The Sensible Necktie and Other Stories of Sherlock Holmes (9 page)

“And what about yourself?” asked Holmes just as Miss Brill was about to take us further inside the house.

“Myself? I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”

“What is your background, Miss Brill? Why have you stayed with your mistress for so long?”

“Oh, there is precious little to tell about me, and I do not see that it is relevant in this matter, but if you must know I was born and raised only a few miles from here, and started coming here as a girl delivering groceries from my parents' shop. Then Miss Landseer's housekeeper passed away, and I was approached with the offer. At that time it was the only prospect for my future that I had encountered, and I gladly accepted. The reason why I stayed for so long is that I grew increasingly fond of Miss Landseer, as my letter indicated, and after a few years I had no interest in changing my life.”

“But no suitors? No other offers?” I queried. “For such a delightful young woman there must have been numerous prospects?”

“My work with Miss Landseer has made me a free woman. Much freer than I would have been with a husband, or in a regular household. We live together as friends.”

“I see.”

Her face was motionless when she spoke these honest words, and her placid confidence made it impossible for me to question the situation further. She escorted us through the hallway, a dark and gloomy interior dominated by oak panelling. We walked across a large Persian rug, up four steps, and then through a door that led into a rather more pleasant drawing room. By the side of a blazing fire that made the room almost a bit too hot even in this rough weather, sat a small and unassuming creature, at first just a vague movement within the depths of a large wing chair, made visible by the flicker of the flames, but as we moved forward a couple of wringing hands and a pale wrinkled face on the end of a strangely conical head, rather like the face of a sloth, became discernible. The only sound that reached our ears apart from that of the crackling logs, was the sound of the smooth ancient skin on her hands as she wrung them, over and over again.

Miss Brill invited us to sit on two smaller armchairs placed in front of her mistress as if only for our benefit, as she placed herself on a simple footstool slightly behind her employer.

“Welcome to Albany Place, gentlemen,” said the old woman in an unexpectedly youthful voice. “I wish I could have welcomed you as guests a few decades ago, when the world was different and this house was more alive than it is now. But we must all face our destiny with our heads held high, and I cannot say that fate has treated me unfairly. I accept my lot and have no complaints. I am alone and the world has grown too large for me, but I am blessed enough to have my dear Connie by my side, and together we lead a pleasant enough existence. The events of these recent days, however, have unnerved me, and I wish only to make heads or tails of them so that I may recover my peace of mind.”

“Lay your matter before us,” said Holmes, “and spare us no details, however trifling or grotesque.”

“Very well, Mr Holmes. But before I explain to you my reason for summoning you, I feel I ought to explain some things about our life here. Albany Place was built many years ago by an artist, who designed the curious structure that you see today. But he only lived here for two years before dying from a heart attack, and I bought the house after it had been deemed unfashionable and nobody but rats and pigeons had made use of it for some years. Now, however, I am too old and infirm to be able to enjoy the house in its entirety. I have no money to employ a staff of servants to keep the house in good order, nor would it be necessary for me to do so, as I am unable to climb the stairs, and am committed to live in this room and an adjoining bedroom that has been converted for my benefit from the old smoking room. Connie has taken up residence in the kitchen maid's old room, but we have long since disposed of the conventional spatial and social divisions between master and servant. You must understand, therefore, that the rest of the house is virtually abandoned, and neither I nor Connie have been upstairs for years.

“This state of things has bearing on the matter in hand. It began a week and a half ago. Connie and I retire late every evening, as we enjoy sitting by the fire, chatting and doing needlework. The evening in question, we were sitting here, when suddenly Connie said to me that she could hear a strange noise. We sat in silence for a while, and I tried to distinguish it myself, but was unable to do so with my impaired hearing. Connie said it was a faint but consistent creaking, didn't you, Connie, dear?”

Miss Brill leaned forward. “Yes. It was barely audible, but as it was so consistent, it was impossible not to notice it after a while.”

“I naturally attributed it to rats,” continued Miss Landseer, “as I suspect there are quite a few in the upper regions of the house, and after a few minutes we forgot the matter and the sound seemed to disappear. But the following evening, there it was again. And this time, Connie went upstairs to investigate.”

The old woman handed the tale over to her companion with a sweeping gesture.

“The sound was coming from somewhere in the upper regions of the house,” Miss Brill said. “I have actually only been up the stairs on one or two occasions during my years here, and then only out of curiosity. In those instances, I was halted at the top of the first flight of stairs by my own fear, for, being an old and deserted house, it has many strange sounds that can make even the boldest of men tremble. I also think that this fear has grown in me since those first ventures up the stairs. On the occasion in question, though, I told myself that it would be foolish to fear whatever would meet me at the top of those stairs, and tried to ignore any fantasies that would run through my mind. When I had come to the top of the first flight of stairs, the sound was more distinct. It was a continuous scratching, and reminded me of the sound of someone scratching off paint from a wall. For a moment I paused, and considered the possibility that this sound came from inside my head and that I was going insane. But just then, the scratching became more frenetic and loud, and it was clear to me that it came from the first room on the left, an old bedchamber. I carefully trod the creaking floorboards up to the door and pushed it open. A bang, as of something dropping, could be heard, and the scratching ceased, only to be supplanted by a series of clanks and creaks. The source of all these sounds was undoubtedly the window, and I rushed up to it, my fear now overpowered by a relentless curiosity. I reached it just in time to see a figure emerging from the shadows of the lower outside wall and run across the lawn into the bushes.”

“We were convinced,” continued Miss Landseer, “from what Connie had seen, that we had been the victims of a burglary attempt. We summoned the police the next day, and they examined the upstairs room and the wall leading up to the window, but could not find any clear signs of an intruder. The drainpipe was loose in a couple of places and the wisteria had been pulled at, but there was nothing that could be separated from the rest of the damage on the exterior that are only to be attributed to lack of maintenance. It was apparent from the countenance of the policeman that he considered our complaint unfounded, and he suggested that rats was the cause.”

“But only two days later,” said Miss Brill, “the sound returned.”

“This time, however, it was a different sound,” Miss Landseer added.

“Different?” I said. “How so?”

“It had changed from a scratching to a banging,” replied Miss Brill. “It was hardly a very loud banging, but enough to startle us. We first heard it in the middle of the night, and it woke us both up. I went up to investigate once more, but this time it came from even higher up, and so I had to climb two flights of stairs. The second floor is quite small, owing to the curious dwindling shape of the building, as I am sure you noticed upon arriving. There is barely a corridor, only four rooms entered through a diamond-shaped hallway. I fancied the sound was coming from the second door, and carefully opened it. In the moonlight that came in through the window, I could see the contours of furniture covered with old bed linen and a moth-eaten stuffed fox on a tabletop, but there was no movement. Just then, I was startled by the sound of the banging starting again just behind me. I turned around and concluded that it came from within the fourth room. The door creaked as I opened it, and I managed to glance into the dark room quick enough to see what I imagined to be a shadow sweeping past the window. I gathered that there was someone outside again, and this time I wanted to intercept him. I ran down the stairs as fast as I could and out of the front door. The window I had seen him in was on the north side of the house, and I positioned myself below it to catch him as he came down. But he was not there. Was I too late? It could not be. Climbing down the exterior of the house from such a height would take at least five minutes, and I had been down in thirty seconds. There was only one explanation. He had managed to get inside. So I ran inside once more, and went up to the first floor to listen for sounds. I could hear someone walking above me. What was I to do? We were only two defenceless women in an old house, the size of which became evident to me for the first time. Then I remembered the hunting rifle that hangs above the fireplace in our drawing room.” She pointed at a very old and surely quite useless weapon hanging from a few nails. “I entertained no illusions to the point that it would be able to fire this antique, but I went down and took it all the same, thinking that it could be used to intimidate the intruder.

“I went up to the second floor, holding the weapon before me. I saw at once that the door to the fourth room had been opened, but there was no sign of the burglar. He must have made his way down to the first floor while I went down for the rifle, I thought, and as I came down to the first floor landing, I could see a silhouette running away down the corridor.

“‘Halt!' I shouted, and it must have been the excitement of the moment, for without meaning to, I pulled the trigger of the rifle, and to my great astonishment and alarm, a shot went off! There was a sound as of shattering glass, and I think I must have broken a window at the far end of the corridor. It was too dark up there to see clearly, but I think the intruder took advantage of the broken window, and climbed out that way.”

Miss Landseer put a friendly hand on Miss Brill's knee. “Connie scared them away,” she said with a tinge of pride.

“This is a most curious business,” I remarked. “Who would want to break into a house that looks as dilapidated as this? Or is there anything of value in your possessions that might attract a thief?”

“Not in the least,” said Miss Landseer. “I have lived on very little money since I was forced to settle my father's debts.”

“All the more strange,” I said, “because that precludes the eventuality that the burglar knew who was living here, and had set his eye on some well-known heirloom of yours. Don't you think it strange, Holmes?”

“I do, but it is hardly without sense. There is at least some logic in the way the burglar tried to force the weak parts of the house - the run-down upper floors - as the ground floor has a very thick front door that would take time to break in through, and the only windows, as I gather, are in the back rooms that you use as private quarters. He would not be able to get into the ground floor without running the risk of waking you up. The venture is helped, furthermore, by the shape of the house, making it quite easy to climb the exterior. It has numerous ledges and holes suitable for grabbing when you climb, and taken together with the wisteria, it means you do not even have to be very agile to be able to scale the wall. But tell me, has there been further attempts since this one?”

“There was one more,” said Miss Landseer, “about four days later. This time, he seems to have given up the moment he heard Connie going up the stairs. I think he tried to force another one of the first-floor windows, but without success.”

Holmes jumped in his seat. “Ha! This run-down house seems more solid than most of its kind.”

“It is a very sturdy construction, Mr Holmes.”

“Yes, but so, my experience tells me, is the perseverance of burglars. And have there been no further incidents since that time? This must have been several days ago.”

The two women exchanged glances.

“No, Mr Holmes,” said Miss Landseer, “there has been nothing. We were deeply unsettled by the events, however, and Connie wrote her letter to you the day after the last attempt. We live here in solitude and tranquillity, and do not take such intrusions lightly.”

Holmes placed his forefinger across his lips. “But surely, Miss Landseer, you receive visitors to this day.”

“How can you say?”

“Because the chairs that Watson and I are sitting in have both been standing here for at least a few weeks, judging from the deep imprint they have made in the rug. One of them is surely for Miss Brill, but what about the other one?”

The women looked at each other again, this time with a smile.

“You are quite right,” said Miss Landseer, “we do receive a visitor. Mr Hutchinson, a retired furniture salesman who recently moved into one of the smaller houses down the road. He knocked on our door four nights ago, wishing to acquaint himself with his new neighbours.”

“He was so utterly charming,” added Miss Brill, “that I could hardly refuse to let him in.”

“Yes,” Miss Landseer smiled, “we became quite fond of Mr Hutchinson, and he has come back to chat with us over a cup of coffee every evening since then. But that is another matter entirely, and our business with you was the burglar.”

Holmes studied the old woman's placid face.

“You will forgive me for prying, I'm sure, but I am fascinated by gentlemen who manage to carry themselves with such irresistible charm. I am quite a student of charm, is that not so, Watson?”