Chapter 8: The Elmwood Manor Mystery

It was a gloomy November day, but that did nothing to dampen Rupert Swann’s spirits. He had relished his post-breakfast walk even more than usual because he was looking forward to something out of the ordinary after lunch. Early that morning he had received a letter from Lord Wetherley of Elmwood Manor, which was close to the village of Shadwell, about six miles from Leeds city centre. The letter, delivered by a messenger boy, expressed the hope that Swann might be available to receive the writer at three that afternoon, and asked that a verbal reply be given to the boy.

Swann had finished his last case over three weeks earlier and did not want to miss the chance of another. He could think of no reason why Lord Wetherley would have any need to call on him, except to enlist his professional services, so he was happy to send the lad on his way with the requested confirmation.

Shortly after the boy left, Swann had his breakfast, followed as usual by his first pipe of the day. While smoking, feet up on the low fireside table, he gave some thought to what he knew of Lord Wetherley. His conclusion was that, like so many people, he knew precious little about the peer, who was very wealthy, reputedly eccentric and certainly reclusive, taking little part in society. It was said that he was immersed in physics. One newspaper reporter had suggested that Lord Wetherley was broadly comparable to Henry Cavendish, his predecessor by a century or so and a man of high birth, extremely sy socially and highly distinguished by virtue of his scientific endeavours.

With his smoke finished, Swann dressed and went for a walk, opting to wander around the inner suburb of Headingley for a while, then return to the city centre for lunch. He had been out for only twenty minutes when he stopped to watch a scene he had witnessed at least a dozen times but always enjoyed. A number of people had gathered around a dray carrying barrels of beer from the main local brewery to various public houses. The driver, in company livery, including top hat, had stopped to give his horses, a pair of mighty dapple-grey Shires, a brief rest. As Swann and his fellow spectators admired the huge beasts, each close to a ton of magnificent muscle, the drayman left his seat, placed a lump of sugar between his teeth and offered it to the kerbside horse. Using its own teeth, the animal plucked the morsel from the driver, as gently as could be. The little ritual was repeated with the other horse, then the driver bowed to his viewers, man and horses took a round of applause, the wagon went about its business and the little group of onlookers dispersed.*

A further hour of walking brought Swann to Briggate, the busy central thoroughfare off which a narrow side-alley led him to his favourite lunchtime spot, Whitelock’s Tavern, the oldest public house in Leeds. He did justice to two beef sandwiches and a pint of excellent bitter. On leaving the tavern he had started to head back to his Park Square lodgings when it occurred to him that his stock of tobacco was low, so he turned back and went to a shop in Vicar Lane for a fresh supply.

The decision to make that slight detour caused Swann to continue his entertainment for day in a most unexpected manner. Having made his purchase, he had walked only a few steps when he reached the entrance to a hostelry of doubtful repute, from which two middle-aged men emerged at speed, cursing loudly. They squared up to each other on the pavement, nearly five feet apart, but in diagonal opposition with respect to the buildings and kerb, therefore impeding the progress of other pedestrians. Both men were weaving and tottering, obviously inebriated. It seemed unlikely that any blows they might have landed would have done much harm.

“Excuse me,” said Swann, addressing the pair. “I would like to get past before the fight starts.” In return he received a volley of abuse from each man, to the effect that if did not clear off at once he would get a thrashing. At that instant a middle-aged, well-dressed woman came along, wishing to continue on her way. “Oh, dear,” she said. “What is happening here? Must I go into the road?”

The lady was speaking to Swann. He raised a hand to detain her. “Certainly not, madam,” he answered. “Allow me a moment to deal with this.” No stranger to the art of pugilism, he stepped between the prospective combatants, made two bony firsts and shot out both arms sideways. He held his pose for a moment, looking somewhat like a well-clad scarecrow. His blows had the desired effect. The man on his right, nose bleeding, fell into the gutter, while the other, struck on his chin, flopped back into the doorway he had just left.

Swann doffed his cap to the woman. “I think you may proceed now,” he said.

Showing a level of composure that matched her appearance and deportment, the woman gave her rescuer a broad smile. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “How fortuitous that you were here at the right moment. I shall remember your gallantry.” With that she walked off. Swann followed her, though only for a few yards until she crossed the Headrow and he turned into it.

As he ambled back towards his rooms, Swann reflected, as he often did, on the old debate about determinism and free will. He came to the same conclusion as he always had done, that the former was what befell people and the latter was how they reacted to it. He reasoned that in the instance he had just experienced, the determinism was whatever impelled him to buy tobacco at the moment he did so, thereby coming upon the two drunks, while the free will was his choice of response to the encounter.

Before reaching Park Square, Swann called at the public library to see what he could add to his knowledge of Lord Wetherley. The information was scant, revealing little more than that the man was sixty-three years of age and a childless widower. As for his home, Swann had no first-hand knowledge of Elmwood Manor. The only reference to it he had ever heard had come from a member of his club, who had once been driven past the place in a coach. He described it as a gloomy, mouldering pile with more wings than a skein of geese, and all verging on collapse. However, Swann was aware that his informant was a raconteur with a colourful vocabulary and an inclination to overstatement.

Back in his rooms, Swann had time for a leisurely pipe before his visitor appeared. Lord Wetherley’s heavy tread was audible as he walked along the hall. He knocked and Swann went to the door to welcome him. His Lordship was of average height and corpulent. He was breathless, apparently from climbing the single flight of stairs, as he had arrived in a carriage. His black overcoat was open, revealing a suit of the same colour. He was wearing highly polished black boots, a black bowler hat and a navy blue tie. In fact the only thing that was not very dark about his attire was a white shirt.

Swann waved his visitor to a fireside chair and established that a glass of sherry would not come amiss. With generous measures poured, he sat facing the peer. “Now, please tell me what brings you here in a state of such agitation,” he said.

Lord Wetherley’s eyes widened in surprise. “You are right about my condition,” he replied, “but how did you deduce it on such short acquaintance?”

“It is no great feat on my part to conclude that a man with trembling hands, a shaking voice and a twitch around his left eye is somewhat overwrought.”

“Ah, I was given to understand that you are perceptive, Mr Swann, and I see that is true. Well sir, my nerves are indeed ragged, and upon my soul, I have good reason.”

“Please explain.”

His Lordship passed a hand across his brow. “Well, among other things, I am beginning to have serious doubts about my sanity.”

That brought a thin smile from Swann. “At least you start with good news,” he said.

“What? You think it glad tidings that I may be mad?”

“No. I see it as positive that you express doubts. My experience of such matters is limited, but it has persuaded me that those who are rational enough to do that have little ground for fear. I think if you were really of unsound mind, you would assert the opposite. However, perhaps you will kindly give me some details.”

“That is easy to do. There have been strange happenings at my home recently, always during nights and at intervals of two or three days. First, a painting was removed from the dining room wall and placed face-down on the table. Shortly after that, two flower vases were overturned in the hall and the contents, including the water, were found on the carpet. Next, about twenty books were taken from the library shelves and strewn around the floor. Shortly after that, the Bible my wife used to read was placed on a table in the hall, opened at Matthew 5:38. The words ‘an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth’ had been circled with a red pencil. Finally, this morning, my attention was drawn to some capital letters printed in white chalk on the inside of the front door. If that is a message it means nothing to me, but I made a copy and here it is.”

A brief glance at the paper was all Swann needed. “Vergeltung,” he said. It is German and means retaliation, or any synonym of that word.”

Lord Wetherley shook his head. “I cannot think of any reason why anyone should wish to wreak vengeance on me for anything,” he replied. Frankly, apart from the doubts I expressed about my mental state, I am wondering whether I have become a somnambulist.”

“Have you any reason for thinking that you might be?”

“Yes. The morning after one of these incidents, my maid approached me in a most diffident manner, asking to speak with me about something that was troubling her. When I told her to proceed, she said that a noise had disturbed her at about two in the morning. She rose and on coming out into the landing, saw me leave the library in my nightshirt and, walking in what she described as a strange, mechanical way, go up the stairs to my bedroom. She was very upset. I calmed her down to some extent with the first words that came to me and adjured her to keep the matter to herself. I am at a loss to understand all this, Mr Swann. Am I being visited by ghosts?”

“I think not. As to whether ghosts do or don’t exist, I offer no opinion, but if they do, I very much doubt that they circle words in books or print on doors. It seems to me that we must seek a more mundane explanation, and the only way to do so is for me to call at your residence and somehow stay there at night. However, we must arrange it so you are the only one in the household who knows that. Do you have other domestic staff?”

“Yes. I have a gardener. He lives in the gatehouse, over a hundred yards from the main property, which he enters only at my request. Then there is the butler, who is about my age and has been with the family for many years. I also have a cook who has served me for quite a long time. The maid came to me more recently. All three live on the premises.”

Swann rubbed his jaw. “I think I can see how we may do what I have in mind,” he said. “I must visit you on some pretext, for example posing as a man advising you on some business matter. We shall need to make sure that all the members of your staff are aware of my arrival and what is far more important, that they know when I depart. Then I must be able to get back indoors without their knowledge. Do you think we can organise that?”

“I believe so. The maid, Alice, usually admits visitors, so it would be normal for her let you in when you arrive. I’ll let it be known that you are to be with me for an hour or so, and will ask her to be on hand to see you out. I could also ensure that the butler, Baines, sees or hears you go. It might be a good idea for you to come to dinner, so the cook will know of your presence, and the other two are sure to tell her of your departure.”

“Excellent. Now, as to my getting back into the place later, how can I best do that surreptitiously?”

His Lordship thought for a moment. “I will give you a spare key to the back door when you arrive,” he said, “and before you go I will show you where that door is. As for getting to it, there is a side gate in the wall, quite a distance from the main entrance. It is not locked, so you will be able to use it to avoid alerting the gardener.”

“Good. When do your indoor staff people retire for the night?”