account of this dreadful crime is the true one?’ she asked abruptly.

‘We are,’ replied Gregson. ‘Professor Arbuthnot has been arrested and charged with the crime. All that remains for us now is to secure a positive identification of the deceased, in which melancholy task I shall have to ask for your assistance, madam. Of course,’ he continued, as Mrs Routledge nodded her head, ‘we did not seek any corroboration of the identification before. As Mrs Arbuthnot had stated that it was her husband that had been murdered, we naturally assumed that that was true and no further thought was given to the question of his identity.’

‘We should be obliged now, madam,’ said Holmes, ‘if you could provide us with a little more detail as to your discussion with Dr Zyss on Wednesday morning and also tell us what you know concerning the black owl we showed you earlier.’

‘The two things are intimately connected,’ responded Mrs Routledge after a moment. ‘I had read in the newspaper that Dr Zyss was visiting England and staying at the Belvedere Hotel, and I ventured to write to him there, in the hope that I might be able to discuss with him for a few minutes the case of my son, Nicholas. My attempts to discuss the matter with Professor Arbuthnot had ended only in failure, as he had simply rebuffed all my overtures, sometimes in the rudest, most insulting terms imaginable; but I thought that I might get a little further with Dr Zyss, who had always been the more reasonable and pleasant of the two men.

‘To my great delight, Dr Zyss replied by return, inviting me to come to the hotel on Wednesday morning. And nor was his courtesy merely a superficial one. He listened patiently to everything I had to say, never interrupting, save only to clarify some point or other. When I had finished, he shook his head.

‘“I wish we had had this talk ten years ago,” said he, in a voice tinged with regret.

‘“What do you mean?” I asked.

‘“The view of your poor son’s case that you have just expounded is very close to my own view,” he explained. “Indeed, this meeting seems to me a remarkable chance. I am delivering a paper to the British Psychiatric Association at the end of the week on the diagnosis and treatment of certain unusual mental conditions, including that from which, I believe, your son suffered. I may tell you, my dear madam, that your son’s case was an epoch-making event in my own professional career.”

‘“Whatever do you mean?”

‘“It was over your son’s case that Professor Arbuthnot and I first fell out very seriously. Our views had been diverging for some considerable time, but we had continued to work together. Looking back on that period now, it seems to me that I was the one who compromised his beliefs and intuitions; Arbuthnot never once admitted the slightest doubt or reservation concerning his own views. In the case of your son, Arbuthnot’s opinion was that Nicholas was motivated in his irrational moods by a deep-seated resentment of you and his father.”

‘I nodded my agreement, for Professor Arbuthnot had often expressed this opinion to me very forcibly.

‘“I, however, was of quite a different opinion,” Dr Zyss continued. “My interviews with your son had convinced me that, on the whole, he had nothing but a normal affection for his parents. His problems, as I saw it, stemmed from certain irrational urges to which he was subject, and which, in his more rational moments, he regretted bitterly. The most notable of these was what has been termed ‘kleptomania’ – an urge to steal things. I cannot pretend to fully understand or explain this, but in the course of my conversations with Nicholas, I became convinced that this strange, aberrant urge arose from some innate cause within him, and bore no relation whatever to anything you or your husband had ever said or done. The bouts of kleptomania would always be followed, sooner or later, by periods of the very deepest remorse, when, as I knew from what Nicholas had told me, he would become bitterly unhappy and frequently almost suicidal. On one occasion that I recall, he confessed to me that he had attempted to steal some trifling bauble from a shop in Holborn. He had been discovered in the act, the manager had been called and there might well have been an unpleasant scene. But fortunately, Nicholas apologised, the manager took a lenient view – I dare say he saw that your son was not well – and the matter blew over. When Nicholas recounted this to me, he was deeply ashamed and begged me not to mention it to you.”

‘“It is a strange thing,” I said, “that you should have spoken of these things, Dr Zyss, for I had two reasons for wishing to see you today. The first was to discus my son’s case with you. The second was to return this.” I took from my bag the little black-painted brass owl you showed me earlier. “I believe,” I said, “that Nicholas took it from your consulting-room. I found it among his belongings some time after his death. By then, you had left the country, so I was unable to return it to you, but it was the first thing I thought of when I read that you were visiting England once more.”

‘At this, Dr Zyss sprang from his chair and paced the floor in an agitated manner.

‘“But this is remarkable!” he cried at length. “Astounding! You may not be aware, Mrs Routledge, how rare it is in my profession to receive good solid verification of one’s theories. But your production of this paper-weight confirms my diagnosis almost beyond doubt! I remember missing it at the time and wondering where it had got to. I assumed in the end that the maid had accidentally knocked it off my desk and that it had fallen into a waste-paper basket and been inadvertently thrown away. But it is evident now what really occurred: your son must have taken it from my desk while my back was turned and put it in his pocket. Why he should want such a dull-looking little thing, I cannot imagine. He had never expressed any interest in it before. But, of course, to ask the reason ‘why’ in such cases is perfectly pointless. For sufferers from kleptomania, there is no reason, other than a momentary, irresistible urge. It saddens me to say it,” Dr Zyss continued after a moment, “but I consider it quite possible that it was shame at having stolen this trifle from me – his friend – that led your son to take his own life. When I go to see Arbuthnot, I shall take this little owl with me and explain to him how it vindicates my theory. Bah! That dogmatic old fool! I shall teach him a lesson in humility! I shall rewrite my notes this afternoon, and when I deliver my lecture on Saturday evening, I shall incorporate the story of this little black owl into it to emphasise my point!”

‘I left soon after that and that was the last I saw of Dr Zyss,’ concluded Mrs Routledge.

‘So presumably,’ said Inspector Gregson, ‘he called on Professor Arbuthnot, as Mr Holmes suggests, showed him the paper-weight, and no doubt crowed a little about what he felt it proved. They had a quarrel, exchanged insults, and then the professor grabbed his paper-knife and stabbed his rival through the heart.’

‘It must be so,’ said Holmes. ‘Arbuthnot seems to have been a very arrogant man, who could not bear to be disagreed with. No doubt it was Dr Zyss’s rewritten lecture notes that he wished to get his hands on at the Belvedere Hotel. I believe,’ he continued, turning to Mrs Routledge, ‘that you are acquainted with Professor Arbuthnot’s nephew, Mr Terence Chalfont.’

‘Yes. He came to see me some time ago. He was doing research for a play he was writing and we met on several occasions. We discussed Nicholas’s case and related matters at some length, and I always found him very thoughtful and understanding. One day, he introduced me to a friend of his, Martin Ferris, who he said would be playing the leading part of the young man in the play and I must say I found him a very pleasant young man, who reminded me a little of my own son. When our discussions were eventually concluded, Mr Chalfont promised me solemnly that he would never tell anyone that he had spoken to me, to avoid bringing the glare of unwelcome publicity upon me again.’

‘I don’t imagine you mentioned the black owl to him.’

‘No. It never occurred to me to do so. I was not aware then of its significance.’

Holmes nodded. ‘I think, Mrs Routledge, that you should now tell Mr Chalfont about the black owl, and suggest that he incorporates the incident into his play. He may find it is the one telling moment which, he informed us, the play currently lacks. Then, when the play at last opens, you and your son will finally receive a kind of justice, and this whole unfortunate business will have reached its conclusion.’