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The Séance at Stillwater Mansion
by Mark Hodder (2006) Chapter Two Sexton Blake Solves It Tinker, the youthful assistant to Sexton Blake, the great detective, whistled to himself cheerily as he slipped into his striped pyjamas. He was glad to get to bed. He felt deliciously tired. It had been a busy day. He and Blake had driven the Grey Panther down to Portsmouth and back, had trudged through half the East End of London, and, in a grimy alley in the Limehouse district, had engaged in a fierce fist fight with a vicious gang of Chinamen — four stray members of the Brotherhood of the Yellow Beetle, an insidious organisation led by an evil mastermind named Wu Ling... and an organisation which, recently, the great detective had driven out of the country, hopefully for good. Leaving the Orientals tightly bound and guarded by two police constables, Sexton Blake and his assistant had gone to Scotland Yard to give Detective-Inspector Lennard details of the opium smuggling operation the men had been running. They had then returned to their Baker Street home with a sense of a job well done and weary to their bones. "Now for some serious snoring," Tinker told himself. He lifted the corner of his bed sheets, freshly laundered that morning by the inestimable Mrs Bardell. Nothing smells as good as fresh sheets to a tired boy — and to the boy who is about to slide between them, nothing is more irritating than a knock at his bedroom door. But the knock came and Tinker turned to find Sexton Blake framed in the doorway. "Awfully sorry, young ’un," said the detective. "Something’s come up! Into your clobber again!" Tinker groaned. "My hat! Talk about a full day's work! I'll be ready in half a tick, guv'nor. What's the game?" “Bit of a mystery at Stillwater Manor," said Blake quietly. He took a pipe from his jacket pocket and started to pack tobacco into it, careless of the strands that fell onto Tinker’s bedroom floor. "They've just telephoned. It’s one of those ‘man killed in locked room’ affairs. You know the sort of thing; the murderer spiriting himself into thin air leaving no clue as to how he committed the crime." “Ha! No clue anyone can find but you that is!” exclaimed Tinker. “Are you sure you need me?” “Prefer it if you came along, old son. The more you see the more you learn, you know.” Tinker, snapping on his braces, glanced up and said, “I bet you there’s a secret panel!” “My first thought too. I asked Sir Roderick over the 'phone whether there was any possibility but he seems pretty certain that there's not. Still, we shall see.” A few minutes later they were back in the Grey Panther and speeding through the humid night towards Stillwater Manor. Upon their arrival, Sir Roderick's footman, still pale, ushered them into the spacious hall where they were greeted by the baronet. “It's awful... awful! That this should happen in my own home! Poor Mainwaring!” he moaned. “Has anything been stolen?” inquired Sexton Blake, as he hurried up the stairs with Tinker and Sir Roderick to the room of the mysterious murder. “Not a thing! Not a single thing! That's what's so completely baffling, Mr. Blake. Why kill poor Mainwaring? What possible motive could there be?” The baronet went on to describe the evening's tragic events and, when he had finished, Blake began an inch-by-inch examination of the room where Mainwaring's body lay. It was while he was thus engaged that Detective-Inspector Coutts of the C.I.D. arrived. He was a solid, thick-set man with a bristling moustache and quick, observant eyes which darted hither and thither from beneath the brim of his tightly-worn bowler hat, taking in the scene in a matter of seconds. He shook hands warmly with Blake, for they had become fast friends these past few years and had worked on many a case together. Though he couldn't match Blake's genius, Coutts was a dogged and determined investigator who would never give up when on the trail of a crook. He possessed many admirable qualities and was one of the bravest men the Baker Street detective had ever met; definitely worth having at one's side in a tight corner! Inspector Coutts, for his part, was Sexton Blake’s staunchest supporter and had worked tirelessly to have the detective accepted as a valuable ally by the officials at Scotland Yard. Years ago, his predecessor, Inspector Will Spearing, now retired, had tried the same and only managed to ruffle feathers. But Coutts was a far less abrasive personality than Spearing. He was admired and sometimes even envied by his colleagues. His many successful cases, together with his hearty good cheer and bluff honesty, had smoothed the way for Blake, who was now regarded with great respect by most men at the Yard. Coutts nodded a greeting to Tinker then turned to Sir Roderick. “So you’ve employed extra help," he observed. "It’s alright, I'm not complaining. Mr. Blake and I are old colleagues. Now, sir, perhaps you would tell me exactly what has happened here?” Meanwhile, Sexton Blake was rapping his knuckles against the panelling on the walls, searching for a secret opening, in case Sir Roderick was mistaken and one did actually exist. Before long, Coutts joined him and soon the whole room had been checked with no results. They were both convinced that nothing of the kind was present, either in the walls, floor or ceiling. "The room's secure," grumbled Coutts. "If it weren't so obvious from Mainwaring’s position on the floor that the blow was not self-inflicted, I should say that suicide was the only possible solution. As it is, we must find some other answer." "Indeed,” agreed Sexton Blake. “Well, I've finished up here. How about you? Shall we go down and question the servants?" Sir Roderick quickly interjected: "But, I say! Really! All my staff are absolutely trustworthy. They've been with me for years. There's not a new servant in the house." "Nevertheless, I should like to see them, please," murmured Blake politely. Coutts was more brusque: "Heard that tale before," he snapped. "Trusted servants are often the worst. That's my experience. The more you trust, the bigger their chances." Tinker quietly observed as the various men and women who worked for the baronet were brought before the investigators and questioned. As far as he could tell, their answers cast no light on the mysterious murder. Afterwards, the detectives and Sir Roderick went into the library, where Frank Slaytor, Barnaby Crisp, and Captain Hibbard were smoking, sipping at brandy, and talking in tense, low tones. Hibbard looked up. “Who did it?" he demanded, almost aggressively. "Did he escape through some secret trapdoor?" "I can assure you that there is no trapdoor or panel of any kind in that room," growled Coutts irritably. "Nonsense. There must be,” countered Hibbard. “There's no other possible solution." "Ahem... ahem... except one," offered Crisp, nervously. "The door was locked. The window was locked. So what’s left? Ahem... only that whoever — or whatever — killed Mainwaring... wasn’t a man!" "Oh don't start that nonsense again!" groaned Slaytor. “Really, you can’t seriously expect us to believe that a ghost stabbed Mainwaring!” "A ghost? What's this? What are you babbling about?" demanded Coutts. "We held a little séance earlier on, Inspector. But what with Mainwaring objecting to it and hiding away in his room, the abominable heat, and my colleagues' terrible lack of concentration, it was rather less impressive than I had hoped." "It was a confounded waste of time," interjected Hibbard. "But the imaginative Mr. Crisp, here," continued Slaytor, "has decided that maybe we were more successful than we thought. He's of the opinion that we raised an evil spirit which stabbed Edward Mainwaring through the heart!" "Hogwash!" snorted Detective-Inspector Coutts. "Absolute drivel!" Blake tapped Tinker on the shoulder. “Come along, young 'un! We're off. Good-night, gentlemen!” They all stared after him as he left the room with Tinker in tow, as if surprised at his abrupt departure. Sir Roderick hurried out and caught up with them on the porch. "This is a frightful business, Mr. Blake," he said. "Mainwaring was a very old friend of mine. I can hardly believe it even now. Please don’t tell me you’ve given up the case as hopeless?" Blake stopped in his tracks, as if taken aback. "Given it up?" he echoed. "Hopeless? My dear sir," and he gripped the baronet's arm suddenly, "That is absolutely not the case! I know perfectly well who killed your friend. I am going off now to prepare a trap to catch him!" A startled gasp had broken from Sir Roderick at the words. Even Tinker had uttered a small cry of astonishment. Blake motioned them to silence. "Quiet now! Say nothing. He mustn’t find out he’s discovered. We have to furnish the proof to capture this fiendish villain!" Blake and Tinker left Stillwater Manor and headed back to Baker Street. All the way there, Tinker wondered what his master had seen or heard that solved the seemingly impossible murder. He could think of nothing. |