Victorian Villainy

YEARS AGO AND IN A DIFFERENT PLACE

My name is Professor James Clovis Moriarty, Ph. D., F.R.A.S. You may have heard of me. I have been the author of a number of well-regarded scientific monographs and journal articles over the past few decades, including a treatise on the Binomial Theorem, and a monograph titled “The Dynamics of an Asteroid,” which was well received in scientific circles both in Great Britain and on the continent. My recent paper in the British Astronomical Journal, “Observations on the July, 1889 Eclipse of Mercury with Some Speculations Concerning the Effect of Gravity on Light Waves,” has occasioned some comment among those few who could understand its implications.

But I fear that if you know my name, it is, in all probability, not through any of my published scientific papers. Further, my current, shall I say, notoriety, was not of my own doing and most assuredly not by my choice. I am by nature a retiring, some would have it secretive, person.

Over the past few years narratives from the memoirs of a certain Dr. John Watson concerning that jackanapes who calls himself a “consulting detective,” Mr. Sherlock Holmes, have been appearing in the Strand magazine and elsewhere with increasing frequency, and have attained a, to my mind, most unwarranted popularity. Students of the “higher criticism,” as those insufferable pedants who devote their lives to picking over minuscule details of Dr. Watson’s stories call their ridiculous avocation, have analyzed Watson’s rather pedestrian prose with the avid attention gourmands pay to mounds of goose-liver pate. They extract hidden meanings from every word, and extrapolate facts not in evidence from every paragraph. Which leads them unfailingly to conclusions even more specious than those in which Holmes himself indulges.

Entirely too much of this misdirected musing concerns me and my relationship with the self-anointed master detective. Amateur detection enthusiasts have wasted much time and energy in speculation as to how Sherlock Holmes and I first met, and just what caused the usually unflappable Holmes to describe me as “the Napoleon of crime” without supplying the slightest evidence to support this blatant canard.

I propose to tell that story now, both to satisfy this misplaced curiosity and to put an end to the various speculations which have appeared in certain privately-circulated monographs. To set the record straight: Holmes and I are not related; I have not had improper relations with any of his female relatives; I did not steal his childhood inamorata away from him. Neither did he, to the best of my knowledge, perform any of these services for me or anyone in my family.

In any case, I assure you that I will no longer take such accusations lightly. Privately distributed though these monographs may be, their authors will have to answer for them in a court of law if this continues.

Shortly before that ridiculous episode at the Reichenbach Falls, Holmes had the temerity to describe me to his befuddled amanuensis as “organizer of half that is evil and nearly all that is undetected in this great city.” (By which he meant London, of course). What crimes I had supposedly committed he was curiously silent about. Watson did not ask for specifics, and none were offered. The good doctor took Holmes’s unsupported word for this unsupportable insult. Had Holmes not chosen to disappear for three years after his foul accusation, I most assuredly would have had him in the dock for slander.

And then, when Holmes returned from his extended vacation, during which time he did not have the kindness, the decency, to pass on one word that would let his dear companion know that he was not dead, he gave an account of our “struggle” at the falls that any child of nine would have recognized as a complete work of fiction-but it fooled Watson.

The truth about the Reichenbach incident-but no, that is not for this narrative. Just permit me a brief pause, the merest aside in this chronicle before I go on, so that I may draw your attention to some of the details of that story that should have alerted the merest tyro to the fact that he was being diddled-but that Watson swallowed whole.

In the narrative that he published under the name “The Final Problem,” Watson relates that Holmes appeared in his consulting room one day in April of 1891 and told him that he was being threatened by Professor Moriarty-myself-and that he had already been attacked twice that day by my agents and expected to be attacked again, probably by a man using an air-rifle. If that were so, was it not thoughtful of him to go to the residence of his close friend and thus place him, also, in deadly peril?

At that meeting Holmes declares that in three days he will be able to place “the Professor, with all the principal members of his gang,” in the hands of the police. Why wait? Holmes gives no coherent reason. But until then, Holmes avers, he is in grave danger. Well now! If this were so, would not Scotland Yard gladly have given Holmes a room, nay a suite of rooms, in the hotel of his choosing-or in the Yard itself-to keep him safe for the next three days? But Holmes says that nothing will do but that he must flee the country, and once again Watson believes him. Is not unquestioning friendship a wonderful thing?

Holmes then arranges for Watson to join him in this supposedly hasty flight. They meet at Victoria Station the next morning, where Watson has trouble recognizing Holmes, who has disguised himself as a “venerable Italian priest,” presumably to fool pursuers. This assumes that Holmes’s enemies can recognize the great detective, but have no idea what his good friend Dr. Watson, who wears no disguise, who indeed is congenitally incapable of disguise, looks like.

Again note that after a six-month absence, during which Holmes and I-but no, it is not my secret to tell-at any rate, six months after I was assumed to be dead I returned to my home on Russell Square and went about my business as usual, and Watson affected not to notice. After all, Holmes had killed me, and that was good enough for Watson.

I could go on. Indeed, it is with remarkable restraint that I do not. To describe me as a master criminal is actionable; and then to compound matters by making me out to be such a bungler as to be fooled by Holmes’s juvenile antics is quite intolerable. It should be clear to all that the events leading up to that day at Reichenbach Falls, if they occurred as described, were designed by Holmes to fool his amiable companion, and not “the Napoleon of crime.”

But I have digressed enough. In this brief paper I will describe how the relationship between Holmes and myself came to be, and perhaps supply some insight into how and why Holmes developed an entirely unwarranted antagonism toward me that has lasted these many years.

I first met Sherlock Holmes in the early 1870s-I shall be no more precise than that. At the time I was a senior lecturer in mathematics at, I shall call it, “Queens College,” one of the six venerable colleges making up a small inland university which I shall call “Wexleigh” to preserve the anonymity of the events I am about to describe. I shall also alter the names of the persons who figure in this episode, save only those of Holmes and myself; as those who were involved surely have no desire to be reminded of the episode or pestered by the press for more details. You may, of course, apply to Holmes for the true names of these people, although I imagine that he will be no more forthcoming than I.

Let me also point out that memories are not entirely reliable recorders of events. Over time they convolute, they conflate, they manufacture, and they discard, until what remains may bear only a passing resemblance to the original event. So if you happen to be one of the people whose lives crossed those of Holmes and myself at “Queens” at this time, and your memory of some of the details of these events differs from mine, I assure you that in all probability we are both wrong.

Wexleigh University was of respectable antiquity, with respectable ecclesiastical underpinnings. Most of the dons at Queens were churchmen of one description or another. Latin and Greek were still considered the foundations upon which an education should be constructed. The “modern” side of the university had come into existence a mere decade before, and the Classics dons still looked with mixed amazement and scorn at the Science instructors and the courses offered, which they insisted on describing as “Stinks and Bangs.”

Holmes was an underclassman at the time. His presence had provoked a certain amount of interest among the faculty, many of whom remembered his brother Mycroft, who had attended the university some six years previously. Mycroft had spent most of his three years at Queens in his room, coming out only for meals and to gather armsful of books from the library and retreat back to his room. When he did appear in the lecture hall it would often be to correct the instructor on some error of fact or pedagogy that had lain unnoticed, sometimes for years, in one of his lectures. Mycroft had departed the university without completing the requirements for a degree, stating with some justification that he had received all the institution had to offer, and he saw no point in remaining.

Holmes had few friends among his fellow underclassmen and seemed to prefer it that way. His interests were varied but transient, as he dipped first into one field of study and then another, trying to find something that stimulated him sufficiently for him to make it his life’s work; something to which he could apply his powerful intellect and his capacity for close and accurate observation, which was even then apparent, if not fully developed.

An odd sort of amity soon grew between myself and this intense young man. On looking back I would describe it as a cerebral bond, based mostly on the shared snobbery of the highly intelligent against those whom they deem as their intellectual inferiors. I confess to that weakness in my youth, and my only defense against a charge of hubris is that those whom we went out of our way to ignore were just as anxious to avoid us.

The incident I am about to relate occurred in the Fall, shortly after Holmes returned to begin his second year. A new don joined the college, occupying the newly-created chair of Moral Philosophy, a chair which had been endowed by a midlands mill owner who made it a practice to employ as many children under twelve in his mills as his agents could sweep up off the streets. Thus, I suppose, his interest in Moral Philosophy.

The new man’s name was-well, for the purposes of this tale let us call him Professor Charles Maples. He was, I would judge, in his mid forties; a stout, sharp-nosed, myopic, amiable man who strutted and bobbed slightly when he walked. His voice was high and intense, and his mannerisms were complex. His speech was accompanied by elaborate hand motions, as though he would mold the air into a semblance of what he was describing. When one saw him crossing the quad in the distance, with his grey master of arts gown flapping about him, waving the mahogany walking-stick with the brass duck’s-head handle that he was never without, and gesticulating to the empty air, he resembled nothing so much as a corpulent king pigeon.

Moral Philosophy was a fit subject for Maples. No one could say exactly what it encompassed, and so he was free to speak on whatever caught his interest at the moment. And his interests seemed to be of the moment: he took intellectual nourishment from whatever flower of knowledge seemed brightest to him in the morning, and had tired of it ere night drew nigh. Excuse the vaguely poetic turn of phrase; speaking of Maples seems to bring that out in one.

I do not mean to suggest the Maples was intellectually inferior; far from it. He had a piercing intellect, an incisive clarity of expression, and a sarcastic wit that occasionally broke through his mild facade. Maples spoke on the Greek and Roman concept of manliness, and made one regret that we lived in these decadent times. He lectured on the nineteenth-century penchant for substituting a surface prudery for morality, and left his students with a vivid image of unnamed immorality seething and billowing not very far beneath the surface. He spoke on this and that and created in his students with an abiding enthusiasm for this, and an unremitting loathing for that.

There was still an unspoken presumption about the college that celibacy was the proper model for the students, and so only the unmarried, and presumably celibate, dons were lodged in one or another of the various buildings within the college walls. Those few with wives found housing around town where they could, preferably a respectable distance from the university. Maples was numbered among the domestic ones, and he and his wife Andrea had taken a house with fairly extensive grounds on Barleymore Road not far from the college, which they shared with Andrea’s sister Lucinda Moys and a physical education instructor named Crisboy, who, choosing to live away from the college for reasons of his own, rented a pair of rooms on the top floor. There was a small guest house at the far end of the property which was untenanted. The owner of the property, who had moved to Glasgow some years previously, kept it for his own used on his occasional visits to town. The Maples employed a cook and a maid, both of whom were day help, sleeping in their own homes at night.

Andrea was a fine-looking woman who appeared to be fearlessly approaching thirty, with intelligent brown eyes set in a broad face and a head of thick, brown hair, which fell down her back to somewhere below her waist when she didn’t have it tied up in a sort of oversized bun circling her head. She was of a solid appearance and decisive character.

Her sister, “Lucy” to all who knew her, was somewhat younger and more ethereal in nature. She was a slim, golden-haired, creature of mercurial moods: usually bright and confident and more than capable of handling anything the mean old world could throw at her, but on occasion dark and sullen and angry at the rest of the world for not measuring up to her standards. When one of her moods overtook her, she retired to her room and refused to see anyone until it passed, which for some reason the young men of the college found intensely romantic. She had an intent manner of gazing at you while you conversed, as though your words were the only things of importance in the world at that instant, and she felt privileged to be listening. This caused several of the underclassmen to fall instantly in love with her, as she was perhaps the first person, certainly the first woman aside from their mothers, who had ever paid serious attention to anything they said.

One of the underclassmen who was attracted by Miss Lucy’s obvious charms was Mr. Sherlock Holmes. She gazed at him wide-eyed while he spoke earnestly, as young men speak, of things that I’m sure must have interested her not in the least. Was it perhaps Holmes himself who interested the pert young lady? I certainly hoped so, for his sake. Holmes had no sisters, and a man who grows up without sisters has few defenses against those wiles, those innocent wiles of body, speech and motion, with which nature has provided young females in its blind desire to propagate the species.

I was not a close observer of the amorous affairs of Lucy Moys, but as far as I could see she treated all her suitors the same; neither encouraging them nor discouraging them, but enjoying their company and keeping them at a great enough distance, both physically and emotionally, to satisfy the most demanding duenna. She seemed to me to find all her young gentlemen vaguely amusing, regarding them with the sort of detachment one finds in the heroines of Oscar Wilde’s plays, to use a modern simile.

Professor Maples took the in loco parentis role of the teacher a bit further than most of the faculty, and certainly further than I would have cared to, befriending his students, and for that matter any students who desired to be befriended, earnestly, sincerely and kindly. But then he seemed to truly care about the needs and welfare of the young men of Wexleigh. Personally I felt that attempting to educate most of them in class and at tutorials was quite enough. For the most part they cared for nothing but sports, except for those who cared for nothing but religion, and were content to allow the sciences and mathematics to remain dark mysteries.

Maples and his wife had “at home” afternoon teas twice a month, the second and fourth Tuesdays, and quite soon these events became very popular with the students. His sister-in-law, who was invariably present, was certainly part of the reason, as was the supply of tea-cakes, scones, fruit tarts, and other assorted edibles. I attended several of these, and was soon struck by an indefinable feeling that something was not what it seemed. I say “indefinable” because I could not put my finger on just what it was that puzzled me about the events. I did not attach too much importance to it at the time. It was only later that it seemed significant. I will try to give you a word picture of the last of these events that I attended; the last one, as it happens, before the tragedy.

It was Holmes who suggested that we attend Professor Maples’s tea that day. I had been trying to impress upon him a rudimentary understanding of the calculus, and he had demanded of me an example of some situation in which such knowledge might be of use. I outlined three problems, one from astronomy, involving the search for the planet Vulcan, said to lie inside the orbit of Mercury; one from physics, relating to determining magnetic lines of force when an electric current is applied; and one based on some thoughts of my own regarding Professor Malthus’s notions on population control.

Holmes waved them all aside. “Yes, I am sure they are very interesting in their own way,” he said, “but, frankly, they do not concern me. It does not matter to me whether the Earth goes around the Sun or the Sun goes around the Earth, as long as whichever does whatever keeps on doing it reliably.”

“You have no intellectual curiosity regarding the world around you?” I asked in some surprise.

“On the contrary,” Holmes averred. “I have an immense curiosity, but I have no more interest in the Binomial Theorem than it has in me. I feel that I must confine my curiosity to those subjects that will be of some use to me in the future. There is so much to learn on the path I have chosen that I fear that I dare not venture very far along side roads.”

“Ah!” I said. “I was not aware that you have started down your chosen road, or indeed that you have chosen a road down which to trod.”

Holmes and I were sitting in an otherwise unoccupied lecture hall, and at my words he rose and began pacing restlessly about the front of the room. “I wouldn’t say that I have chosen the road, exactly,” he said, “to continue with this, I suppose, inescapable metaphor. But I have an idea of the direction in which I wish to travel-” He made a point of his right forefinger and thrust it forcefully in front of him. “-and I feel I must carefully limit my steps to paths that go in that direction.”

“Is it that pile of erasers or the wastebasket at the end of the room at which you hope to arrive?” I asked, and then quickly raised a conciliatory hand. “No, no, I take it back. I’m glad you have formulated a goal in life, even if it doesn’t include the calculus. What is the direction of this city on a hill toward which you strive?”

Holmes glowered at me for a moment and then looked thoughtful. “It’s still slightly vague,” he told me. “I can see it in outline only. A man-” He gathered his ideas. “A man should strive to do something larger than himself. To cure disease, or eradicate hunger or poverty or crime.”

“Ah!” I said. “Noble thoughts.” I fancied that I could hear the lovely voice of Miss Lucy earnestly saying that, or something similar, to Holmes within the week. When a man is suddenly struck by noble ambitions it is usually a woman who does the striking. But I thought it would be wiser not to mention this deduction, which, at any rate, was rather tentative and not based on any hard evidence.

“It’s Professor Maples’ afternoon tea day today,” Holmes commented. “And I had thought of going.”

“Why so it is,” I said. “And so we should. And, in one last effort to interest you in the sort of detail for which you find no immediate utility, I call to your attention the shape of Lucinda Moys’ ear. Considered properly, it presents an interesting question. You should have an opportunity to observe it, perhaps even fairly closely, this afternoon.”

“Which ear?”

“Either will do.”

“What’s the matter with Miss Lucy’s ear?” Holmes demanded.

“Why, nothing. It’s a delightful ear. Well formed. Flat, rather oblate lobes. I’ve never seen another quite like it. Very attractive, if it comes to that.”

“All right, then,” Holmes said.

I closed the few books I had been using and put them in my book sack. “I hereby renounce any future attempt to teach you higher mathematics,” I told him. “I propose we adjourn and head toward the professor’s house and his tea-cakes.”

And so we did.

The Maples’ event was from three in the afternoon until six in the evening, although some arrived a bit earlier, and some I believe stayed quite a bit later. The weather was surprisingly mild for mid October, and Holmes and I arrived around half past three that day to find the professor and his household and their dozen or so guests scattered about the lawn behind the house in predictable clumps. The vice-chancellor of the university was present, relaxing in a lawn chair with a cup of tea and a plate of scones. Classical Greece was represented by Dean Herbert McCuthers, an elderly man of intense sobriety and respectability, who was at that moment rolling up his trouser legs preparatory to wading in the small artificial pond with Andrea Maples, who had removed her shoes and hoisted her skirts in a delicate balance between wet clothing and propriety.

Crisboy, the physical education instructor who roomed with the Maples, a large, muscular, and pugnacious-looking man in his late twenties, was standing in one corner of the lawn with a games coach named Faulting; a young man with the build and general appearance of one of the lithe athletes depicted by ancient Greek statuary, if you can picture a young Greek athlete clad in baggy grey flannels. The comparison was one that Faulting was well aware of, judging by his practice of posing heroically whenever he thought anyone was looking at him.

The pair of them were standing near the house, swinging athletic clubs with muscular wild abandon, and discussing the finer details of last Saturday’s football match, surrounded by a bevy of admiring underclassmen. There are those students at every university who are more interested in games than education. They spend years afterward talking about this or that cricket match against their mortal foes at the next school over, or some particularly eventful football game. It never seems to bother them, or perhaps even occur to them, that they are engaged in pursuits at which a suitably trained three-year-old chimpanzee or orang-utan could best them. And, for some reason that eludes me, these men are allowed to vote and to breed. But, once again, I digress.

Maples was walking magisterially across the lawn, his grey master’s gown billowing about his fundament, his hands clasped behind him holding his walking-stick, which jutted out to his rear like a tail, followed by a gaggle of young gentlemen in their dark brown scholars’ gowns, with their mortar-boards tucked under their arms, most of them giving their professor the subtle homage of imitating his walk and his posture. “The ideal of the university,” Maples was saying in a voice that would brook no dispute, obviously warming up to his theme, “is the Aristotelean stadium as filtered through the medieval monastic schools.”

He nodded to me as he reached me, and then wheeled about and headed back whence he had come, embroidering on his theme. “Those students who hungered for something more than a religious education, who perhaps wanted to learn the law, or what there was of medicine, headed toward the larger cities, where savants fit to instruct them could be found. Paris, Bologna, York, London; here the students gathered, often traveling from city to city in search of just the right teacher. After a century or two the instruction became formalized, and the schools came into official existence, receiving charters from the local monarch, and perhaps from the pope.”

Maples suddenly froze in mid-step and wheeled around to face his entourage. “But make no mistake!” he enjoined them, waving his cane pointedly in front him, its duck-faced head point first at one student and then another, “a university is not made up of its buildings, its colleges, its lecture halls, or its playing fields. No, not even its playing fields. A university is made up of the people-teachers and students-that come together in its name. Universitas scholarium, is how the charters read, providing for a, shall I say guild, of students. Or, as in the case of the University of Paris, a universitas magistrorum, a guild of teachers. So we are co-equal, you and I. Tuck your shirt more firmly into your trousers, Mr. Pomfrit, you are becoming all disassembled.”

He turned and continued his journey across the greensward, his voice fading with distance. His students, no doubt impressed with their new-found equality, trotted along behind him.

Lucy Moys glided onto the lawn just then, coming through the french doors at the back of the house, bringing a fresh platter of pastries to the parasol-covered table. Behind her trotted the maid, bringing a pitcher full of steaming hot water to refill the teapot. Sherlock Holmes left my side and wandered casually across the lawn, contriving to arrive by Miss Lucy’s side just in time to help her distribute the pastries about the table. Whether he took any special interest in her ear, I could not observe.

I acquired a cup of tea and a slice of tea-cake and assumed my accustomed role as an observer of phenomena. This has been my natural inclination for years, and I have enhanced whatever ability I began with by a conscious effort to accurately take note of what I see. I had practiced this for long enough, even then, that it had become second nature to me. I could not sit opposite a man on a railway car without, for example, noticing by his watch-fob that he was a Rosicrucian, let us say, and by the wear-marks on his left cuff that he was a note-cashier or an order clerk. A smudge of ink on his right thumb would favor the note-cashier hypothesis, while the state of his boots might show that he had not been at work that day. The note-case that he kept clutched to his body might indicate that he was transferring notes to a branch bank, or possibly that he was absconding with the bank’s funds. And so on. I go into this only to show that my observations were not made in anticipation of tragedy, but were merely the result of my fixed habit.

I walked about the lawn for the next hour or so, stopping here and there to nod hello to this student or that professor. I lingered at the edge of this group, and listened for a while to a spirited critique of Wilkie Collin’s recent novel, “The Moonstone,” and how it represented an entirely new sort of fiction. I paused by that cluster to hear a young man earnestly explicating on the good works being done by Mr. William Booth and his Christian Revival Association in the slums of our larger cities. I have always distrusted earnest, pious, loud young men. If they are sincere, they’re insufferable. If they are not sincere, they’re dangerous.

I observed Andrea Maples, who had dried her feet and lowered her skirts, take a platter of pastries and wander around the lawn, offering a cruller here and a tea-cake there, whispering intimate comments to accompany the pastry. Mrs. Maples had a gift for instant intimacy, for creating the illusion that you and she shared wonderful, if unimportant, secrets. She sidled by Crisboy, who was now busy leading five or six of his athletic proteges in doing push-ups, and whispered something to young Faulting, the games coach, and he laughed. And then she was up on her tip-toes whispering some more. After perhaps a minute, which is a long time to be whispering, she danced a few steps back and paused, and Faulting blushed. Blushing has quite gone out of fashion now, but it was quite the thing for both men and women back in the seventies. Although how something that is believed to be an involuntary physiological reaction can be either in or out of fashion demands more study by Dr. Freud and his fellow psycho-analysts.

Crisboy gathered himself and leaped to his feet. “Stay on your own side of the street!” he yapped at Andrea Maples, which startled both her and the young gamesmen, two of whom rolled over and stared up at the scene, while the other three or four continued doing push-ups at a frantic pace, as though there was nothing remarkable happening above them. After a second Mrs. Maples laughed and thrust the plate of pastries out at him.

Professor Maples turned to stare at the little group some twenty feet away from him and his hands tightened around his walking stick. Although he strove to remain calm, he was clearly in the grip of some powerful emotion for a few seconds before he regained control. “Now, now, my dear,” he called across the lawn. “Let us not incite the athletes.”

Andrea skipped over to him and leaned over to whisper in his ear. As she was facing me this time, and I had practiced lip-reading for some years, I could make out what she said: “Perhaps I’ll do you a favor, poppa bear,” she whispered. His reply was not visible to me.

A few minutes later my wanderings took me over to where Sherlock Holmes was sitting by himself on one of the canvas chairs near the french windows looking disconsolate. “Well,” I said, looking around, “and where is Miss Lucy?”

“She suddenly discovered that she had a sick headache and needed to go lie down. Presumably she has gone to lie down,” he told me.

“I see,” I said. “Leaving you to suffer alone among the multitude.”

“I’m afraid it must have been something I said,” Holmes confided to me.

“Really? What did you say?”

“I’m not sure. I was speaking about-well…” Holmes looked embarrassed, a look I had never seen him encompass before, nor have I seen it since.

“Hopes and dreams,” I suggested.

“Something of that nature,” he agreed. “Why is it that words that sound so-important-when one is speaking to a young lady with whom one is on close terms, would sound ridiculous when spoken to the world at large? That is, you understand, Mr. Moriarty, a rhetorical question.”

“I do understand,” I told him. “Shall we return to the college?”

And so we did.

The next afternoon found me in the commons room sitting in my usual chair beneath the oil painting of Sir James Walsingham, the first chancellor of Queens College, receiving the keys to the college from Queen Elizabeth. I was dividing my attention between my cup of coffee and a letter from the reverend Charles Dodgson, a fellow mathematician who was then at Oxford, in which he put forth some of his ideas concerning what we might call the mathematical constraints of logical constructions. My solitude was interrupted by Dean McCuthers, who toddled over, cup of tea in hand, looking even older than usual, and dropped into the chair next to me. “Afternoon, Moriarty,” he breathed. “Isn’t it dreadful?”

I put the letter aside. “Isn’t what dreadful?” I asked him. “The day? The war news? Huxley’s Theory of Biogenesis? Perhaps you’re referring to the coffee-it is pretty dreadful today.”

McCuthers shook his head sadly. “Would that I could take the news so lightly,” he said. “I am always so aware, so sadly aware, of John Donne’s admonishment.”

“I thought Donne had done with admonishing for these past two hundred years or so,” I said.

But there was no stopping McCuthers. He was determined to quote Donne, and quote he did: “‘Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind,’” he went on, ignoring my comment. “‘And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.’”

I forbore from mentioning that the dean, a solitary man who spent most of his waking hours pondering over literature written over two thousand years before he was born, was probably less involved in mankind than any man I had ever known. “I see,” I said. “The bell has tolled for someone?”

“And murder makes it so much worse,” McCuthers continued. “As Lucretius puts it-”

“Who was murdered?” I asked firmly, cutting through his tour of the classics.

“Eh? You mean you don’t know? Oh, dear me. This will come as something of a shock, then. It’s that Professor Maples-”

“Someone has murdered Maples?”

“No, no. My thought was unfinished. Professor Maples has been arrested. His wife-Andrea-Mrs. Maples-has been murdered.”

I was, I will admit it, bemused. You may substitute a stronger term if you like. I tried to get some more details from McCuthers, but the dean’s involvement with the facts had not gone beyond the murder and the arrest. I finished my coffee and went off in search of more information.

Murder is a sensational crime which evokes a formidable amount of interest, even among the staid and unworldly dons of Queens College. And a murder in mediis rebus, or perhaps better, in mediis universitatibus; one that actually occurs among said staid dons, will intrude on the contemplations of even the most unworldly. The story, which spread rapidly through the college, was this:

A quartet of bicyclists, underclassmen from St. Simon’s College, set out together at dawn three days a week, rain or shine, to get an hour or two’s cycling in before breakfast. This morning, undeterred by the chill drizzle that had begun during the night, they went out along Barleymore Road as usual. At about eight o’clock, or shortly after, they happened to stop at the front steps to the small cottage on Professor Maples’ property. One of the bicycles had throw a shoe, or something of the sort, and they had paused to repair the damage. The chain-operated bicycle had been in existence for only a few years back then, and was prone to a variety of malfunctions. I understand that bicyclists, even today, find it useful to carry about a complete set of tools in order to be prepared for the inevitable mishap.

One of the party, who was sitting on the cottage steps with his back up against the door, as much out of the rain as he could manage, indulging in a pipeful of Latakia while the damaged machine was being repaired, felt something sticky under his hand. He looked, and discovered a widening stain coming out from under the door. Now, according to which version of the story you find most to your liking, he either pointed to the stain and said, “I say, chaps, what do you suppose this is?” Or he leapt to his feet screaming, “It’s blood! It’s blood! Something horrible has happened here.” I tend to prefer the latter version, but perhaps it’s only the alliteration that appeals to me.

The young men, feeling that someone inside the cottage might require assistance, pounded on the door. When they got no response, they tried the handle and found it locked. The windows all around the building were also locked. They broke the glass in a window, unlocked it, and they all climbed through.

In the hallway leading to the front door they found Andrea Maples, in what was described as “a state of undress,” lying in a pool of blood-presumably her own, as she had been badly beaten about the head. Blood splatters covered the walls and ceiling. A short distance away from the body lay what was presumably the murder weapon: a mahogany cane with a brass duck’s head handle.

One of the men immediately cycled off to the police station and returned with a police sergeant and two constables. When they ascertained that the hard wood cane belonged to Professor Maples, and that he carried it about with him constantly, the policemen crossed the lawn to the main house and interviewed the professor, who was having breakfast. At the conclusion of the interview, the sergeant placed Maples under arrest and sent one of the constables off to acquire a carriage in which the professor could be conveyed to the police station.

It was about four in the afternoon when Sherlock Holmes came banging at my study door. “You’ve heard, of course,” he said, flinging himself into my armchair. “What are we to do?”

“I’ve heard,” I said. “And what have we to do with it?”

“That police sergeant, Meeks is his name, has arrested Professor Maples for the murder of his wife.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“He conducted no investigation, did not so much as glance at the surroundings, and failed to leave a constable behind to secure the area, so that, as soon as the rain lets up, hordes of the morbidly curious will trample about the cottage and the lawn and destroy whatever evidence there is to be found.”

“Did he?” I asked. “And how do you know so much about it?”

“I was there,” Holmes said. At my surprised look, he shook his head. “Oh, no, not at the time of the murder, whenever that was. When the constable came around for the carriage to take Professor Maples away, I happened to be in the stables. The hostler, Biggs is his name, is an expert single-stick fighter, and I’ve been taking lessons from him on occasional mornings when he has the time. So when they returned to the professor’s house, Biggs drove and I sat in the carriage with the constable, who told me all about it.”

“I imagine he’ll be talking about it for some time,” I commented. “Murders are not exactly common around here.”

“Just so. Well, I went along thinking I might be of some use to Lucy. After all, her sister had just been murdered.”

“Thoughtful of you,” I said.

“Yes. Well, she wouldn’t see me. Wouldn’t see anyone. Just stayed in her room. Can’t blame her, I suppose. So I listened to the sergeant questioning Professor Maples-and a damned poor job he did of it, if I’m any judge-and then went out and looked over the area-the two houses and the space between-to see if I could determine what happened. I also examined Andrea Maples’s body as best I could from the doorway. I was afraid that if I got any closer Sergeant Meeks would notice and chase me away.”

“And did you determine what happened?”

“I may have,” Holmes said. “If you’d do me the favor of taking a walk with me, I’d like to show you what I’ve found. I believe I have a good idea of what took place last night-or at least some of the salient details. I’ve worked it out from the traces on the ground and a few details in the cottage that the sergeant didn’t bother with. It seems to me that much more can be done in the investigation of crimes than the police are accustomed to do. But I’d like your opinion. Tell me what you think.”

I pulled my topcoat on. “Show me,” I said.

The drizzle was steady and cold, the ground was soggy, and by the time we arrived at the house the body had been removed; all of which reduced the number of curious visitors to two reporters who, having stomped about the cottage but failing to gain admittance to the main house, were huddled in a gig pulled up to the front door, waiting for someone to emerge who could be coaxed into a statement.

The main house and the cottage both fronted Barleymore Road, but as the road curved around a stand of trees between the two, the path through the property was considerably shorter. It was perhaps thirty yards from the house to the cottage by the path, and perhaps a little more than twice that by the road. I did measure the distance at the time, but I do not recollect the precise numbers.

We went around to the back of the house and knocked at the pantry door. After a few seconds scrutiny through a side window, we were admitted by the maid.

“It’s you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, stepping aside to let us in. “Ain’t it horrible? I’ve been waiting by the back door here for the man with the bunting, whose supposed to arrive shortly.”

“Bunting?”

“That’s right. The black bunting which we is to hang in the windows, as is only proper, considering. Ain’t it horrible? We should leave the doors and windows open, in respect of the dead, only the mistress’s body has been taken away, and the master has been taken away, and it’s raining, and those newspaper people will come in and pester Miss Lucy if the door is open. And then there’s the murderer just awaiting out there somewhere, and who knows what’s on his mind.”

“So you don’t think Professor Maples killed his wife?” I asked.

The maid looked at me, and then at Holmes, and then back at me. “This is Mr. Moriarty, Willa,” Holmes told her. “He’s my friend, and a lecturer in Mathematics at the college.”

“Ah,” she said. “It’s a pleasure, sir.” and she bobbed a rudimentary curtsey in my direction. “No, sir, I don’t think the professor killed the Missus. Why would he do that?”

“Why, indeed,” I said.

“Miss Lucy is in the drawing room,” Willa told Holmes. “I’ll tell her you’re here.”

“I see you’re well known here,” I said to Holmes as the maid left.

“I have had the privilege of escorting Miss Lucy to this or that over the past few months,” Holmes replied a little stiffly, as though I were accusing him of something dishonorable. “Our relationship has been very proper at all times.”

I repressed a desire to say “how unfortunate,” as I thought he would take it badly.

Lucinda came out to the hall to meet us. She seemed quite subdued, but her eyes were bright and her complexion was feverish. “How good-how nice to see you, Sherlock,” she said quietly, offering him her hand. “And you’re Mr. Moriarty, Sherlock’s friend.”

Holmes and I both mumbled something comforting.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see you when you arrived earlier, Sherlock,” Lucy told him, leading us into the sitting room and waving us to a pair of well-stuffed chairs. “I was not in a fit condition to see anyone.”

“I quite understand,” Holmes said.

“I am pleased that you have come to the defense of my-of Professor Maples,” Lucy said, lowering herself into a straight-back chair opposite Holmes. “How anyone could suspect him of murdering my dear sister Andrea is quite beyond my comprehension.”

“I have reason to believe that he is, indeed, innocent, Lucy dear,” Holmes told her. “I am about to take my friend Mr. Moriarty over the grounds to show him what I have found, and to see whether he agrees with my conclusions.”

“And your conclusions,” Lucy asked, “what are they? Who do you believe committed this dreadful crime?”

“You have no idea?” I asked.

Lucinda recoiled as though I had struck her. “How could I?” she asked.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” I said. “Did your sister have any enemies?”

“Certainly not,” Lucy said. “She was outgoing, and warm, and friendly, and loved by all.”

“Andrea went to the cottage to meet someone,” Holmes said. “Do you have any idea who it was?”

“None,” Lucy said. “I find this whole thing quite shocking.” She lowered her head into her hands. “Quite shocking.”

After a moment Lucy raised her head. “I have prepared a small traveling-bag of Professor Maples’s things. A change of linen, a shirt, a couple of collars, some handkerchiefs, his shaving-cup and razor.”

“I don’t imagine they’ll let him have his razor,” Holmes commented.

“Oh!” Lucy said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I may be wrong,” Holmes said. “I will enquire.”

“Could I ask you to bring the bag to him?” Lucy rose. “I have it right upstairs.”

We followed her upstairs to the master bedroom to collect the bag. The room was an image of masculine disorder, with Professor Maples’ bed-they for some reason had separate beds, with a night-table between-rumpled and the bed clothes strewn about. Clothing was hung over various articles of furniture, and bureau drawers were pulled open. Maples had dressed hastily and, presumably, under police supervision, before being hauled off to the police station. Andrea’s bed was neat and tight, and it was evident that she had not slept in it the night before.

I decided to take a quick look in the other five rooms leading off the hall. I thought I would give Holmes and Miss Lucy their moment of privacy if they desired to use it.

One of the rooms, fairly large and with a canopied bed, was obviously Lucy’s. It was feminine without being overly frilly, and extremely, almost fussily, neat. There were two wardrobes in the room, across from each other, each with a collection of shoes on the bottom and a variety of female garments above.

I closed Lucy’s door and knocked on the door across the hall. Getting no answer, I pushed the door open. It was one of the two rooms rented by the boarder, Crisboy, furnished as a sitting-room, and I could see the door to the bedroom to the left. The young athletic instructor was sitting at his writing desk, his shoulders stooped, and his face buried in his arms on the desk. “Crisboy?” I said. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know you were here.” Which seemed a poor excuse for bursting in on a man, but my curiosity was probably inexcusable if it came to that.

He sat up and turned around. “No matter,” he said, using a small towel he was holding to wipe his face, which was red and puffy from crying. “Is there any news?” he asked me.

“Not that I am aware of,” I said.

“A heck of a thing,” he said. “That police person thinks that John-Professor Maples-killed Andrea. How could he think that? Professor Maples couldn’t hurt anyone. Insult them, yes; criticize them, yes; pierce them with barbs of-of-irony, yes. But hit anyone with a stick? Never!”

I backed out of Crisboy’s sitting-room with some murmured comment and closed the door. The hall door to the left was now identified as Crisboy’s bedroom. The door to the right turned out to be Andrea’s dressing room, with a small couch, a bureau, a dressing-table, and a connecting door to the master bedroom. The remaining door led to the lavatory.

Holmes emerged from the master bedroom with the traveling-bag thrust under his arm, shook hands with Lucy, and we went downstairs and out the back door.

“Here, this way,” Holmes said, taking me around to the side of the house. “There are markings on the path that, I believe, give some insight into what happened here. I have covered them over with some planks I found by the side of the house, to prevent them being washed away or tramped over.”

“Clever,” I said.

“Elementary,” he replied.

Holmes had placed four pieces of planking on the path between the house and the cottage. We paused at the one nearest the house. “The police theory-the theory of Sergeant Meeks-is that Andrea Maples left the house to have an assignation at the cottage with an unknown suitor-if a man who trysts with a married woman may be called a suitor. They are trying to determine whom he is. Professor Maples, awakening sometime during the night and finding his wife absent, went to the cottage, caught her as the suitor was leaving, or just after he left, realized what had happened by the state of her clothes, if not by other, ah, indications, and, in an uncontrollable rage, beat her to death with his walking-stick.”

I nodded. “That’s about the way it was told to me.”

“That story is contravened by the evidence,” Holmes declared carefully lifting the plank. “Observe the footsteps.”

The plank covered a partial line of footsteps headed from the house to the cottage, and at least one footstep headed back to the house. The imprint in all cases was that of a woman’s shoe.

“Note this indentation,” Holmes said, pointing out a round hole about three-quarters of an inch across and perhaps an inch deep that was slightly forward and to the right of an out-bound shoe imprint.

He sprinted over to the next plank and moved it, and then the next. “Look here,” he called. “And here, and here. The same pattern.”

“Yes,” I said, “I see.” I bent down and examined several of the footsteps closely, marking off the measurement from toe to heel and across the width of the imprint in my pocket notebook, and doing a rough sketch of what I saw, shielding the notebook as best I could from the slight drizzle.

“Notice that none of the footsteps in either direction were left by a man,” Holmes said.

“Yes,” I said, “I can see that.” There were three sets of footsteps, two leading from the house to the cottage, and one returning.

“It proves that Professor Maples did not kill his wife,” Holmes asserted.

“It certainly weakens the case against him,” I admitted.

“Come now,” Holmes said. “Surely you see that the entire case is predicated on the syllogism that, as Maples is never without his walking stick, and as his walking stick was used to kill Andrea Maples, then Maples must have murdered his wife.”

“So it would seem,” I agreed.

“A curious stick,” Holmes told me. “I had occasion to examine it once. Did you know that it is actually a sword-cane?”

“I did not know that,” I said.

“I believe that it will prove an important fact in the case,” Holmes told me.

“I assume that your conclusion is that Professor Maples was without his walking stick last night.”

“That’s right. Andrea Maples took it to the cottage herself. The indentations by her footsteps show that.”

“What is it that you think happened?” I asked Holmes.

“As you’ve noted, there are three sets of footsteps,” Holmes said. “Two going from the house to the cottage, and one returning to the house. As you can see, they are the footprints of a woman, and, carefully as I looked, I could find no indication of any footprints made by a man. One of the sets going seems to be slightly different in the indentation of the heel than the other sets. The returning set seems to be made up of footsteps that are further apart, and leave a deeper imprint than the others. I would say from examining them that Andrea Maples went to the cottage to meet someone. Before he arrived, she decided to arm herself and so she rushed back to the house and changed shoes-perhaps the first pair had been soaked by her stepping in a puddle-and then took her husband’s walking stick-which she knew to be actually a sword cane-and returned to the cottage.”

“And the person she was planning to meet?”

“He must have come by the road, as there are no markings on the path. But Professor Maples would surely have come by the path.”

“So she thought herself to be in some danger?”

“So I would read it.”

“So you would have it that it was not a romantic tryst?”

“Perhaps it had been,” Holmes suggested. “Perhaps she had decided to break off an affair with some person, and she knew him to have a violent nature. In the event it seems that she was correct.”

We had reached the cottage and, finding the back door unlocked, entered the small back pantry leading to the kitchen. Holmes dropped the traveling-bag by the door and lay his topcoat and hat over a kitchen chair, and I followed suit.

“That would explain why she failed to wake up her husband and returned to the cottage by herself, although she believed herself in some danger,” I said. “It neatly ties up most of the known facts. But I’m afraid that you won’t be able to convince the police that you’re right.”

“Why not?”

“There’s the fact of the disarray of Andrea Maples’s clothing. As I understand it she was in her undergarments, and seems to have been dressing. It indicates that the meeting with her mysterious friend was, ah, friendly.”

“Perhaps he forced himself on her.”

“Perhaps. But then one would expect her clothing to be not merely loosened or removed, but stretched or torn. I did not hear that this was so. Did you have an opportunity to examine the woman’s clothing?”

“Yes, I paid particular attention to the state of her clothing. She was wearing a petticoat and an over-something-another frilly white garment covering the upper part of her body. I am not very expert in the names of women’s garments.”

“Nor am I,” I said. “I assume the remainder of her clothing was somewhere about?”

“It was in the bedroom.”

We entered the parlor. The shades were drawn, keeping out even the weak light from the overcast sky. Holmes struck a match and lit an oil-lamp which was sitting on a nearby table. The flickering light cast grotesque shadows about the room, creating a nebulous sense of oppression and doom. Or perhaps it was just the knowledge of what had recently transpired here that gave the room its evil character. “There,” Holmes said, pointing to a large irregularly-shaped bloodstain on the floor by the front door. “There is where she lay. She came from the bedroom, as the rest of her clothing was there, and was attacked in the parlor.”

“Curious,” I said.

“Really?” Holmes replied. “How so?”

The question was not destined to be answered, at least not then. At that moment the front door banged open and a police sergeant of immense girth, a round, red face, and a majestic handlebar mustache stomped down the hall and into the room. “Here now,” he boomed. “What are you gentlemen doing in here, if I might ask?”

“Sergeant Meeks,” Holmes said. “You’ve returned to the scene of the crime. Perhaps you are going to take my suggestion after all.”

Meeks looked at Holmes with an air of benevolent curiosity. “And what suggestion might that be, young man?”

“I mentioned to you that it might be a good idea to post a constable here to keep the curiosity-seekers from wandering about. It was when you were escorting Professor Maples into the carriage to take him away.”

“Why so it was, Mr., ah,-”

“Holmes. And this is Mr. Moriarty.”

Meeks gave me a perfunctory nod, and turned his attention back to Holmes. “Yes, Mr. Holmes. So it was, and so you did. We of the regular constabulary are always grateful for any hints or suggestions as we might get from young gentlemen such as yourself. You also said something about preserving the foot-marks along the lane out back, as I remember.”

“That’s right.”

“Well I went to look at them foot-marks of yours, Mr. Holmes, lifting up a couple of them boards you put down and peering under. They was just what you said they was-foot-marks; and I thanks you kindly.”

“From your attitude I can see that you don’t attach much importance to the imprints,” Holmes commented, not allowing himself to be annoyed by the sergeant’s words or his sneering tone.

“We always try to plot a straight and true course when we’re investigating a case,” the sergeant explained. “There are always facts and circumstances around that don’t seem to fit in. And that’s because, if you’ll excuse my saying so, they have nothing to do with the case.”

“But perhaps there are times when some of these facts that you ignore actually present a clearer explanation of what really happened,” Holmes suggested. “For example, Sergeant, I’m sure you noticed that the footsteps were all made by a woman. Not a single imprint of a man’s foot on that path.”

“If you say so, Mr. Holmes. I can’t say that I examined them all that closely.”

Holmes nodded. “If what I say is true,” he said, “doesn’t that suggest anything to you?”

Sergeant Meeks sighed a patient sigh. “It would indicate that the accused did not walk on the path. Perhaps he went by the road. Perhaps he flew. It don’t really matter how he got to the cottage, it only matters what he did after he arrived.”

“Did you notice the imprint of the walking stick next to the woman’s footsteps?” Holmes asked. “Does that tell you nothing?”

“Nothing,” the sergeant agreed. “She may have had another walking stick, or perhaps the branch from a tree.”

Holmes shrugged. “I give up,” he said.

“You’d be better off leaving the detecting to the professionals, young man,” Meeks said. “We’ve done some investigating on our own already, don’t think we haven’t. And what we’ve heard pretty well wraps up the case against Professor Maples. I’m sorry, but there you have it.”

“What have you heard?” Holmes demanded.

“Never you mind. That will all come out at the inquest, and that’s soon enough. Now you’d best be getting out of here, the pair of you. I am taking your advice to the extent of locking the cottage up and having that broken window boarded over. We don’t want curiosity seekers walking away with the furniture.”

We retrieved our hats and coats and the bag with Professor Maples’ fresh clothing and left the cottage. The rain had stopped, but dusk was approaching and a cold wind gusted through the trees. Holmes and I walked silently back to the college, each immersed in our own thoughts: Holmes presumably wondering what new facts had come to light, and trying to decide how to get his information before the authorities; I musing on the morality of revealing to Holmes, or to others, what I had discerned, and from that what I had surmised, or letting matters proceed without my intervention.

Holmes left me at the college to continue on to the police station, and I returned to my rooms.

The inquest was held two days later in the chapel of, let me call it, St. Elmo’s College, one of our sister colleges making up the university. The chapel, a large gothic structure with pews that would seat several hundred worshipers, had been borrowed for this more secular purpose in expectation of a rather large turnout of spectators; in which expectation the coroner was not disappointed.

The coroner, a local squire named Sir George Quick, was called upon to perform this function two or three times a year. But usually it was for an unfortunate who had drowned in the canal or fallen off a roof. Murders were quite rare in the area; or perhaps most murderers were more subtle than whoever had done in Andrea Maples.

Holmes and I sat in the audience and watched the examination proceed. Holmes had gone to the coroner before the jury was seated and asked if he could give evidence. When he explained what he wanted to say, Sir George sent him back to his seat. What he had to offer was not evidence, Sir George explained to him, but his interpretation of the evidence. “It is for the jury to interpret the evidence offered,” Sir George told him, “not for you or I.” Holmes’s face was red with anger and mortification, and he glowered at the courtroom and everyone in it. I did my best not to notice.

Lucinda was in the front row, dressed in black. Her face wooden, she stared straight ahead through the half-veil that covered her eyes, and did not seem to be following anything that was happening around her. Crisboy sat next to her, wearing a black armband and a downcast expression. Professor Maples was sitting to one side, with a bulky constable sitting next to him and another sitting behind him. He had a bemused expression on his face, as though he couldn’t really take any of this seriously.

Sir George informed the assemblage that he was going to proceed in an orderly manner, and that he would tolerate no fiddle-faddle and then called his first witness. It turned out to be the young bicyclist with the sticky fingers. “I could see that it was blood,” he said, “and that it had come from beneath the door-from inside the house.”

Then he described how he and his companions broke a window to gain entrance, and found Andrea Maples’ body sprawled on the floor by the front door.

“And how was she dressed?” the coroner asked.

“She was not dressed, sir,” came the answer.

A murmur arose in the audience, and the young man blushed and corrected himself. “That is to say, she was not completely dressed. She had on her, ah, undergarments, but not her dress.”

“Shoes?” the coroner asked, with the bland air of one who is called upon to discuss semi-naked ladies every day.

“I don’t believe so, sir.”

“That will be all,” the coroner told him, “unless the jury have any questions?” he added, looking over at the six townsmen in the improvised jury box.

The foreman of the jury, an elderly man with a well-developed set of mutton-chop whiskers, nodded and gazed out at the witness. “Could you tell us,” he asked slowly, “what color were these undergarments?”

“White,” the young man said.

“Now then,” Sir George said, staring severely at the foreman, “that will be enough of that!”

Sergeant Meeks was called next. He sat in the improvised witness box hat in hand, his uniform and his face having both been buffed to a high shine, the very model of English propriety. The coroner led him through having been called, and arriving at the scene with his two constables, and examining the body.

“And then what did you do, sergeant?”

“After sending Constable Gough off to Beachamshire to notify the police surgeon, I thoroughly examined the premises to see whether I could ascertain what had occurred on the, ah, premises.”

“And what were your conclusions?”

“The deceased was identified to me as Mrs. Andrea Maples, wife of Professor Maples, who lived in the main house on the same property. She was dressed-”

“Yes, yes, sergeant,” Sir George interrupted. “We’ve heard how she was dressed. Please go on.”

“Very good, sir. She had been dead for some time when I examined her. I would put her death at between seven and ten hours previous, based on my experience. Which placed the time of her death at sometime around midnight.”

“And on what do you base that conclusion?”

“The blood around the body was pretty well congealed, but not completely in the deeper pools, and the body appeared to be fairly well along into rigor mortis at that time.

“Very observant, sergeant. And what else did you notice?”

“The murder weapon was lying near the body. It was a hard wood walking stick with a ducks-head handle. It had some of the victim’s blood on it, and a clump of the victim’s hair was affixed to the duck’s head in the beak area. The stick was identified by one of the bicyclists who was still present as being the property of Professor Maples, husband of the victim.”

“And what did you do then?”

“I proceeded over to the main house to question Professor Maples, who was just sitting down to breakfast when I arrived. I told him of his wife’s death, and he affected to be quite disturbed at the news. I then asked him to produce his walking stick, and he spend some time affecting to look for it. I then placed him under arrest and sent Constable Parfry for a carriage to take the professor to the station house.”

“Here, now!” a short, squat juror with a walrus moustache that covered his face from below his nose to below his chin, shifted in his seat and leaned belligerently forward. “What made you arrest the professor at that there moment? It seems to me that whoever the Maples woman was having an assigerna… — was meeting at this here cottage in the middle of the night was more likely to have done her in.”

“Now, now, we’ll get to that,” the coroner said, fixing the fractious juror with a stern eye. “I’m trying to lay out the facts of the case in an orderly manner. We’ll get to that soon enough.”

The next witness was the police surgeon, who testified that the decedent had met her death as a result of multiple blunt-force blows to the head and shoulders. He couldn’t say just which blow killed her, any one of several could have. And, yes, the duck-headed cane presented in evidence could have been the murder weapon.

Sir George nodded. So much for those who wanted information out of its proper order. Now…

Professor Maples was called next. The audience looked expectant. He testified that he had last seen his wife at about nine o’clock on the night she was killed. After which he had gone to bed, and, as he had been asleep, had not been aware of her absence.

“You did not note that she was missing when you awoke, or when you went down to breakfast?” Sir George asked.

“I assumed she had gone out early,” Maples replied. “She went out early on occasion. I certainly didn’t consider foul play. One doesn’t, you know.”

Professor Maples was excused, and the audience looked disappointed.

An acne-laden young man named Cramper was called up next. He was, he explained, employed at the local public house, the Red Garter, as a sort of general assistant. On the night of the murder he had been worked unusually late, shifting barrels of ale from one side of the cellar to the other. “It were on account of the rats,” he explained.

Sir George, wisely, did not pursue that answer any further. “What time was it when you started for home?” he asked.

“Must have been going on for midnight, one side or ‘nother.”

Sir George stared expectantly at Cramper, and Cramper stared back complacently at Sir George.

“Well?” the coroner said finally.

“Well? Oh, what happened whilst I walked home. Well, I saw someone emerging from the old Wilstone cottage.”

“That’s the cottage where the murder took place?” Sir George prompted.

“Aye, that’s the one aright. Used to be a gent named Wilstone lived there. Still comes back from time to time, I believe.”

“Ah!” said Sir George. “And this person you saw coming from the, ah, old Wilstone cottage?”

“Happens I know the gent. Name of Faulting. He teaches jumping and squatting, or some such, over by the college field building.”

There was a murmur from the audience, which Sir George quashed with a look.

“And you could see clearly who the gentleman was, even though it was the middle of the night?”

“Ever so clearly. Aye, sir.”

“And how was that?”

“Well, there were lights on in the house, and his face were all lit up by them lights.”

“Well,” Sir George said, looking first at the jury and then at the audience. “We will be calling Mr. Faulting next, to verify Mr. Cramper’s story. And he will, gentlemen and, er, ladies. He will. Now, what else did you see, Mr. Cramper?”

“You mean in the house?”

“That’s right. In the house.”

“Well, I saw the lady in question-the lady who got herself killed.”

“You saw Mrs. Maples in the house?”

“Aye, that’s so. She were at the door, saying goodbye to this Faulting gent.”

“So she was alive and well at that time?”

“Aye. That she were.”

The jury foreman leaned forward. “And how were she dressed?” he called out, and then stared defiantly at the coroner, who had turned to glare at him.

“It were only for a few seconds that I saw her before she closed the door,” Cramper replied. “She were wearing something white, I didn’t much notice what.”

“Yes, thank you,” you’re excused,” Sir George said.

Mr. Faulting was called next, and he crept up to the witness chair like a man who knew he was having a bad dream, but didn’t know how to get out of it. He admitted having been Andrea Maples’ night visitor. He was not very happy about it, and most of his answers were mumbles, despite Sir George’s constant admonitions to speak up. Andrea had, he informed the coroner’s court, invited him to meet her in the cottage at ten o’clock.

“What about her husband?” the coroner demanded.

“I asked her that,” Faulting said. “She laughed. She told me that he wouldn’t object; that I was free to ask him if I liked. I, uh, I didn’t speak with him.”

“No,” the coroner said, “I don’t imagine you did.”

Faulting was the last witness. The coroner reminded the jury that they were not to accuse any person of a crime, even if they thought there had been a crime; that was a job for the criminal courts. They were merely to determine cause of death. After a brief consultation, the jury returned a verdict of unlawful death.

“Thank you,” Sir George said. “You have done your duty. I assume,” he said, looking over at Sergeant Meeks, “that there is no need for me to suggest a course of action to the police.”

“No, sir,” Meeks told him. “Professor Maples will be bound over for trial at the assizes.”

Sir George nodded. “Quite right,” he said.

“Bah!” Holmes said to me in an undertone.

“You disagree?” I asked.

“I can think of a dozen ways Faulting could have pulled that trick,” he said. “That young man-Cramper-didn’t see Andrea Maples in the doorway, he saw a flash of something white.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“Bah!” Holmes repeated.

When we left the building Miss Lucy came over to Holmes and pulled him away, talking to him in an earnest undertone. I walked slowly back to my rooms, trying to decide what to do. I disliked interfering with the authorities in their attempted search for justice, and I probably couldn’t prove what I knew to be true, but could I stand by and allow an innocent man to be convicted of murder? And Maples would surely be convicted if he came to trial. There was no real evidence against him, but he had the appearance of guilt, and that’s enough to convince nine juries out of ten.

About two hours later Holmes came over, his eyes shining. “Miss Lucy is a fine woman,” he told me.

“Really?” I said.

“We talked for a while about her sister. That is, she tried to talk about Andrea, but she kept breaking down and crying before she could finish a thought.”

“Not surprising,” I said.

“She asked me if I thought Professor Maples was guilty,” Holmes told me. “I said I was convinced he was not. She asked me if I thought he would be convicted if he came to trial. I thought I’d better be honest. I told her it seemed likely.”

“You told her true,” I commented.

“She is convinced of his innocence, even though it is her own sister who was killed. Many-most-people would allow emotion to override logic. And she wants to help him. She said, ‘Then I know what I must do,’ and she went off to see about hiring a lawyer.”

“She said that?” I asked.

“She did.”

“Holmes, think carefully. Did she say she was going to hire a lawyer?”

Holmes was momentarily startled at my question. “Well, let’s see. She said she knew what she must do, and I said he’s going to need the best lawyer and the best barrister around to clear himself of this, for all that we know he is not guilty.”

“And?”

“And then she said she would not allow him to be convicted. And she-well-she kissed me on the cheek, and she said, “Goodbye, Mr. Holmes, you have been a good friend.’ And she hurried off.”

“How long ago did she leave you?”

“Possibly an hour, perhaps a bit longer.”

I jumped to my feet. “Come, Holmes,” I said, “we must stop her.”

“Stop her?”

“Before she does something foolish. Come, there’s no time to waste!”

“Does what?” he asked, hurrying after me as I hastened down the hall, pulling my coat on.

“Just come!” I said. “Perhaps I’m wrong.”

We raced out of the college and over to Barleymore Road, and continued in the direction of the Maples’ house at a fast walk. It took about ten minutes to get there, and I pushed through the front door without bothering to knock.

Mr. Crisboy was sitting in the parlor, staring at the wall opposite, a study in suspended motion. In one hand was a spoon, in the other a small bottle. When we entered the room he slowly put both objects down. “Professor Maples depends on this fluid,” he said. “Two spoons full before each meal.” He held the bottle up for our inspection. The label read: Peals Patented Magical Elixir of Health. “Do you think they’d let me bring him a few bottles?”

“I’m sure they would,” I told him. “Do you know where Lucy is?”

“She’s upstairs in her room,” Crisboy told me. “She is quite upset. But of course, we’re all quite upset. She asked not to be disturbed.”

I made for the staircase, Holmes close behind me. “Why this rush?” He demanded. “We can’t just barge in on her.”

“We must,” I said. I pounded at her door, but there was no answer. The door was locked. I put my shoulder against it. After the third push it gave, and I stumbled into the room, Holmes close behind me.

There was an overturned chair in the middle of the room. From a hook in the ceiling that had once held a chandelier, dangled the body of Lucy Moys.

“My God!” Holmes exclaimed.

Holmes righted the chair and pulled a small clasp knife from his pocket. I held the body steady while Holmes leaped up on the chair and sawed at the rope until it parted. We lay her carefully on the bed. It was clear from her white face and bulging, sightless eyes that she was beyond reviving. Holmes nonetheless cut the loop from around her neck. “Horrible,” he said. “And you knew this was going to happen? But why? There’s no reason-”

“Every reason,” I said. “No, I didn’t predict this, certainly not this quickly, but I did think she might do something foolish.”

“But-”

“She must have left a note,” I said.

We covered her body with a blanket, and Holmes went over to the writing desk. “Yes,” he said. “There’s an envelope here addressed to ‘The Police.’ And a second one-it’s addressed to me!”

He ripped it open. After a few seconds he handed it to me. Sherlock, It could have been different had I been different. I like you tremendously. Think well of me. I’m so sorry. Lucy

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock Holmes said. “What does it mean? Why did she do this?’

“The letter to the police,” I said, “what does it say?”

He opened it. To whoever reads this- I am responsible for the death of my sister Andrea. I killed her in a jealous rage. I cannot live with myself, and I cannot allow Professor Maples, a sweet and innocent man, to suffer for my crime. This is best for all concerned. Lucinda Moys

“I don’t understand,” Holmes said. “She was jealous of Faulting? But I didn’t think she even knew Faulting very well.”

“She kept her secrets,” I said, “even onto death.”

“What secrets?”

“This household,” I said, gesturing around me, “holds one big secret that is, you might say, made up of several smaller secrets.”

“You knew that she had done it-that she had killed her sister?”

“I thought so, yes.” I patted him on the shoulder, and he flinched as though my touch was painful. “Let us go downstairs now,” I said.

“You go,” Holmes said. “I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

I left Holmes staring down at the blanket-covered body on the bed, and went down to the parlor. “Lucy has committed suicide,” I told Crisboy, who had put the bottle down but was still staring at the wall opposite. “She left a note. She killed Andrea.”

“Ahhh!” he said. “Then they’ll be letting the professor go.”

“Yes,” I said.

“She’d been acting strange the past few days. But with what happened, I never thought… Hung herself?”

“Yes,” I said. “Someone must go to the police station.”

“Of course.” Crisboy got up. “I’ll go.” He went into the hall and took his overcoat off the peg. “Ahhh. Poor thing.” He went out the door.

About ten minutes later Holmes came down. “How did you know?” he asked.

“The footsteps that you preserved so carefully,” I said. “There were three lines: two going out to the cottage and one coming back. The single one going out was wearing different shoes, and it-she-went first. I could tell because some of the prints from the other set overlapped the first. And it was the second set going out that had the indentations from the walking stick. So someone-some woman-went out after Andrea Maples, and that woman came back. She went out with the walking stick and came back without it.”

“I missed that,” Holmes said.

“It’s easier to tell than to observe,” I told him.

“I had made up my mind about what I was going to find before I went to look,” he said. “The deductive process suffers from preconceptions.”

“It’s a matter of eliminating the impossible,” I told him. “Then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

“I shall remember that,” he said. “I still cannot fathom that Lucy was that jealous of Andrea.”

“She was, but not in the way you imagine,” I told him.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you remember that I suggested that you notice Lucinda’s ears?”

“Yes.” Holmes looked puzzled. “They looked like-ears.”

“Their shape was quite distinctive, and quite different from those of Andrea. The basic shape of the ear seems to be constant within a family. This was a reasonable indication that Andrea and Lucinda were not really sisters.”

“Not really sisters? Then they were-what?”

“They were lovers,” I told him. “There are women who fall in love with other women, just as there are men who fall in love with other men. The ancient Greeks thought it quite normal.”

“Lovers?”

“Andrea preferred women to men, and Lucinda was her, ah, mate.”

“But-Professor Maples is her husband.”

“I assume it was truly a marriage of convenience. If you look at the bedrooms it is clear that Andrea and Lucy usually shared a bedroom-Lucy’s-as they both have quantities of clothing in it. And I would assume that Professor Maples and Mr. Crisboy have a similar arrangement.”

“You think the professor and Crisboy-but they…”

“A German professor named Ulrichs has coined a word for such unions; he calls them homo-sexual. In some societies they are accepted, and in some they are condemned. We live in the latter.”

“Holmes sat down in the straight-back chair. “That is so,” he said. “So you think they derived this method of keeping their relationships concealed?”

“I imagine the marriage, if there was a marriage, and Andrea’s adopting Lucy as her ‘sister’ was established well before the menage moved here. It was the ideal solution, each protecting the other from the scorn of society and the sting of the laws against sodomy and such behavior.”

“But Andrea went to the cottage to have, ah, intimate relations with Faulting.”

“She liked to flirt, you must have observed that. And she obviously wasn’t picky as to which gender she flirted with, or with which gender she, let us say, consummated her flirting. There are women like that, many of them it seems unusually attractive and, ah, compelling. Augustus Caesar’s daughter Julia seems to have been one of them, according to Suetonius. Andrea found Faulting attractive, and was determined to have him. My guess is that she and Lucy had words about it, but Andrea went to meet Faulting anyway, while Lucy remained in her room and worked herself into a jealous rage. She didn’t intend to kill Andrea; that’s shown by the fact that she didn’t open the sword cane, although she must have known about it.”

Holmes was silent for a minute, and I could see some powerful emotion growing within him. “You had this all figured out,” he said, turning to me, his words tight and controlled.

“Much of it,” I admitted. “But don’t berate yourself for missing it. I was familiar with the idea of homo-sexuality through my reading, and several acquaintances of mine have told me of such relationships. I had the knowledge and you didn’t.”

But I had misjudged the direction of Holmes’ thoughts. The fury in him suddenly exploded. “You could have stopped this,” he screamed. “You let it happen!”

I backed away to avoid either of us doing something we would later regret. “I knew nothing of Andrea’s tryst,” I told him, “nor Lucinda’s fury.”

Holmes took a deep breath. “No,” He said, “you couldn’t have stopped the murder, but you could have stopped Lucy’s suicide. Clearly you knew what she intended.”

“You credit me with a prescience I do not possess,” I told him.

“You were fairly clear on what she intended an hour after the event,” he said. “Why couldn’t you have rushed out here before?”

“I don’t know,” I told him. “Until you told me what she had said to you, it didn’t strike me-”

“It didn’t strike you!”

“You spoke to her yourself,” I said, “and yet you guessed nothing.”

“I didn’t know what you knew,” he said. “I was a fool. But you-what were you?”

I had no answer for him. Perhaps I should have guessed what Lucy intended. Perhaps I did guess. Perhaps, on some unconscious level I weighed the options of her ending her own life, or of her facing an English jury, and then being taken out one cold morning, and having the hood tied around her head and the heavy hemp rope around her neck, and hearing a pusillanimous parson murmuring homilies at her until they sprang the trap.

A few minutes later the police arrived. The next day Professor Maples was released from custody and returned home. Within a month he and Crisboy had packed up and left the college. Although nothing was ever officially said about their relationship, the rumors followed them to Maples’ next position, and to the one after that, until finally they left Britain entirely. I lost track of them after that. Holmes left the college at the end of the term. I believe that, after taking a year off, he subsequently enroled at Cambridge.

Holmes has never forgiven me for what he believes I did. He has also, it would seem, never forgiven the fair sex for the transgressions of Lucinda Moys. I did not at the time realize the depth of his feelings toward her. Perhaps he didn’t either. His feeling toward me is unfortunate and has led, over the years, to some monstrous accusations on his part. I am no saint. Indeed, as it happens I eventually found myself on the other side of the law as often as not. I am pleased to call myself England’s first consulting criminal, as I indulge in breaking the laws of my country to support my scientific endeavors. But when Holmes calls me “the Napoleon of crime,” is he not perhaps seeing, through the mists of time, the blanket-covered body of that unfortunate girl whose death he blames on me? And could it be that he is reflecting on the fact that the first, perhaps the only, woman he ever loved was incapable of loving him in return?

At any rate, I issue one last stern warning to those of you who repeat Holmes’s foul canards about me in print, or otherwise: there are certain of the laws of our land that I embrace heartily, and the laws of libel and slander ride high on the list. Beware!