“But why?”
“Perhaps, like Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner, ‘he knows a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread.’ Or simply because he was looking out for someone who might be behind him—or ahead of him.”
As we walked on, the same “turning prints” occurred more frequently to right and left, as if our fugitive indeed watched for pursuers gaining upon him or sought for friends.
The path on the far side of the field reached the so-called fence, a few strands of wire stretching along waist-high posts. It would have stopped no one. On the other side the slope went up roughly trodden steps to the top of the railway embankment. We stood by the linesman’s hut and gazed towards the black mouth of the tunnel. Looking back, it was also clear that without realising it we had been climbing a slope as we crossed the field.
“Most interesting,” said Sherlock Holmes quietly. “Most, most interesting.”
He knelt and made careful measurements of the final imprints of the shoes, as well as mapping the characteristic pattern and blemishes of the sole and heel. Then I supposed we were about to walk back to St Vincent’s, but he had not quite finished.
“There is something more, Watson. I cannot quite put my finger on it—call it intuition. I daresay it comes from not liking Mr Reginald Winter. Even on so short an acquaintance.”
“You would hardly need an instinct to persuade you of that!”
“He is further involved in this than we believed. Why is it so important to him that Riley should have been thought to attempt suicide? You would suppose he might be pleased to discover it was not so. No matter for the moment. Do you notice a pond in line of sight from here?”
“I cannot see water anywhere. Why?”
“Ponds are generally surrounded by trees, which they naturally nourish. The trees are very often ash and elder or species that grow quite densely. As a result, quiet corners are provided for concealment, a useful shelter for observation. I have once or twice made use of them myself.”
We skirted the field. In its furthest corner from which the ground sloped a little, we found what Holmes had looked for. It was no surprise in such a place. This pond, looking back along the track, was not more than eight or ten feet across, the result of a small spring, its surrounding foliage hardly more than an extension of the hedge which ran up to the railway bank on that side. The marshy ground would accommodate no more than two or three people. Bushes and saplings were packed thick enough to conceal whoever might be there, except from a deliberate search. Even this was unlikely to happen without warning, given the view of the approaches, visible between twigs and leaves. Because it was the remotest corner of the field, it was in any case the least likely to attract attention. The immediate view in that direction was along the railway line. It occurred to me that so long as a train was passing—or standing still at this point—the view of the linesman’s hut would be briefly obscured.
We pulled aside two branches and soon stood in this overgrown space. It would have made an admirable hide for wildfowlers. The flowering elder provided excellent cover. My friend interested himself in the soil around us. Presently, his agile back curved as he swooped upon his prey.
“Rather as I supposed,” he said with a contented sigh.
Taking his magnifying lens from his waistcoat pocket, he unfolded it and stooped again to examine two or three square feet of bare earth, still tacky in the warmer weather. Even without a glass I could see clearly that half-a-dozen matchsticks had been trodden into the ground. But Holmes was examining something I should have missed. In two places close together was the dottle from the bowl of a pipe, which someone had knocked out in order to refill it. Whoever it was had also spat several times on the soil.
“It seems that he stayed long enough to finish one pipe, light and smoke another, then knock that out as well before he left,” I said enthusiastically.
Holmes straightened up.
“The number of matches may be more significant. If you look about you, this is far the best cover for a man to strike matches on a windy day. There is nowhere else. Even lower down in the lee of the railway embankment you could not do it with a south-westerly blowing half a gale.”
“Not Reginald Winter,” I said, “He has a study to smoke in. More likely it was one or two of the boys taking shelter here for an illegal smoke.”
He shook his head.
“Dear old Watson, you have such an eye for the obvious! I am quite sure that the boys of St Vincent’s stunt their growth by furtive smoking as surely as in any other school. However, I suggest that they are a little young for pipes. In any case, a packet of cigarettes is so much easier to conceal than a pipe with its cleaner, pouch of tobacco and all the rest of the paraphernalia.”
I looked at the ground again.
“Why should Winter come here?”
Holmes chuckled.
“The answer to that question will illuminate a good deal—when we find it. What we have here is a man alone. He takes shelter, knocks out his pipe and refills it. He smokes it through and knocks it out again. He must have passed some time here—half an hour I daresay. I suggest he can only have been here as a spy.”
“When did he do it?” I asked, “That may tell us whether he was a spy or not!”
Holmes looked about him.
“Even concealed by these bushes, it takes him several attempts on that windy day to strike a match and light his pipe. See for yourself. Of the six matches lying there, four have burnt only at the tip because they were blown out at once. Only one has burnt far enough down its length to be effective in lighting a pipe. During the time he was here, the casual movements of his feet trod four of the matches into damp earth. I also observe that our smoker spat several times. It is a frequent accompaniment to the lighting of a pipe filled with strong tobacco. On Mr Winter’s mantelpiece you may have noticed an unopened packet of strong Old Glory Navy Cut. Many smokers use shag, but they are veterans rather than schoolboys.”
“All of which does not put Reginald Winter here on Sunday afternoon.”
“Quite true. It is John Fisher who does that, without knowing it. Before he left us yesterday I asked him to supply me with a copy of Admiralty weather station reports for the past week from coastal stations between Plymouth and Dover. They arrived by first post this morning. Dame Fortune has placed a coastal station at Osborne Royal Naval College. It is about a dozen miles north of here as the crow flies. The weather last week produced light but constant rain. A force five wind from the Western Approaches picked up at noon on Sunday and blew until the small hours of Monday morning. Since then the reports record dry and mild weather with a light southwest wind.”
“In other words, the usual climate for May.”
“I daresay. But if that evidence is to be trusted, it restricts our smoker’s occupation of this place to Sunday afternoon or evening. The boys are permitted to walk across the field on Sunday afternoon but you may be sure they and their headmaster are at chapel on Sunday evening. If Winter was here, I have no doubt he was spying on them. Perhaps to catch them meeting or talking to those whom they should not meet or talk to. I have scanned the regulations that Fisher was also good enough to supply. Any word spoken to a female of whatever age or station during these strolls is a grievous offence. So is breaking bounds beyond the limits set for a walk. I imagine it gladdens Winter’s heart to catch a handful of culprits for his delectation.”
Having met the man, I had no difficulty in accepting this analysis of his character.
“Yet if he was here when Riley made his famous run,” I said, “why has he never mentioned it?”