Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Secdocument 1503
Secdocument 1503
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction
Blood Sport
Back Cover
Introduction
Long before the days of DNA testing and mobile phone tracking,
science and technology played a crucial part in the detection of
crime, real and fictional. The Measure of Malice gathers together
classic mystery stories united by a common ingredient. The stories
illustrate ways in which a host of writers, some still renowned,
others long forgotten, made use of scientific and technical know-how
(often fresh and exciting at the time the stories were written, even if
now seemingly quaint or obvious) in weaving their puzzles.
The connection between science and the crime genre goes back to
the early days of the genre. Ronald R. Thomas, an American
professor of English, has pointed out in Detective Fiction and the
Rise of Forensic Science (1999) that the nineteenth century saw
authors “sometimes anticipating the actual technologies being
developed by forensic science, sometimes appropriating or
popularising them.”
Thomas describes “the virtually occult power forensic science came
to possess over the human image in modern mass society on both
sides of the Atlantic, a phenomenon which helped to establish the
fingerprint, the mug shot, and the lie detector as central elements in
the sometimes dangerous arsenal of law enforcement devices,” and
argues that: “These features of the nineteenth-century detective
story help to make the modern world of DNA fingerprinting, satellite
surveillance and crime-scene computer simulation imaginable to us.”
One of the earliest and most insightful historians of detective
fiction was Dorothy L. Sayers, an author fascinated by the
implications of scientific advance. In her introduction to Great Short
Stories of Detection, Mystery and Horror (1928), she discussed the
pioneering work of two notable Victorian novelists, J. Sheridan Le
Fanu and Wilkie Collins, in the field of scientific detection. As she
pointed out, the plot of Le Fanu’s Checkmate (1871) “actually turns
on the complete alteration of the criminal’s appearance by a miracle
of plastic surgery.” Sayers expressed surprise that more use had not
been made of this technique (writers soon made up for lost time in
this respect), while highlighting a couple of obscure stories where
“the alterations include the tattooing of the criminal’s eyes from blue
to brown.” Sayers also admired Collins’ use of the effects of opium as
a plot device in The Moonstone (1868); this book and Checkmate
were, in her opinion, “the distinguished forbears of a long succession
of medical and scientific stories which stretches down to the present
day.”
L. T. Meade, who originally made her reputation writing stories for
girls, developed the scientific detective story in conjunction with
collaborators who supplied the necessary technical know-how. As
Sayers said, their stories “dealt with such subjects as hypnotism,
catalepsy…somnambulism, lunacy, murder by the use of X-rays and
hydrocyanic gas.
Crime writers have regularly consulted scientific experts over the
years, and several have followed Meade’s lead in not merely taking
professional advice but collaborating in more formal fashion. Meade’s
most notable co-author was Robert Eustace, a doctor who would
later work with Sayers on a highly ambitious and oddly under-
estimated epistolary novel, The Documents in the Case (1930), as
well as combining with Edgar Jepson to produce a notable mystery
puzzle in the “locked room” vein, “The Tea Leaf,” which was included
in the British Library anthology Capital Crimes (2015).
The New Zealander Ngaio Marsh, one of the so-called “Queens of
Crime” from the Golden Age, collaborated on The Nursing Home
Murder (1935) with Henry Jellett, an Irish-born gynaecologist who
also helped her to adapt the book into a stage play. Coming up to
the present day, crime writer Margaret Murphy has collaborated with
two experts in forensic pathology: after writing with Professor Dave
Barclay as A. D. Garrett, she launched a new series under the name
Ashley Dyer, co-authoring her books with Helen Pepper.
Scientific progress has fuelled the writing of stories about murder
committed by unexpected means. As Sayers observed, “It is
fortunate for the mystery-monger that, whereas, up to the present,
there is only one known way of getting born, there are endless ways
of getting killed. Here is a brief selection of handy short cuts to the
grave: Poisoned tooth-stoppings; licking poisoned stamps; shaving-
brushes inoculated with dread diseases; poisoned boiled eggs…;
poison-gas; a cat with poisoned claws; poisoned mattresses;…
electrocution by telephone…; air-bubbles injected into the arteries…
hypodermic injections shot from air-guns… guns concealed in
cameras; a thermometer which explodes a bomb when the
temperature of the room reaches a certain height…”
Medical men such as Arthur Conan Doyle and Richard Austin
Freeman naturally made use of their expertise in their detective
fiction. Their influence in particular extended beyond crime writers
who followed in their footsteps; at the dawn of the twenty-first
century, Britain’s premier forensic entomologist Dr Zakaria
Erzinclioglu said in his intriguing memoir Maggots, Murder and Men
(2000) that “the Sherlock Holmes stories, which emphasise the
central importance of physical evidence in criminal investigation,
were actually used as instruction manuals by the Chinese and
Egyptian police forces for many years, and the French Sûreté named
their great forensic laboratory at Lyon after him.” Sherlock’s surname
is also referenced in HOLMES 2, the Home Office Large Major
Enquiry System, which at the time of writing remains the principal IT
system used by UK police forces engaged in the investigation of
major crimes such as murder and high-value fraud.
J. J. Connington, a major figure during the Golden Age of Murder
between the two world wars, was not himself a doctor, but rather a
professor of chemistry whose factual publications included Recent
Advances in Inorganic Chemistry. His intricate “fair play” detective
novels gain a good deal of their strength from his plausible
descriptions of scientific and technological developments. Cunningly
plotted books such as The Case with Nine Solutions (1928)
demonstrate his command of scientific techniques, although it is fair
to add that some of the ideas that seemed daring and up-to-the-
minute during the 1920s and 1930s have not aged well.
Five of the authors featured in this book were doctors, two were
engineers, and another was an academic chemist. The stories
collected here display the wide variety of ways in which science
came to the aid of (or, occasionally, helped to bamboozle) fiction’s
detectives, as well as the varied ways in which crime writers of the
past made use of science in their stories. The anthology also
highlights some of the difference between science of the past and of
the present.
Today’s readers can enjoy classic crime stories on more than one
level, appreciating each tale on its own merits whilst also gaining an
insight into vanished ways of life, and having the chance to see how
scientific detection has in some respects over the years changed
beyond all recognition—and how in certain essentials, it has not.
My thanks go to Nigel Moss, Jamie Sturgeon, and John Cooper,
fellow enthusiasts for classic crime whose suggestions for stories to
include in these anthologies are always invaluable. Mike Grost’s
internet page on scientific detection, which also covers many
American stories, was also helpful. And, as ever, I’m grateful to the
publications team at the British Library for their continuing support.
Martin Edwards
martinedwardsbooks.com
The Boscombe Valley Mystery
***
“Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for
from the West of England in connection with Boscombe Valley
tragedy. Shall be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery
perfect. Leave Paddington by the 11.15.”
“What do you say, dear?” said my wife, looking across at me. “Will
you go?”
“I really don’t know what to say. I have a fairly long list at
present.”
“Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been
looking a little pale lately. I think that the change would do you
good, and you are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes’
cases.”
“I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained through
one of them,” I answered. “But if I am to go I must pack at once, for
I have only half an hour.”
My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the
effect of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were
few and simple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a cab
with my valise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock Holmes
was pacing up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt figure made
even gaunter and taller by his long grey travelling cloak, and close-
fitting cloth cap.
“It is really very good of you to come, Watson,” said he. “It makes
a considerable difference to me, having some one with me on whom
I can thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless or else
biassed. If you will keep the two corner seats I shall get the tickets.”
We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of
papers which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he
rummaged and read, with intervals of note-taking and of meditation,
until we were past Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a
gigantic ball, and tossed them up on to the rack.
“Have you heard anything of the case?” he asked.
“Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days.”
“The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just been
looking through all the recent papers in order to master the
particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple
cases which are so extremely difficult.”
“That sounds a little paradoxical.”
“But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a clue.
The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult
is it to bring it home. In this case, however, they have established a
very serious case against the son of the murdered man.”
“It is a murder, then?”
“Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for granted
until I have the opportunity of looking personally into it. I will explain
the state of things to you, as far as I have been able to understand
it, in a very few words.
“Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in
Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr. John
Turner, who made his money in Australia, and returned some years
ago to the old country. One of the farms which he held, that of
Hatherley, was let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also an ex-
Australian. The men had known each other in the Colonies, so that it
was not unnatural that when they came to settle down they should
do so as near each other as possible. Turner was apparently the
richer man, so McCarthy became his tenant, but still remained, it
seems, upon terms of perfect equality, as they were frequently
together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen, and Turner had
an only daughter of the same age, but neither of them had wives
living. They appear to have avoided the society of the neighbouring
English families, and to have led retired lives, though both the
McCarthys were fond of sport, and were frequently seen at the race
meetings of the neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants—a man
and a girl. Turner had a considerable household, some half-dozen at
the least. That is as much as I have been able to gather about the
families. Now for the facts.
“On June 3, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at
Hatherley about three in the afternoon, and walked down to the
Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out of
the stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been out
with his serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told the
man that he must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance to
keep at three. From that appointment he never came back alive.
“From Hatherley Farmhouse to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a
mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One
was an old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other
was William Crowder, a gamekeeper in the employ of Mr. Turner.
Both these witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone.
The gamekeeper adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr.
McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going the
same way with a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the
father was actually in sight at the time, and the son was following
him. He thought no more of the matter until he heard in the evening
of the tragedy that had occurred.
“The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William
Crowder, the gamekeeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is
thickly wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round
the edge. A girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of
the lodge-keeper of the Boscombe Valley Estate, was in one of the
woods picking flowers. She states that while she was there she saw,
at the border of the wood and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and
his son, and that they appeared to be having a violent quarrel. She
heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using very strong language to his son,
and she saw the latter raise up his hand as if to strike his father. She
was so frightened by their violence that she ran away, and told her
mother when she reached home that she had left the two McCarthys
quarrelling near Boscombe Pool, and that she was afraid that they
were going to fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr.
McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say that he had found his
father dead in the wood, and to ask for the help of the lodge-keeper.
He was much excited, without either his gun or his hat, and his right
hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with fresh blood. On
following him they found the dead body of his father stretched out
upon the grass beside the Pool. The head had been beaten in by
repeated blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were
such as might very well have been inflicted by the butt-end of his
son’s gun, which was found lying on the grass within a few paces of
the body. Under these circumstances the young man was instantly
arrested, and a verdict of ‘Wilful Murder’ having been returned at the
inquest on Tuesday, he was on Wednesday brought before the
magistrates at Ross, who have referred the case to the next assizes.
Those are the main facts of the case as they came out before the
coroner and at the police-court.”
“I could hardly imagine a more damning case,” I remarked. “If ever
circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so here.”
“Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing,” answered Holmes,
thoughtfully, “It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if
you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in
an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different.
It must be confessed, however, that the case looks exceedingly
grave against the young man, and it is very possible that he is
indeed the culprit. There are several people in the neighbourhood,
however, and among them Miss Turner, the daughter of the
neighbouring landowner, who believe in his innocence, and who
have retained Lestrade, whom you may remember in connection
with the Study in Scarlet, to work out the case in his interest.
Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the case to me, and
hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are flying westward at
fifty miles an hour, instead of quietly digesting their breakfasts at
home.”
“I am afraid,” said I, “that the facts are so obvious that you will
find little credit to be gained out of this case.”
“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,” he
answered, laughing. “Besides, we may chance to hit upon some
other obvious facts which may have been by no means obvious to
Mr. Lestrade. You know me too well to think that I am boasting
when I say that I shall either confirm or destroy his theory by means
which he is quite incapable of employing, or even of understanding.
To take the first example to hand, I very clearly perceive that in your
bedroom the window is upon the right-hand side, and yet I question
whether Mr. Lestrade would have noted even so self-evident a thing
as that.”
“How on earth—!”
“My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness
which characterises you. You shave every morning, and in this
season you shave by the sunlight, but since your shaving is less and
less complete as we get further back on the left side, until it
becomes positively slovenly as we get round the angle of the jaw, it
is surely very clear that that side is less well illuminated than the
other. I could not imagine a man of your habits looking at himself in
an equal light, and being satisfied with such a result. I only quote
this as a trivial example of observation and inference. Therein lies
my métier, and it is just possible that it may be of some service in
the investigation which lies before us. There are one or two minor
points which were brought out in the inquest, and which are worth
considering.”
“What are they?”
“It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after the
return to Hatherley Farm. On the inspector of constabulary informing
him that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not surprised
to hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts. This observation
of his had the natural effect of removing any traces of doubt which
might have remained in the minds of the coroner’s jury.”
“It was a confession,” I ejaculated.
“No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence.”
“Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at
least a most suspicious remark.”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes, “it is the brightest rift which I can
at present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be, he
could not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the
circumstances were very black against him. Had he appeared
surprised at his own arrest, or feigned indignation at it, I should
have looked upon it as highly suspicious, because such surprise or
anger would not be natural under the circumstances, and yet might
appear to be the best policy to a scheming man. His frank
acceptance of the situation marks him as either an innocent man, or
else as a man of considerable self-restraint and firmness. As to his
remark about his deserts, it was also not unnatural if you consider
that he stood by the dead body of his father, and that there is no
doubt that he had that very day so far forgotten his filial duty as to
bandy words with him, and even, according to the little girl whose
evidence is so important, to raise his hand as if to strike him. The
self reproach and contrition which are displayed in his remark appear
to me to be the signs of a healthy mind, rather than of a guilty one.”
I shook my head. “Many men have been hanged on far slighter
evidence,” I remarked.
“So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged.”
“What is the young man’s own account of the matter?”
“It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters, though
there are one or two points in it which are suggestive. You will find it
here, and may read it for yourself.”
He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire
paper, and having turned down the sheet, he pointed out the
paragraph in which the unfortunate young man had given his own
statement of what had occurred. I settled myself down in the corner
of the carriage, and read it very carefully. It ran in this way:—
Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then
called, and gave evidence as follows:—“I had been away from
home for three days at Bristol, and had only just returned upon
the morning of last Monday, the 3rd. My father was absent from
home at the time of my arrival, and I was informed by the maid
that he had driven over to Ross with John Cobb, the groom.
Shortly after my return I heard the wheels of his trap in the yard,
and, looking out of my window, I saw him get out and walk
rapidly out of the yard, though I was not aware in which direction
he was going. I then took my gun, and strolled out in the
direction of the Boscombe Pool, with the intention of visiting the
rabbit warren which is upon the other side. On my way I saw
William Crowder, the gamekeeper, as he has stated in his
evidence; but he is mistaken in thinking that I was following my
father. I had no idea that he was in front of me. When about a
hundred yards from the Pool I heard a cry of ‘Cooee!’ which was
a usual signal between my father and myself. I then hurried
forward, and found him standing by the Pool. He appeared to be
much surprised at seeing me, and asked me rather roughly what
I was doing there. A conversation ensued, which led to high
words, and almost to blows, for my father was a man of a very
violent temper. Seeing that his passion was becoming
ungovernable, I left him, and returned towards Hatherley Farm. I
had not gone more than one hundred and fifty yards, however,
when I heard a hideous outcry behind me, which caused me to
run back again. I found my father expiring on the ground, with his
head terribly injured. I dropped my gun, and held him in my
arms, but he almost instantly expired. I knelt beside him for
some minutes, and then made my way to Mr. Turner’s lodge-
keeper, his house being the nearest, to ask for assistance. I saw
no one near my father when I returned, and I have no idea how
he came by his injuries. He was not a popular man, being
somewhat cold and forbidding in his manners; but he had, as far
as I know, no active enemies. I know nothing further of the
matter.”
The Coroner: “Did your father make any statement to you before
he died?”
Witness: “He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some
allusion to a rat.”
The Coroner: “What was the point upon which you and your
father had this final quarrel?”
The Coroner: “That is for the Court to decide. I need not point
out to you that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case
considerably in any future proceedings which may arise.”
The Coroner: “How was it, then, that he uttered it before he saw
you, and before he even knew that you had returned from
Bristol?”
“Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help?”
***
I.
Nel salottino che una lumiera a gaz rischiarava dall’alto e che una
sola stanza divideva dalla camera del malato erano raccolte dieci o
dodici persone, quali sedute, quali in piedi, quali appoggiate al
davanzale d’una finestra aperta per respirare un po’ d’aria libera.
Sulla tavola, in mezzo ad alcuni album di fotografie e strenne e
gingilli, un gran vassoio con parecchi bicchieri d’acqua, un altro più
piccolo con una dozzina di bicchierini da liquori e una bottiglia
smerigliata di Cognac fine Champagne; infine una vaschetta piena di
pezzi di ghiaccio e con un cucchiaio di cristallo.
Di tratto in tratto qualcheduno infilava in silenzio l’uscio a sinistra,
stava fuori del salotto un paio di minuti e poi vi rientrava con aria
contrita.
— Nulla di nuovo? — si chiedeva da più parti.
— Nulla.... sempre nel medesimo stato.... Piuttosto inquieto.
Di quelle dieci o dodici persone sei erano li da poche ore, accorse
alla chiamata telegrafica. Erano i parenti più vicini, i probabili eredi
del cavaliere Achille, nessuno dei quali abitava in Venezia. L’unica
sorella superstite, la baronessa Rudeni, stava ordinariamente a
Firenze, ma il dispaccio l’aveva raggiunta a Livorno ov’ella faceva i
bagni di mare, ed ella, in compagnia del marito barone James e
della cagnetta Darling, aveva preso il primo treno per l’Alta Italia; i
Minucci, venivano da Torino, i Quaglia da Milano. 1 Minucci, padre e
figlio, erano cognato e nipote del cavaliere; così pure i Quaglia.
Tutti, come si vede, avevano risposto all’appello con meravigliosa
sollecitudine. E in vero il tenore del dispaccio spedito dal cugino
Raimondi per consiglio del medico non ammetteva indugi.
Nostro Achille colpito apoplessia. Condizione allarmante.
Desiderabile vostra presenza.
Era stato un fulmine a ciel sereno. Chi poteva immaginarsi che il
cavaliere Achille morisse d’apoplessia a quarant’anni?
Tra il cavaliere e i parenti di lui non c’era mai stata una grande
intimità. Passavano dei mesi, passava un anno intiero senza che si
vedessero, perchè egli non andava a cercarli e preferiva di far i suoi
viaggetti all’estero ed essi capitavano di rado a Venezia. Una volta,
dopo alcune perdite fatte alla Borsa dal barone James, la baronessa
moglie aveva scritto al fratello manifestandogli l’idea di tornare a
stabilirsi in patria, presso di lui, che così non sarebbe rimasto tanto
solo. Il cavaliere l’aveva dissuasa dal suo proposito. Se ne
ricordasse; ella diceva sempre che lo scirocco di Venezia le faceva
male. Di lui non si prendesse pensiero; la solitudine non lo
sgomentava. Coi Minucci e coi Quaglia le relazioni erano ancora più
fredde. A ogni modo i nipoti non mancavano di scrivere allo zio una
toccante lettera pel capo d’anno, a cui egli, che aveva mediocri
disposizioni per lo stile epistolare, rispondeva con poche righe che
principiavano invariabilmente così: — Caro nipote — Gratissimo
fummi tuo foglio, ecc., ecc.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
Erano le cinque del mattino. Le due fiamme della lumiera a gaz del
salotto erano abbassate. Nella stanza fra il salotto e la camera del
malato ardeva una candela. Alle quattro la baronessa Eleonora, il
conte Quaglia e Annibale Minucci erano andati a coricarsi; da un’ora
vegliavano Minucci e Quaglia juniori. Vegliavano così per dire,
giacchè s’erano addormentati tutti e due, il primo sopra una poltrona
del salotto, il secondo sul canapè della stanza attigua. Destatisi
contemporaneamente allo scoccar delle cinque, i due cugini si
vennero incontro sbadigliando, col piglio annoiato di persone che
adempiono mal volentieri a un ufficio antipatico.
— Se la zia Eleonora sapesse che abbiamo dormito, ci metterebbe
sotto consiglio di guerra, — disse il contino Quaglia.
Minucci si strinse nelle spalle. — Per quello che c’è da fare!... La zia
Eleonora è una visionaria.... A badare a lei, qui dovrebbe essere un
continuo scassinare armadi, trafugar carte, e che so io ancora...
Quasi quasi si correrebbe il pericolo di essere assaliti per le stanze.
— Sciocchezze! A proposito, l’hai vista la terribile Giuseppina?
— Come l’hai vista tu. Da lontano, dalla soglia, poichè confesso che
l’entrar nella camera non mi seduce.... Ci fui ieri appena arrivato, e
sarà stata un’idea mia, ma mi parve che lo zio Achille mi facesse
certi occhiacci.
— Neppur io ci vado volentieri nella camera, — soggiunse Quaglia.
— Ma la donna è bella, sai.
— È parso anche a me.... Briccone d’uno zio!... Ma adesso,
poveretto, anche per lui è finita.... Potrebbe, tutt’al più, durar così
qualche mese.
— Non è probabile.... E non è neanche da augurarglielo.
In quel punto, Battista, il servo che aveva vegliato fino allora presso
il padrone, passò pel salotto ove si trovavano i due giovani.
— E come va? — essi gli chiesero.
Battista tentennò la testa. — Male.... Da mezzanotte in poi è stato
d’un’inquietudine!... E non si può capir che cosa voglia.... È una
pena....
Era giorno fatto e Battista aperse le imposte e spense i lumi. Poi
disse officiosamente: — Di qui a cinque minuti porterò loro il caffè.
E uscì dissimulando con fine arte diplomatica la noia che gli dava in
un momento simile la presenza di sei ospiti in casa.
1 due giovani s’affacciarono alla finestra. Non s’erano più visti dopo
il Carnovalone di Milano, che Minucci aveva passato presso i suoi
parenti Quaglia, e adesso, trovandosi insieme così inopinatamente,
evocavano i ricordi di quei giorni di baldoria.
— Ti rammenti dell’ultimo veglione alla Scala?
— E delle cene in buona compagnia al Rebecchino?
— A proposito, con la Vittoria ti trovi spesso?
— Non è più a Milano.... Ha seguito Angioletti che è di guarnigione a
Napoli.
Battista ricomparve col caffè.
VI.
VII.