If a case is insufficiently challenging or concerned with mere trivia, I leave it for Holmes.
I and my factotum, Crump, solve mysteries so perfect they are not even classified as such. We know why the Masked Man never showed his face. We exposed the scoundrel who went from house to house fondling the feet of young women on the pretext of fitting them with a slipper. A single slipper, not even a pair! But there were many who were taken in.
We are too proud to court publicity, but one day my umbrella and Crump’s notebook will be as famous as Holmes’ deerstalker hat.
We took the case I later dubbed The Riddle of the Missing Shoes from motives of sheer humanity. The body of an old woman had been found under a house. What brought her there? Who was she? Who killed her, and why? We vowed to find the answers to these questions.
It was early in the morning when we caught our train. I dozed during the journey, but was disturbed by dreams. I imagined that we were passing through a great wasteland–sun-dazzled, barren, and empty of any living thing. I awoke tense and apprehensive, but when I pressed my face to the window, I saw only green fields.
We alighted in a village surrounded by woods and farmland. The houses were small and very neat, with doors and window frames painted blue. There was about the whole an atmosphere of prosperity and thrift that warmed my heart, and I marvelled that an old woman could die by violence in such an Eden.
Crump touched my shoulder and pointed to a derelict abode on the outskirts of the village.
“That, sir, must be the scene of the crime.”
I frowned. This was clearly the house of an outcast. What business had the old woman there?
Together we climbed onto the shabby porch. The door stood ajar and creaked open at my touch to reveal a scene of the utmost disorder. Mattresses had been pulled from the two wooden beds, and the chairs were in splinters. Kitchen implements and shards of broken crockery littered the floor. The whole was liberally strewn with dry leaves and grains of sand—debris whose presence I found quite inexplicable.
“Who lived here, Crump?” I asked.
“I don’t know, sir. I expect the villagers can tell us.” Crump took out his notebook and began to scribble in it.
I poked delicately in the rubbish with the tip of my umbrella, extracting first a pair of worn suspenders and then a dirty pillow cover. After cursory inspection I let these objects fall and probed further. Ants streamed to and fro; I discovered that my right foot was in their line of march, and bent down to flick them off my boot. As I did so I discerned among the scattered oddments an iron ring which appeared to be bolted to the floor. I hoisted it and found myself looking through a small trapdoor. What lay below was not what I expected.
“This is a very queer case,” I said to Crump. “Come–let us examine the body of the victim.”
I led the way around the corner of the house. A trail of flattened grass showed that a crowd of villagers had preceded us, no doubt drawn to the spot by morbid curiosity. In the event, however, there was little to see: just two protruding legs, visible from the knee down and encased in striped stockings. Crump and I took off our hats and stood in silence for a moment, paying our respects.
“What time is the next train?” I asked at last.
Crump stared at me. “But we have just arrived!”
“This woman died by accident,” I said. “We need spend no more time here.”
Crump slowly closed his notebook. “What makes you think so, sir?”
I was about to enlighten him when I was struck by an anomalous detail which called for further explanation.
“On second thought,” I said, “perhaps we’ll stay awhile.”
Crump said, “Should I…uh….?” He gestured toward the legs, and I read his thought. We could not raise the house. If we wanted to make an examination of the body, we would have to dig it out.
“We will need tools,” I said. “We will speak to the witnesses and come back later. But the condition of the body is of secondary importance. I will not be satisfied until I know the answer to this question: where are the lady’s shoes?”
Crump’s mouth fell open. “I had not thought of that,” he said. “Of course she would not have come without them.”
“No. And why should anyone remove them later?”
“I can’t imagine, sir.”
“Well, we must find out.”
Crump dashed off an entry in his notebook, and then we headed for the village.
We had not taken ten steps before we were accosted by a diminutive, bearded individual in a blue suit. He was also wearing shiny boots and a tall hat similar to the type favored by the late Abraham Lincoln. The newcomer’s hat was blue, however, and pointed at the top. Doffing it courteously enough, he addressed us in a high-pitched but well-modulated voice.
“I am glad to see you, very glad to see you. You’ve come about the little girl, no doubt.”
“No indeed,” I said, returning his salute. “We have come about the lady under the house.”
“Ah, don’t trouble yourself,” said the man.
As he spoke, several of his fellow villagers erupted from their doorways and hurried toward us. They were all about the same height, and all of them wore blue suits. Most of them had beards.
“We will do our duty,” I said coldly. The first man’s nonchalance offended me, and I did not wish to encourage him to continue in this vein. “Who is in charge here?” I demanded.
“I suppose I am.”
“Did you know the old woman who is dead?”
“None of us really knew her. We never went near her. We’re just glad to be rid of the old witch!”
I went cold with shock and fury. I was taught respect for age, and hold that courtesy is particularly due to old women, who are all too often put upon and mocked. In centuries gone by, their fate was sometimes even worse.
“Don’t speak of her like that!” I shouted. The villagers fell silent. As they rolled their eyes and looked at one another, I harangued them savagely. I condemned them as vicious, ignorant, and shallow. I promised that I would personally thrash anyone who dared to repeat the word “witch.” At this point I felt Crump’s hand upon my arm, but I was not to be restrained. “You will behave properly in my presence!” I concluded, panting a little.
The villagers crouched before me, thoroughly cowed.
“Now,” I said. “We will begin again. Who saw the house fall on the woman?”
I saw Crump start and cast a wondering glance at me.
“Oh, yes,” I continued. “The house itself was the instrument of death. I knew that as soon as I opened the trapdoor and saw grass growing underneath. I don’t know how it happened, but that house was moved, and recently, too.”
The villager who had first spoken to us made an ingratiating bow, and said, “It was the storm.”
I glowered at him, and he added quickly, “Sir! I’m telling you the truth! There was a great wind! The sky went dark, and then we heard a noise like the roaring of a wild beast. We all ran inside and closed our shutters and hid under our beds. When the noise was gone, we went outside and saw the house there in the field, where no house was before.”
“Is that possible?” Crump whispered to me.
“I am not sure,” I answered slowly. “I have read about powerful whirlwinds–hurricanes, typhoons, that sort of thing.”
“But could such winds pick up a house? Even a house made of wood?”
“I imagine they could. Whether or not they would set it down in one piece, however….But, as I told you, Crump, that house has not long been where it is. What other explanation can there be?”
“It’s extraordinary, all the same.”
“It is,” I agreed. “Amazing, too, that the village was spared. You,” I said, pointing my umbrella at the village spokesman. “Tell me what happened to the lady’s shoes.”
“I do not know. None of us knows.”
“Then tell me about the little girl.”
The villagers began to do so, each piping up in turn like schoolboys reciting.
“We found her wandering in the fields after the storm.”
“She said that she was lost.”
“She had a little dog.”
I raised my hand for order. “The girl was a stranger to you?”
“Oh, yes!”
Where is she now?” I demanded.
The villagers looked at one another and shrugged. “We don’t know. We really don’t.”
“You did not look after her?” My voice rose menacingly, and the babble broke out again.
“She didn’t want to stay! She said she wanted to go home! We couldn’t take her, could we? We couldn’t do anything!”
“Did she say where her home was?”
“Yes, but we forgot the name of the place.”
“We tried to help her!” cried the spokesman in his tinny voice. “We told her to go to the city. A clever man lives there. We did our best!”
“And no one went with her?”
The villagers shrugged again and shuffled their feet.
“You are all utterly useless!” I exclaimed.
Crump sidled up to me and whispered in my ear. “Be calm, sir.”
I drew several long breaths. “Do you realize that these men ignored and vilified a helpless old woman, then allowed a little girl–perhaps injured, perhaps delirious!–to wander off alone?”
I turned my back and took a few steps into the field. Struggling to regain my composure, I swung my umbrella back and forth, viciously decapitating the dandelions and nettles within reach. It was a solace, of sorts. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Crump squat down before the line of little men, his notebook at the ready.
While he carried on, I left the group and returned slowly to the house. Could it really have been lifted and carried by a whirlwind? I believed it could. I went back around the house to look once more at the body. Kneeling by the protruding legs, I noticed that the wooden siding of the house was scarred and splintered near the bottom. I put out a hand to touch the boards. At first I had thought they had been damaged by the storm, but now I could discern the marks of tools. With pounding heart, I pushed the shoeless feet aside and scrabbled in the weeds. Great chunks of sod came loose; I cast them from me and scrambled to my feet.
“Crump! Crump!”
Still calling, I rushed back around the house. I had been stupidly, criminally wrong, and even now it might be too late to avert the consequences of my error.
Seeing me, the villagers dispersed. Crump shouted something and galloped toward me, holding his hat on with one hand.
“We have been tricked!” I gasped. “The house did not fall on the woman. She was put there after she was killed. I found a great hole, covered over, where someone had been digging.”
“Good God!”
“If I had not been a fool, we would have discovered it long before now. We must be off! I pray that we arrive in time.” I ran across the field to the village street, Crump puffing along beside me. “The little girl may have seen the person who did this, and if so, she is our only witness.”
“The little men last saw her going toward the woods,” said Crump.
“Curse them,” I muttered.
We had almost reached the edge of the village when Crump caught my arm. “Wait, sir! Who’s that?”
I paused. Some way behind us, and headed in the opposite direction, I saw a stout, frock-coated man. Though burdened by a well-filled carpet bag, he made good speed, moving as if on tiptoe, with shoulders hunched and chin well down.
“You, there!” I called. The man started and turned round; for an instant he stared, pop-eyed, at us, then he broke into a trot and fled. I wanted to pursue him, but the girl was more important. Crump seemed to read my thought and made no comment when I shook my head and hurried on. The houses thinned, and soon we could see cultivated land between us and the distant trees. “Are you sure this is the way?” I asked.
“The villagers said there is a good paved road here. They told the girl to follow it.”
“We can’t be more than a couple of hours behind her.” I did not want to think about what might have happened in those hours. “Come on!”
We wasted precious minutes looking for the road, but found it at last where it began beside a millpond. Ochre-colored, it snaked along beside the millstream and led straight into the woods. I was thankful that the way was so well marked.
As we hurried through the trees I reproached myself, silently but bitterly, for failing to see through the felon’s trick at once. Now, unless I could prevent it, the innocent would suffer for my lapse.
As we marched, Crump told me the villagers had sworn they had taken nothing from the body. “For them,” he said, “it was enough that the old woman was dead. They were afraid of her.”
“Why?”
“They did not say.”
“I expect that she was ugly,” I said. “Perhaps she talked to herself. Why not? Her neighbors shunned her, and she had no family. If she had been treated decently, she would have been far less peculiar, I am sure.”
“No doubt. But I got the impression…” Crump paused and shot a glance at me, obviously ill at ease. “That is, the villagers did say she had some sort of extraordinary power.”
“Fools,” I replied, but without heat. For a while I brooded silently on the pernicious habits of the ignorant. This distracted me from contemplation of my own defects, which was a gain. “If they really feared her,” I said at last, “then they had a motive to kill her themselves.”
“I thought of that,” said Crump, pushing aside some bushes which had grown out over the road. “But they were truly terrified when you came running round the corner of the house. I can’t believe they knew the body had been planted.”
“I trust you are right.”
The road deteriorated as we penetrated farther into the woods. Encroaching tree roots had made cracks and hummocks in its surface, and weeds pushed up between the yellow bricks. The lower branches of firs plucked at our sleeves, while high above, the canopy of oak and beech grew ever thicker. The birds no longer sang.
“Sir.” Crump was moving well beside me, but he looked worried. “Do you really think we are on the right track? Can the little girl know anything?”
Under normal circumstances I like to keep Crump a little in the dark, but I had already misled him once, and remorse made me loquacious. “Think it out,” I said. “Someone killed the old lady. Never mind why–that we must find out later. When the house dropped from the sky, this person saw an opportunity to conceal his crime. He arranged the body of his victim so as to make us think she died by accident.”
The woods were thinning up ahead. We kept up our best pace.
“The little girl,” I went on, “came with the house. Both appeared at the same time, and unexpectedly. It would be too much of a coincidence if they did not belong together. Imagine it, Crump! Suppose the little girl was unhurt. She must still have been frightened by her ordeal and bewildered by her new surroundings. Surely she would stay for a few moments in the house, which was familiar to her. She would peer out of the windows, wondering whether it was safe to go outside.”
“And she would see the murderer disposing of the body?”
“I think so. And he may try to silence her.”
“He might not have known she was watching.”
“The dog would have barked,” I said.
Crump digested this in silence for a moment and then said, “There’s another queer thing, sir. The villagers say they recognized the body from the feet alone.”
I was troubled. Seen from this viewpoint, the actions of the villagers were certainly suspicious. Perhaps we should have searched their houses before setting out. I put a bold face on it, however. “It was the stockings,” I said. “They were striped in red and white. And everyone around here seems to wear only blue. Look, we are coming out into the open. There’s a cornfield.”
Beyond the rustling cornstalks was a pasture that had recently been scythed. I scanned it rapidly and said to Crump, “We must look behind that haystack.”
The hay would be a warm and fragrant shelter for a weary child, and in her place I would have nestled in it. As we drew near, my heart beat fast with hope.
First, I saw the boots. They were like those worn by the villagers, but scuffed and dirty and ornamented round the tops with wisps of hay. Their owner lay with arms and legs outflung, hay tangled in his hair and scattered over his shabby blue suit. He had no beard, and seemed indeed quite young, with a snub nose and a generous mouth. Bending over closer, I saw that his eyes were open but strangely blank, as if he were gazing into some misty and invisible distance. The village idiot, I thought. Bad luck for us.
“Excuse me!” I said loudly, and was gratified to see the stranger scramble to his feet. Lips parted, he looked from me to Crump and back again, while bits of chaff cascaded from his shoulders.
“We are looking for a little girl,” I told him. “Do you understand?”
“Girl?”
“Yes.”
“What does she look like?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“Then how can I tell if I’ve seen her?” replied the stranger.
Crump, seeing me tighten my grip on my umbrella, made haste to intervene. “We need some information, that is all,” he said soothingly, taking out his notebook. “Once we’ve got it, we’ll be on our way. What is your name?”
“I don’t have one,” the stranger answered, sighing. “I don’t have any brains, either, so it’s no use asking me questions.”
Crump frowned. “You must be called something.”
“People call me Lazybones and Straw Man. Most often, it’s just ‘Scarecrow.’ Maybe that’s because I’m good for nothing else.”
Crump wrote “Scarecrow” at the top of his page, then hesitated and made as if to cross it out. He is precise by nature, and has no use for nicknames. Sensing my impatience, however, he said nothing, but added a “Mr.” in parentheses after his original entry.
Ignoring him, I said, “Has anyone passed this way while you were here?”
“No.”
“No little girl?”
“No.”
“We know she took the yellow road,” I insisted, hoping it was true.
The Scarecrow turned his head this way and that, then looked up at the sky. Some birds were circling there. He picked up a stone and would have thrown it at them had I not lowered my umbrella and tapped him smartly on the wrist. He rubbed the place, and said sulkily, “I’ve been asleep here in the hay, and I haven’t seen anyone.”
“What is the next shelter, and how far away is it?”
The Scarecrow hesitated, and then said, “A friend of mine lives in these parts. He is a woodman. You can reach his hut before dark.”
“Good. Now quickly, tell us all you know about an old woman who scares the people in the village.”
The Scarecrow’s blue eyes opened wide. “She has a house over to the east, but she travels a lot. Visits people, you know.”
“Is that so?”
Crump caught my eye and said, “We were under the impression that she had no friends. ”
“Well, she has a wicked temper. But she takes care of sick people.”
I nodded. I had suspected something of the sort. An elderly, ugly woman, with healing powers and a sharp tongue–no wonder the peasants would think she was a witch.
“She helped my friend,” the Scarecrow went on. “He had a bad accident, and—” Then he broke off and looked at me uncertainly.
“Yes?” I prompted him.
“But that was long ago.” He hunched his shoulders and turned away his head. “I can’t really help you, you see. I’m too stupid for that. You must go to the city. Someone will help you there.”
I doubted this, but felt no inclination to pursue the matter. Time was precious. I could see across the field to where the woods began again, dark and thick. The yellow road led into them.
“We will talk to you again,” I told the Scarecrow. “When we do, we will want to know everything about the old woman–where she went most often, what she did, and who might have wished her harm.”
With that, I led Crump back toward the woods. The urgency of our mission spurred me on. Crump felt it too, yet was obliged to pause now and then to make an entry in his notebook. I was well in the lead when I heard it: a low rumbling, rising gradually in pitch and volume until it burst upon me as a great, unearthly cry. I gasped and stopped dead, then whipped around to see Crump crouched at bay, his back against a tree, his eyes staring into the slavering jaws of a huge and savage beast.
Horrified but determined, I brandished my umbrella and came forward to do battle. The creature roared again and turned from Crump to creep in my direction, its belly low to the ground, its yellow eyes aflame with predatory rage. Muscles bunched under its rough, dun-colored coat. I saw that its back was full of sores, and its shaggy mane tangled and dirty. Its teeth and claws, however, appeared to be in excellent condition.
Crump, seeing me, rose and took a few courageous steps. He had gone very pale.
“Don’t move!” I ordered him. The lion twitched its tail and panted.
I am not, by nature, a person who frequents circus tents or other venues of vulgar entertainment. However, I am familiar with the techniques of those who manage wild beasts. I understand that lion-tamers carry chairs in order to induce confusion in the animals, which can’t decide which chair-leg to attack. Aware that my umbrella would beget no such uncertainty, I reached down with my left hand and picked up a fallen branch. Dead leaves quivered at its tip. The lion watched them fall.
“Run, now,” I whispered hoarsely. “Get away, Crump!”
Of course I knew he would do nothing of the sort. He, too, was feeling along the ground for fallen branches. “Wait, sir! Wait!”
I would have waited forever, but I did not have the chance. With terrifying force and speed, the lion launched itself upon me. I heard Crump shout, and I shouted too, flailing with my makeshift weapons. I felt the lion’s stinking breath upon my cheek, then saw its jaws close upon the branch and crunch it into splinters. Desperately, I dodged the raking claws, then took my umbrella in both hands and thrust it crossways into the lion’s mouth. The next moment I was gazing, horrified, upon its chewed remains.
All reason left me, then. My right foot, moving of its own accord, lashed out and caught the lion full on the chin. It yowled, spat, and sank down upon its haunches. I put up my fists and sidled toward it, bouncing on the balls of my feet, bobbing and weaving. My blows met air, but the creature flinched and scuttled backward. I followed, shrieking words of defiance that I blush to remember, even now. “Have at you!” I raved. “Fight, you coward!”
Before I could press home my assault, the wretched beast turned tail. I chased it as it slunk away, and landed one last kick upon its tawny rump. Breathing hard but left master of the field, I went to see to Crump, who stood goggling at me, mouth agape.
“Are you all right?” I asked him.
“Are you?” he replied in a peculiar voice.
“Certainly.” I smoothed my coat and flexed my fingers.
“A narrow escape, sir,” said Crump, licking his lips. He went to retrieve his hat, and gave me mine as well. I blew the dust from it and put it on, then walked slowly back to where my umbrella lay shattered in the road. I lifted it by the handle, and watched mournfully as it sagged to earth again, the two pieces held together only a tattered strip of fabric.
Crump gently took the wreck from me, placed it on the ground and, with solemn ceremony, covered it with leaves.
After that we travelled for some time without disturbance, keeping to the road and seeing no sign of the little girl. I thought we should have long since caught her up, and I became despondent, picturing her lost forever in the forest, kidnapped by the villain we were seeking, or worse. I longed for some encouragement from Crump, but he kept his eyes upon the fringes of the road and did not speak.
When we emerged again into the sun, I halted, overcome by wonder and surprise. Before us stretched a field of poppies whose golden heads bent gently to the breeze. Knee high and thick they grew, serene and marvellous, all but hiding the yellow road that led us in among them.
Absorbed by beauty, I let myself relax a little. I smiled to see Crump writing in his notebook, and walked out among the flowers while he filled his page. The sky was huge above us, yet it seemed low enough to touch. The world was blue and green and gold; its multicolored vastness awed me. Intent upon the gifts of nature, I hardly noticed that I was walking more and more slowly, or that my feet were straying from the path. The light after so many shadows, the whisper of the breeze and the lilting of the poppies, all these confused me.
By the time I reached the far side of the field, my errand seemed much less urgent than before. I let myself sink down to rest under a tree. Poppies nodded around my outstretched legs, and butterflies gyrated in the air above them.
I looked up when Crump’s shadow fell upon me. He seemed concerned and puzzled. “Sir?” he queried, and then he knelt and began to fan me with his notebook.
“What are you doing?” I said testily, and struck his hand away.
“You’re tired, sir,” he said. “It must be shock, or reaction, or something of that kind.”
“Nonsense!”
“Then why did you sit down? We have no time to lose–you were the one who said so. Don’t you remember?”
“Of course I remember!” I struggled to my feet. I would have dearly loved to close my eyes and sleep the afternoon away, but I shook my head to clear it and took a few uncertain steps. What could be wrong with me? How could I think of napping in the middle of a case? The swaying of the poppies made me dizzy, and I leaned against the tree.
“Let me help you, sir,” said Crump gently.
“I don’t need help,” I muttered, but when he put his hand under my elbow, I followed unresisting, treading poppies underfoot. When I looked back and saw my footprints shiny with sap, inspiration came to me. In one great moment of illumination, I understood the motive for the crime. I turned to Crump and rapped out: “Tell me: if you have the toothache or any other chronic pain, what do you take for it?”
Crump’s eyes grew wide. He started forward, then froze like a dog just come upon the scent. “Of course! I’m sure you’re right, sir!”
I made a large, dismissive gesture. Certainly I was right.
Crump whipped out his notebook and wrote enthusiastically. At the same time he blurted, “The villagers were not so far out after all when they called the old woman a witch.”
“No, indeed.”
“This is a dreadful business, sir.”
“Yes. We must make haste.”
“Indeed, but—“ Crump swallowed, then went on, “you do not think that in spite of our efforts, we have come too late?”
“We saw no signs of that, did we?” I reminded him. “If the little girl had met the lion, there would have been some trace. And,” I added brusquely, “it would not have attacked us if it had met her first.” I was very anxious to believe this.
It was not long until we reached the woodman’s hut. It nestled in a pretty glade surrounded by scrubby pines and larger oak trees. A few stunted vegetables grew in a muddy plot reclaimed from the encroaching forest, and chickens pecked aimlessly among scattered wisps of hay.
I called out, and the door opened to reveal a lean young man in rustic costume. He barged past me without a word and reached for Crump, who was shaking his head and and pawing at his face.
“Spider web, sir,” said Crump.
He was about to swat the spider with his notebook when the woodman caught his arm.
“Don’t kill it!” he cried.
The creature fell to the ground and disappeared.
I said, to the woodman, “We are investigating a crime, and we would like to talk to you. May we come in?”
The woodman sighed and gestured toward the door.
The hut was small and nearly bare inside. An iron stove stood in one corner near a deal table and some matching straight-backed chairs. A low bed, covered with a blanket, filled the space along the farther wall. I took a seat upon the bed so that I could see the door, while Crump sat down at the table.
“You will have some soup?” asked the woodman, moving over to the stove, where steam was rising from a pot.
Mindful of my recent revelation, I declined, though I was hungry. I watched the woodman as he stirred the brew. He stood with his weight on one foot, his shoulders slumped, his head drooping. His eyes were shiny as if with unshed tears, their lids red-rimmed with sleeplessness or sorrow.
“You seem unhappy,” I ventured.
“No,” he answered. “I’ve gotten past all that. It’s a mistake in any case to give in to one’s feelings. They don’t last.”
“I suppose they don’t. But you do not look well.” I said. “Your friend the Scarecrow told us you were hurt.”
The woodman reached down and pulled up his trouser leg. A metal brace came down on each side of his ankle. The ankle itself was oddly misshapen and covered with a sock; the foot was shoeless. “I had an accident,” he said. “My axe slipped while I was working in the woods. When I first lost my foot, the pain was terrible, but now I never feel it. And I can walk quite well with what I have–a foot of tin, and a brace to hold it on.”
“You are fortunate,” I said.
“Oh, yes,” the woodman answered, but in despairing tones.
“Yes,” I echoed. “Very fortunate. I understand that during your recovery you had a friend to give you medicine. I mean the old woman, of course. The one the villagers call a witch.”
The woodman stopped his stirring and looked up with terror in his eyes. “I didn’t kill her!” he gasped.
Crump started and looked up from his notebook. Surprised and gratified, I fixed the suspect with a glare of undiluted menace. Was it going to be as easy as this?
“How did you know that she was dead?” I demanded.
“Everyone knows it,” mumbled the woodman.
“Did she say she wouldn’t help you any more? Did she withhold the medicine?”
“No! No!”
“But you needed the medicine, didn’t you? Laudanum, opium, call it what you will–you took it first for the pain, and then because you couldn’t do without it. I saw the poppies, and I knew.”
“I swear to you, I–! It wasn’t like that!”
“So you say.”
I glanced around the room, then spoke slowly and clearly, biting off each syllable. “Tell me, Woodman: where is your axe?”
He left the stove and backed up against the wall, trembling. “I lost it! I really did! Ask anyone!”
I might have believed him if I had not caught sight of a soiled and empty dish that was sitting on the floor beside the stove.
“Your only chance,” I said harshly, “is to produce the little girl–unharmed, and instantly!”
“What little girl?”
I leaped up from the bed and advanced upon the scoundrel. “Instantly!” I roared.
“She isn’t here! I haven’t seen her!” As if seeking some avenue of escape, the woodman turned his head from side to side, eyes glittering, fists clenched. Then suddenly his chin sank to his chest, his knees buckled, and he collapsed. “You can’t prove anything,” I heard him whisper.
I seized him by the collar of his shirt and tried to pull him upright. “You rogue!” I shouted in his face. Neither Crump nor I can feel a shred of mercy for a man whose crimes involve a child. I don’t know what I might have done had the suspect been less craven and abject. His sweaty face and twitching lips disgusted me, and with contempt I loosed my grip and turned my back on him.
I pointed out the dish to Crump and said, “That was put there for the dog, and the dog was with the girl. Let’s go and find them.”
We left the woodman weeping and went back out into the clearing. A narrow path led off between the pine trees, and I set off down it at a trot, batting aside protruding branches as I went.
It is just as well that Crump and I keep fit, for this case made great demands upon our strength. We had been walking at top speed since early morning, and already I could see the prospect of a brisk cross-country run to fill our afternoon. We rushed on through the trees and at length we came upon a wooden shed which, from its looks, had been designed for poultry.
“Here,” I panted. “This must be it.” As if in answer, there came the sound that I had longed to hear for hours: a paean of speechless joy and expectation echoing inside the chicken house. Together Crump and I approached the shabby structure, and as we did the agitation of its occupant increased. The door began to shake, as if battered from within. I undid the catch and paused.
“Don’t let it get away,” I cautioned Crump.
He crouched behind me, his arms wide. “I’m ready, sir.”
I gave the door a push, and it swung open to reveal our prize.
We had not long to observe it. I caught a glimpse of something small and beady eyed, and then a shaggy body darted forth and streaked between Crump’s legs. Crump wheeled, lunged at it and missed, then made a headlong dive and ended up upon the ground.
“I’ve got it, sir!” he spluttered.
The creature was undoubtedly a mongrel. Its drooping ears and plumy tail recalled no breed that I could think of, although its whiskered face was pleasant. It struggled in Crump’s tight embrace, still barking.
“We must secure it, Crump,” I said. “Have you a bit of rope?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
I poked my head into the shed. “Here.” A piece of clothesline would suffice. I tied the free end to the dog’s collar and held the coil firmly in my hand. “All right, let it go!”
The dog ran round and round me, so that I had to turn like a weathervane to avoid becoming tangled in the clothesline.
“Why did the woodman hide it here?” asked Crump. “Do you think him guilty, sir?”
“If he is not, then he had knowledge of the crime,” I said. “He knew we were coming. That’s why he had to hide the dog.”
“He had it?”
“I saw its food dish on the floor of his hut. He shut it up here so we wouldn’t hear it bark.”
“Did he have the little girl as well?”
“We shall see. The dog will take us to her.”
I shortened the line. “Heel!” I commanded. The dog jumped up and down. “Sit!” The dog pawed at my boots. “Find!” The dog began to run, and I ran after it. “This way!” I called to Crump, and hurried through the trees.
For many minutes afterward I had no breath to speak. The dog pulled madly on the line, and I, exalted with the chase, sped in its wake. From time to time I could hear Crump crashing through the undergrowth behind me, but I could not spare time to look back. We were heading away from the woodman’s hut, away from the yellow brick road, following a narrow, ill-marked trail that I was sure the little dog remembered. It must be so: the woodman’s accomplice had come this way to warn him while we were still upon the road.
We were almost at the edge of the woods when the dog tried to take a short cut through a bramble bush, and I was obliged to pause and pull him out again. Crump came abreast of us, and stood still, gasping.
“We’re going back toward the village,” he said.
“How can you tell?”
He pulled a compass from his pocket and waved it at me. “The yellow road went south and then turned east,” he said. “I wrote it down.”
I gazed upon him with affection. No matter what hardships we encountered, he was staunch; no matter how confused our wanderings, he never lost his way.
We crossed some empty pastureland, then found a rutted lane that led us on between ploughed fields. At last we came around a turn and saw ahead a promontory sheathed in thorny scrub and crowned by the largest building we had seen in this peculiar country: a stone mansion, turreted and forbidding. The path to it was steep, and we dropped to a walk.
I glanced at Crump. “Are you ready?”
He set his jaw and nodded.
“Here, then,” I said, and handed him the coil of clothesline. “You stay outside and be ready to help me if I call.”
“You’re going in alone, sir?”
I nodded. Crump was about to argue, but he saw the determination in my face and decided to refrain.
The dog began to bark again, frantically. I looked up and saw what had at first escaped my notice: a figure seated by the entrance of the looming edifice before us. It leaped up as I watched, revealing itself to be skirted, short-legged, and pigtailed. As the little girl began to run in our direction, I quietly gave thanks that she could do so. My joy at finding her physically unharmed, however, was soon clouded by the fear that she had suffered mental damage. She screamed wildly as she tore down the hill, repeating over and over the same incomprehensible syllables. “Toto!” she shrieked. “Toto! Toto!”
I put out my arms, ready to stop her mad career downhill. She bounced off my waistcoat and sat down in the road, where the dog swarmed over her ecstatically. “Toto!” cried the little girl again. “Oh, Toto, where have you been?” I understood then, and let my eyes close with relief. The burden of suspense and guilt that had tormented me all day was lifted.
The little girl was blond and freckled, and she wore a gingham dress covered by a dirty pinafore. The dog was on her lap; she hugged it and rained unhygienic kisses on its head. Her young legs wriggled in the dust, while her feet– I started, jogged Crump with my elbow, and pointed wordlessly.
“The shoes!” he exclaimed.
“Just so.”
The shoes were ruby red and shiny, but too big for her. I could see that she had stuffed something in the toes to make them fit.
Crump knelt down beside her with his notebook and assumed a benevolent expression. “What is your name?” he asked.
The girl fixed him with a wide, uninterested gaze. “Dorothy. Why do you want to know?”
“It’s my job.”
“Why are you writing it?”
“That’s my job, too.”
“A funny job!” said Dorothy, and giggled.
I knelt down beside them. “Where did you get those pretty shoes?” I asked, in tones that made Crump stare. I was trying to ingratiate myself with Dorothy, but the mixture of bonhomie and cunning I produced rang false even in my own ears. I have not had much practice in communicating with the very young.
“From the witch,” Dorothy answered calmly.
Crump and I exchanged glances. “She gave them to you?” queried Crump.
“No. I killed her, but I didn’t mean to.”
“What!”
“Really, I didn’t mean to!” repeated Dorothy, but she did not appear to be distressed.
“Who told you that!” I cried.
“I melted her with a pail of water,” said Dorothy seriously, wrinkling her nose. “But my friend said it was all right, and that I could have her shoes. They’re magic shoes. But I suppose you know that.”
“No, I don’t.”
“But you’re that clever man who can do anything, aren’t you? My friend told me you would come.”
“Did he indeed?”
“And you know the magic of the shoes! I’ve tried but I can’t make it work. You click your heels and then you can fly through the air and—”
“You know better than that,” I interrupted in exasperation.
“My friend said the clever man is a wizard who would help me get back home and tell me how to use the magic shoes!”
The young are over-trusting, but all the same it struck me that little Dorothy was not very bright. “Never mind him now,” I said. “Tell us again what happened to the witch.”
“I spilled the water and it got her,” said Dorothy blithely. “She was invisible.”
“I understand,” I answered–and I did. I detached her grubby hand from my sleeve and stood up. Then, seeing that her nose was running, I handed her my handkerchief.
“Where are you going?” she asked, looking up at me.
“To see your friend,” I replied. “He’s up there, isn’t he?” I gestured toward the big stone house.
“Yes. But I’m supposed to wait outside and try the shoe magic.”
“At least he had that much decency,” I murmured. I looked up at the mansion. Smoke was pouring from one of the chimneys to dissipate and vanish in the sky. No doubt Dorothy’s friend hoped that the evidence would disappear as quickly, but I was not alarmed. There are signs of guilt that cannot be destroyed by fire. “I am going now, Crump,” I said. “Wait for my signal. Then–you know what to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
I climbed the hill, and then the steps. The front door opened easily, creaking on its hinges. I crossed a bare stone hall and made my way toward the rear of the building. I was quite calm, and I seemed to know by some unerring instinct the direction I should take. I looked into each room I passed, then locked the doors and pocketed the keys, not wanting to leave a refuge for my quarry in case he should decide to run from me. A cold corridor led me to the last inner door. I paused, took a deep breath, and pushed it open.
I found myself in a large kitchen warmed by a crackling fire that smoked and stank upon the hearth. The stone floor was wet and soapy. Before me, leaning on a mop, I saw the Scarecrow. For a moment he returned my steady gaze, then he looked down, smiled a little, and made a gesture of surrender.
“You were quick,” he acknowledged ruefully. “But luckily for me, not quick enough. I’ve finished here.”
“It was hard work, I’m sure,” I answered. “There must have been a lot of blood.”
The Scarecrow shrugged and did not answer.
“And the axe, I suppose, went into the fire,” I went on. “The handle, anyway.”
“The rest is where you’ll never find it,” said the Scarecrow.
“Of course this is the witch’s house,” I said. “I saw the room where she made the ‘medicine’. I thought at first she had been killed there.”
“No, it was in here.”
“At least you did not let the little girl see the body or the blood. If you had not told her she was guilty, I might have had some pity for you.”
“Guilty!” exclaimed the Scarecrow, letting the mop fall. “She doesn’t know the meaning of the word! Besides, I had to tell her something. You don’t know how it was! The questions she kept asking me, the crazy things she wanted! But of course I never let her see the blood. I’m not as base as that.”
I closed the kitchen door behind me and went to look into the fire, where the charred remains of something writhed amid the flames. I heard the Scarecrow move behind me and turned quickly to face him, but he had not seized a weapon and did not seem disconcerted in the least. He retrieved the mop and wrung it out, then went to sit on the window ledge beside a pile of rags.
“You played the fool very well,” I told him. “For a long time I was completely taken in. And where was Dorothy, when we met you?”
“In the haystack. I told her to hide there. I said that you and your friend were ogres, and she believed me. And if you think that tale, or any other, bruised her little mind, then you don’t know her!”
He was probably right, but I had no wish to pursue the subject. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?” I suggested.
“I took the woodman’s axe and killed the witch,” said the Scarecrow. “You know I had a reason. The woodman is a friend of mine.”
“Go on.”
“Well, when I saw what I had done, I–I had to–I wanted to–”
“Conceal your crime,” I supplied.
“If you like. I let the lion out–”
“Let it out?”
“The old woman kept it in a cage outside. She was cruel to it, and I thought….”
“You thought that the lion would maul the witch’s body, so you could blame her death on it,” I finished for him.
“The witch must have done something awful to the lion–it wouldn’t touch her even after she was dead. But then the storm came up. I never saw anything like it! The wind was tremendous. I was out in the woods, and I was afraid the trees would fall and crush me. Instead I saw that house go flying through the clouds and drop into a field, just before dawn. That was my opportunity, you know?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I took the witch there.”
“So far?”
“It’s just down the hill from here,” said the Scarecrow. “Not far at all. You’ve travelled in a circle.”
“Hmm. Well, we saw what you did with the body. A clever plan.”
“I thought so,” agreed the Scarecrow, fiddling with the rags beside him. “And I could have managed even after Dorothy popped out of the house and frightened me into fits. She didn’t see me with the witch, you know–at least, not then. She just latched onto me and whined that she wanted to go home. And then—well, it all started to go wrong.”
As he spoke I began to search the kitchen, peering under tables and into drawers. I did not think that I would find the axe head, but I felt I should go through the motions anyway. When he paused, I commented, “That was to be expected, under the circumstances.”
“It was the dog–that Toto thing,” said the Scarecrow with revulsion. “It was yipping and yapping, and then it began to howl.”
“I thought so,” I said. “Dogs can sense a death.”
“It knew all right. It ran around the house, and then came back. With a shoe in its mouth.” The Scarecrow spread his hands. “What could I do? The villagers would hear the dog and come out any minute. That silly Dorothy wanted to know where the shoe had come from. I was in a tight place, I can tell you.”
“But you kept your wits, after a fashion,” I said, as I poked through a closet. “You grabbed the shoe away from Toto, and then you got the other one. You told Dorothy that they were magic and could get her home. And then what?”
“I told her that she had to keep the secret, or else the magic of the shoes wouldn’t work. Then I took the shoes and ran away, promising to meet her later in the woods. The villagers sent her off down the yellow brick road, just as I thought they would. So I went ahead and waited for her.”
“And you took her to the woodman.”
“Yes,” said the Scarecrow, wearily rubbing his forehead. “You see, I had to leave her someplace. I had to come back here and…clean up a little, you know? I went and got her later. She was hiding in the haystack when I met you first.”
“But you didn’t take the dog along.”
“I thought it would be in the way. I made up some reason why it couldn’t come with us. Dorothy believes anything, anything at all.”
I slammed the door of the closet and glared at him.
“Well, I couldn’t tell her the truth, could I?” he protested.
“So as soon as we left, you ran to the woodman and told him to hide the dog.”
“That was another tight spot,” explained the villain. “I took a shortcut and got there just in time. I rather hoped–you won’t be offended, will you?–that you would run into the lion on the way.”
“We did,” I answered shortly.
“Did you?” He put his head to one side and regarded me with interest.
“And Dorothy was in the haystack where she, too, could have been found by the lion?”
“That,” said the Scarecrow with disarming frankness, “is the only thing I’m not quite happy with. I admit it. All the time I was careful to protect her, but I couldn’t take her back to the woodman then because she was too slow–always tired, always whining. But the lion met you instead, so it worked out all right.”
“If you say so,” I answered. “You left hay in the woodman’s yard. I saw it.”
“Very observant of you,” acknowledged the Scarecrow.
“And then you came back here.”
The Scarecrow sighed. “I wanted to make sure that everything was tidy. And it’s a good thing I did, because I found that I had left some mess around. I had an awful time with Dorothy. With her, it’s ‘Why’ this and ‘why’ that–‘what are you doing?’ She followed me around and drove me crazy. I had to draw water from the well, and she got in my way so that I spilled the bucket in the yard. To make her mind me, I told her that she had killed the witch.”
“Who was invisible,” I jeered.
“Yes. I told her that the witch had just been sleeping and flew back here when she woke up. I had to make up story after story, the whole day long. I never want to go through anything like that again! Finally, I made her stay outside. I said she had to be on lookout for a clever man who would come and help her to get home.”
I picked up the mop and shook it, then took off my coat, rolled up my sleeve, and plunged my hand into the soapy water in the Scarecrow’s cleaning bucket. Nothing.
“Anyway,” continued the Scarecrow, “it’s over now, thank heaven. And you have no proof at all. I plan to deny all this, if asked. So you might as well give up, and let things be.”
“I never give up,” I informed him pleasantly, shaking water from my hand.
“No? But what can you do now?”
“For one thing,” I said, “I can look under those rags.” I pointed at the pile beside him on the window ledge.
I had not believed that he could move so fast. In an instant he had seized the rags, pushed open the window, and hurled the bundle out. I thrust him to one side and watched while the cloths unfolded in the air, revealing a dark object that soared into the distance and disappeared into the impenetrable briars far below. I thought I heard the telltale thump of something heavy as it landed.
“All gone!” the Scarecrow taunted, but I ignored him. I had caught sight of Crump coming around the corner of the house. I called and waved, and saw him return my signal.
I remained kneeling on the window ledge, but turned back to face the Scarecrow. I read his mind, and crouched in readiness to spring. It was a long way down into the thicket.
“Don’t,” I warned him.
“I wasn’t going to,” lied the Scarecrow, stepping back. I descended from the window ledge and adjusted my waistcoat.
“I have enjoyed your story,” I remarked. “And I admire your invention. But you need not think I believe all you have told me.”
“It’s absolutely true!” cried the Scarecrow, eyes wide with false astonishment.
“Most of it is,” I agreed. “But not the part about the murder.”
“What?”
“I have some sympathy for you,” I said. “You wanted to protect your friend, and so you took his guilt upon yourself. I understand that. But it was a mistake, all the same.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“The woodman killed the witch, not you.”
The Scarecrow stared. “Why would he do a thing like that? He got his laudanum from her, you know. He wouldn’t want her dead.”
“It is strange,” I mused, “that he could kill, for he is tender-hearted. Of course he pretends to be the opposite, just as you pretend to be foolish.”
“And what do you pretend to be?” asked the Scarecrow with derision. “You are the greatest poseur of us all–don’t think I didn’t notice!”
“Whatever I may do,” I answered evenly, “I do not pretend that what is wrong is right. Nor does the woodman. He is unstable and tormented–partly by nature, partly due to long use of the drug. I think he came here to get his laudanum and saw the lion in its cage, half starved and beaten and degraded. He wanted to release it, but the old lady wouldn’t let him. I’ll give you this–he probably wouldn’t have killed her if he hadn’t had his axe in his hand.”
The Scarecrow looked down at his feet. “You’ll never prove it,” he muttered. “Give up–you never will.”
I heard footsteps in the corridor outside. “Won’t I?” I demanded, and crossed the room to open the door.
Crump came in first, then in pranced Toto, free of his makeshift leash. In his mouth he held a shoe. Bright-eyed, he looked from the Scarecrow to me, and then came over and dropped his trophy at my feet.
“He fetched it,” said Crump. “Just as you thought he would. A good thing, too–we could never have reached it through those briars.”
I picked up the shoe. The rusty traces of the witch’s blood could still be seen on it, splattered over the toe. Mutely, I held it out so that the Scarecrow could see, and as I did I pointed out the slots beside the instep where the braces on woodman’s leg were meant to fit.
“You couldn’t burn this, could you?” I said to him.
“Ah,” he answered–very softly, very sadly. Then he slumped down and covered his face with his hands.
* * * *
An hour later we were on the train. I leaned back in comfort, while across from me my disgruntled lieutenant tried to accommodate both Dorothy and Toto on his knees. I had had to buy the child some sticky toffee, having run out of fairy tales to tell her, and she, of course, had shared it with the dog. Much of the candy had by now transferred itself to Crump. Dorothy wriggled and whined, “I want to fly home with the magic. It would be faster.”
“Some other time,” responded Crump, long-suffering. I chuckled.
We had not long been under way when the door to our compartment flew open to reveal a rotund and not unfamiliar figure. The newcomer rubbed his shiny, hairless pate, grinned toothily, and sat down beside me uninvited. “Lovely weather,” he remarked, and began to root around inside his carpetbag.
I addressed him coldly. “The clever man who can do anything, I presume?”
He beamed. “How did you know?”
“Sheer intuition.”
“It’s this way: I was blown into this country when I was testing my balloon. Couldn’t get out again–there was a desert all around, you know?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I thought, if I have to be here, I might as well run the place. Be boss, you know. So I said I was all-powerful, and the little men believed me after they had seen me come down from the clouds. It was all right, being the head man, but after a while I got bored and wanted to go home.”
“Home!” wailed Dorothy from Crump’s reluctant embrace.
“Why didn’t you?” I asked.
“The desert–I told you. But you’re right–I was pretty desperate and I thought I would build myself another balloon. But then I had my big stroke of luck. You came, and suddenly there was a train!”
“This train takes us everywhere we need to go.”
“I’m coming, too.” He dived into his carpet bag and emerged with a large and smelly sandwich. He flourished this as if toasting our journey, and then took a mammoth bite. I flinched and looked away. “Ha! Ha!” he sputtered gleefully, spraying me with crumbs and reaching out to poke me in the ribs. I looked at Crump in desperation.
As ever, he did not fail me. “Dorothy,” he said in sugared tones. “Look at the man–he has food, and Toto wants some!”
It was true–the little dog had jumped down on the floor and was watching the head man eat with rapt attention.
Dorothy squealed, then bounced up on the head man’s lap. I heard him exhale sharply with the shock and watched with quiet satisfaction as she put her sticky arms around his neck.
“Toto’s hungry,” she wheedled. “I’m hungry, too. We’re hungry, and we want to go home. Will you take us? Give us some food and take us home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home, there’s no place….”
Her voice ran on. I leaned across to shake Crump’s hand, then settled back into my seat. We, too, were going home.
Author bio.
Virginia Revel was born in the United States but has lived in Europe for some time. When not writing speeches or diplomatic correspondence for an international organization, she turns her hand to fiction–a natural choice for someone with a background in literature and a habit of compulsive reading. She belongs to a local writers’ group and has just finished a full-length novel.
