Chapter Three

We stood for some time, staring in wonder at that unfathomable foot mark.

I know that I myself regarded it with a mix of amazement, curiosity, and foreboding. I believe that my companions considered it likewise, at varying degrees.

Holmes was gazing at it meditatively, his arms casually folded. He seemed to be almost admiring it, as if it were a fine artwork and he a connoisseur, contemplating some masterpiece in the halls of the National Gallery. There was an expression of polite interest upon his keen features; only the intensity of his gaze betrayed the deductive reasoning that was furiously at work behind his unfurrowed brow.

Stamford, meanwhile, was staring at the strange sigil with undisguised horror, his pupils dilated in alarm. As a doctor as much as a friend, I was about to suggest that he should perhaps leave the room and take a breath of fresh air. However, he spoke before I could.

"How is this possible?" he asked, in a tone of disbelief. "It must be a plant! A childish trick, meant to mislead us! Surely someone couldn't have come through the window? They would have to have scaled a wall, some twenty feet -"

"It is possible," Holmes interrupted him. "More than that, it is the only plausible conclusion to be drawn, given the evidence. This explains why the door was so neglected; it wasn't used at all. Miss Porter and her associate exited the room by means of the open window."

Stamford gave an incredulous scoff. Holmes, however, was again carrying out an exacting analysis of the data at hand. He used his lens to minutely scan the sill, the latch, the lintel, the wall, and the floor in turn. He gently prodded the folds of the curtains, pulling something from the weave of the fabric and carefully collecting it in another envelope. Then he leaned out the window, looking at the exterior façade of the building itself.

"This window is quite large enough to afford someone as tall as myself easy passage, if one only stoops a bit. The ledges outside each window are quite wide, providing easy grips on all sides, and therefore many possible approaches that our Blondin could have taken - above, below, or either side. Additionally, the windows on this storey are linked by a narrow ledge running the width of the house, which someone with dexterous feet could easily scale. In fact, I believe I see another such print upon it, some three feet from here."

He turned and regarded Stamford's stunned countenance with a knowing smile. "Watson and I encountered a similarly nimble fellow, during our last case together as fellow-lodgers."

"Curse the vicious little murderer," I muttered, with gusto.

"God rest him, in his untimely grave at the bottom of the Thames," Holmes said, with a magnanimity which I certainly did not share. "I suspect this time," he added, "we are dealing with someone of a far more impressive stature."

"Based on the size of his print?" I asked.

"And the length of his reach." Holmes pointed upward, towards the lintel, where a dark smudge was visible on the plaster. "Our visitor left a thumb print a little over six feet above his foot mark; it therefore follows that he must be of considerable height, to be able to reach so far with his limbs fully extended."

"I hadn't observed that," I admitted. I had been so preoccupied with the first strange mark, it hadn't occurred to me that a man who leaves a foot impression at the height of my shoulder must have grasped an even higher purchase with his hand.

Holmes gave Stamford a smile which held a hint of humour in its curve; his eyes darted towards me, with a mischievous glint of which I did not approve.

"I have been attempting to train Watson in my methods, Stamford. It is my hypothesis that almost any individual, possessed of reasonable intelligence and furnished with a working set of eyes, can discern all gleanable knowledge from any viable data that they may have at their disposal, so long as they are able to recognize what they see, and interpret it accurately. Watson here is my case study. I must admit that he has made some progress; though perhaps less than I should expect of him, given our lengthy association. Come, old boy, flex your skills. What does this suggest to you?"

He gestured at the foot mark, inviting my opinion. I did not appreciate being treated like his apprentice, nor like a dog that could perform tricks on demand. However, deciding that some attempt at success was better than a complete refusal, I dutifully tried my best to adopt his methods, squinting at the footmark in concentration.

"It appears to be much the same as the marks on the chair," I said, hoping that this observation was not too presumptuous to start with.

"Quite so. If I were to measure them each with a tape, I could confirm that they are exactly identical in width; to the naked eye, they are of equal proportion, which will suffice as proof for the time being. What else?"

I remembered the demonstration he had given back at Pondicherry Lodge, placing his own print beside that already in the dust for comparison. I tried to picture a typical footprint in my mind, contrasting it with the curious specimen before me.

"The heel impression is missing," I said, after a time.

"Yes! This agile personage has clung to the wall, using the clutch afforded by the joints of his toes folding back to meet the ball of his foot, securing a strong grip on the corner of the frame. You observe that this print was made by his left foot. Just here, at much the same level, the curtain bears a pronounced crease, meaning that he likely clung to it with his right. The hand on the lintel was only used to steady himself, not support his weight, as the impression is only light. What else?"

I surveyed the print with a physician's eye, imagining it was made by one of my patients. "The big toe is strangely pronounced," I realized. I pointed at the mark that this digit had made; it was noticeably enlarged, compared in scale to the rest of the foot. "The phalanges distales on the talus looks to be overly developed. What is more, it is somewhat separated from the rest of the digits... almost equivalent to how a thumb is situated a little away from the other four fingers."

"If I didn't know better," Stamford broke in, rather hesitantly, "I would say it rather resembles the print of... well, of an ape..."

We all stopped, regarding each other uncertainly. It seemed so fantastical; yet here before us, upon the white-washed plaster, was irrevocable proof.

Holmes broke the silence first; his tone was more than a little desultory.

"I would not call a consultation with Dupin just yet, Watson. No, never mind, Stamford, just a private jest. The print, though quite irregular, has many distinctly human features. The toes of chimps tend to be elongated, more resembling human fingers. Is that not the case, Dr Stamford?"

"Yes," Stamford assented, with a great sigh of relief. "It is just as well; that was all-together too far-fetched! I suppose since Miss Porter studies apes, it was suggested to my mind-"

"-that her subject might begrudge her scrutiny, and seek revenge?" Holmes gave an incisive bark of wry laughter. "No, it is a distinctly human force at work here; though a rather less-than-ordinary one. You will recall that the scene was staged to look like murder, though evidently no murder has taken place. The animal mind is not sly enough to formulate such an elaborate ruse. It is true some creatures will play dead in order to escape its predators; but it will hardly leave behind material proof to suggest its demise. This was a calculated arrangement, designed to protect the room's former occupant and secure her prolonged evasion."

"You think... that Miss Porter agreed to all of this?"

"Indeed. There are no signs of force, nor of violence. If her visitor was an unwelcome one, she would have struggled, cried for help, or fled; she would hardly stand quietly by, while her room was systematically reduced to tatters. Besides, if the intruder entered through this window, it must have been left open; a slide lock like this can be manipulated from the outside, but it would be difficult to do so whilst stand on a ledge no more than a foot wide, and would surely make enough noise to alert the room's occupant. No, I think we can safely hypothesise that Miss Porter both knew her assailant, and willing allowed herself to be abducted."

"But... why?" Stamford asked, his face now a near-constant picture of utter bewilderment. "If she felt threatened, why resort to such lengths? If she was in trouble, she could have come to me for help, or any of the others on university board... or the police, surely..."

"... or the esteemed Mr Sempleston, who was so conveniently located to quickly come to her aid?" Holmes suggested, with a knowing smile.

"That cretin!" Stamford exclaimed. "Has he something to do with this? I swear, if that little devil has done any-"

Holmes had clearly predicted Stamford's response to his remark; he raised both hands in a soothing gesture. "My dear Stamford, I think we can be a bit more amicable where Mr Sempleston is concerned. I have reason to believe that the landlord had nothing to do with Miss Porter's disappearance - quite the opposite, in fact. I assure you that he is just as anxious to locate her as we are ourselves. That explains why he is so pitiably nervous at the present time."

"I suppose that would justify it," Stamford admitted, albeit grudgingly. "But if he is not a suspect, then who else...?"

"Hum. Here is a description, such as I have deduced at this point; though it is incomplete, and so of limited use thus far. Much as I can tell, our mysterious interloper is a little above six foot in height, goes unshod with bare feet, is an expert climber, has a strong grip, perfect balance, no fear of heights, and normally resides in East Africa. He has considerable strength, for he was able to overturn that large chest of draws without damaging it. He is apparently well-acquainted with our misplaced Miss Porter. Other than that..." he shrugged, in a rare display of modesty. "The data at present is still inconclusive."

Stamford passed a hand over his clammy brow. "This is a disaster. I shall have to explain what has happened to the rest of the faculty board. And the lecture tomorrow! If she cannot be found-"

"I did not say that, Stamford," Holmes interrupted in his quiet, firm way. "Why, I expect to have Miss Porter returned, safe and sound, within the next few hours."

Stamford looked at him as a lost soul might look upon a ministering saint. "If you could do that, I would be forever in your debt-"

"Nonsense!" Holmes retorted. "I am indebted to you, Stamford, as is Watson here; we still owe you for aiding us in securing our Baker Street lodgings all those years ago. Think of this as but a complimentary favour to a friend."

He clapped Stamford companionably on the shoulder, at the same time nudging him discreetly towards the exit. "Now, perhaps it would be best if you head home, old boy. There is little more that you can do here; you've had a rough night, and will want to be in a restful condition ahead of tomorrow's lecture. I'm sure that Watson would prescribe you a good night's sleep for now, and a hearty breakfast upon waking; when you arrive at the Grant Museum tomorrow, I am sure that the sight of the returned Miss Porter will complete the cure."

Stamford fervently wrung his hand. "I shall entrust it all to you. If it is just as you say, it will be worth all the night's anxiety. I shall try to regard it all as calmly as possible; I have confidence that you can solve even this most baffling case."

He shook my hand, thanking me as well. Then, with a last grateful salutation, he carefully left the room, skirting the debris that were still scattered across the floor. Presently, I heard him give Sempleston a curt farewell; then the distant front door thudded closed behind him.

Beside me, Holmes gave a low whistle. "I shall owe Stamford again," he said, with a broad grin. "This case is one of the most singular I have ever encountered. I do greatly anticipate tracking down our mysterious assailant. If I am a scientist and an anthropologist, a specialist in crime, then this could very well be one of the finest specimens I have yet had the pleasure of encountering."

I partly shared his professional interest in the perpetrator of the crime, if indeed a crime had been committed; however, I was much more greatly preoccupied with she whom we might consider to be the victim in the affair. "Holmes, do you really think that you can find Miss Porter within the next few hours?"

"I do, Watson; if not in the hour itself. To claim such a thing in front of Stamford would have perhaps been too boastful, and diminished his belief in my powers. The outcome is far simpler than he himself suspects."

It must have been simpler than I believed as well, for I must confess that I was still completely in the dark at this point. "But then, where is she, Holmes? What clue do you have to her whereabouts?"

"Let us start," Holmes began, once again with the authoritative air of a lecturer, "with where she is not. You observed that I found my first clue outside the door to this room."

"The splinter on the threshold," I said, recalling his first examination of the scene.

"No, prior to that."

Before I could ask him what he meant, he was briskly crossing the room, I following at his heel. He led the way back down the corridor, to the small alcove out in the hallway. "This was my first piece of evidence," he said, pointing to the decrepit old chair. "And this was the second." He reached into his pocket, drew out an envelope, and extracted the fragment of wood from within it. Holding it up to the backrest of the chair, I saw that the colour of the varnish and the texture of the underlying wood matched it exactly.

"It came from this chair," I said, with some surprise.

"Yes. This piece of furniture, innocuous as it seems, has served a nefarious purpose."

So saying, Holmes hefted the chair, carried it back to the entrance of the flat, then propped it against the closed door. By leaning it on its two back legs, he managed to wedge it securely between the floor and the door handle. He tried to turn the knob with it thus obstructed; it barely budged, but scrapped against the back of the chair, depositing more stripped splinters upon the floor.

"As you can see from this recreation of the scene," Holmes said, frowning darkly, "someone endeavoured to keep Miss Porter in her room, rather than take her out of it."

"Sempleston!" I exclaimed

"Precisely," Holmes agreed, replacing the chair. "That is why the key was still on the inside of the door, and the door was not locked. Miss Porter was not trying to keep somebody out; she was trying to escape from within. Sempleston used this simple device to confine her to her room. For what purpose, I can only guess at for the present. I suspect that there is another party involved. Sempleston himself has little to gain from risking the reputation of his establishment in such a way. Someone - possibly the fanatical cult that Stamford mentioned - wished to contain her, and so they tasked him with trapping her in her room, no doubt intending to summon some assistant to help move her to a more secure prison. Then Stamford called; on the pretext of checking that his lodger was in, Sempleston hurriedly went upstairs, replaced the chair, probably growled some warning threat to the empty room, then showed Stamford up - only to discover, to his amazement, that the bird had flown from the cage in which he himself had secured her."

"That scoundrel!" I uttered. I had known that something about him was untrustworthy from the start. "So he has had some involvement in this?"

"Yes, but not in the way that Stamford suspected. You see that Sempleston must now be just as anxious to recover Miss Porter as we are. For whatever reason, she is valuable to him, and her disappearance from what he believed to be a secure room has rattled him greatly. We would best have another interview with him, I think. There are some points which I wish to clarify."

We returned downstairs. Sempleston was seated at the front desk, making a baleful show of shuffling some papers, though his hands were shaking and, from time to time, the muscles around his jaw convulsed with a nervous twitch. He gave a violent start at the sound of our footsteps coming down the stairs. I saw his eyes dart wistfully towards the front door; then, seeing that our approach cut off this means of escape, he reluctantly addressed us.

"How goes it, gentlemen? Are there any developments?"

"Some, I believe," Holmes said, with casual diffidence. Something in his manner warned me that he wished me not to speak, and so I let him do the questioning, seeing that he had some purpose in mind. "We suspect that some assailant outside the house is responsible. However, we wish to be sure upon that point. Would it be possible to speak to some of the residents in the surrounding flats?"

"You think," Sempleston said, with a greying complexion and a hint of stammer, "t-that someone... in this building... c-could have murdered...?"

He trailed off. Holmes didn't correct him, nor mention the revelation that Miss Porter was still alive. He fixed Sempleston with a grave stare. "It is difficult to believe that those around us are capable of atrocities, Mr Sempleston. I doubt any of your lodgers would commit such a dreadful act against a defenceless woman; however, it is our duty to make doubly sure. Could you tell me who is staying in the flats on either side of Miss Porter's?"

With a tremulous hand, Sempleston reached towards the ledger on his desk. His distress was so obvious, I almost felt sorry for him; until I remembered that he had himself tried to abduct a vulnerable, friendless women, for some purpose that was as yet unknown to me, but must surely be sinister. It took me all my time to hold my tongue; whatever ruse Holmes wished to employ, giving the man a verbal thrashing would have done little good.

Sempleston consulted his ledger, seemingly relieved to be able to hide himself behind it. "The flat to the left of Miss Porter's is unoccupied," he said. "It was let to a professor of, um, bio-chemical science, who was invited to give a talk in Edinburgh at the last minute. The flat opposite belongs to Dr Templin, who is currently away on an expedition to the Sussex Downs, examining the, er, migratory patterns of the lesser-striped martin. The other rooms on that floor belong to some student biologists at the Zoo, who use them to store equipment, with their own homes elsewhere in the city. There are no other occupants on that floor."

"What of the floor above?" Holmes asked.

Sempleston hurriedly consulted his records again. "The second floor has only one set of lodgers, in the apartment directly above Miss Porter's"

Holmes gave a nod of satisfaction. "I would wish to speak with them, if they are at home."

"Yes, w-well, they should be... b-but..." Mr Sempleston's manner had undergone some change; it was possible that he now cringed even more than before. "It is just that... with hour being so late, and... and I believe Mrs Bennett has not been very well of late..."

"Being that as it may," Holmes said, with a curtness that made Sempleston shrink back almost in imperceptibly, "the situation is a dire one, and the information that Mrs Bennett could give us might be of the utmost importance. Mrs Bennett, is it? Is there also a Mr Bennett in residence?"

"Yes, sir. My records state that the lodgers in question are Mr Trevor Bennett and Mrs Edith Bennett, nee Presbury."

Holmes' brows shot up in surprise; I myself made an involuntary exclamation.

I had thought the name Bennett to be a familiar one, though there were doubtless many Bennetts in London; however, in connection to the name Presbury, it could not be denied that these lodgers were, in fact, past acquaintances of ours.

Author's note: Sherlockians, I've dropped a breadcrumb for you! The name 'Presbury' should be recognizable to anyone well-up on their Conan-Doyle canon; if you'll recall the case that involved them, I think you'll agree that it is quite relevant to this one. I also included numerous references to 'The Sign of the Four', for those playing along at home. Until next time, look out for Blondin! ~ W.J.