The Problem of Thor Bridge: Part Two

Welcome to Sherlock Holmes Short Stories.

I'm Hugh Bonneville and from the Noiser Podcast Network, this is The Problem of Thor Bridge, Part 2.

Last time, Holmes received an urgent letter from an American gold magnate named Neil Gibson.

Gibson's wife, Maria, had been found shot in the head on Thor Bridge near his estate in Hampshire.

All evidence pointed to the family's governess, Miss Dunbar, with whom Gibson was rumoured to have been romantically involved.

Police found a revolver matching the bullet in her wardrobe.

She was seen near Thorbridge on the night of the murder, and a note written in her handwriting was found clutched in the dead woman's hand.

Gibson, however, was convinced that Miss Dunbar was innocent.

Before Gibson's arrival, his estate manager, Marlowe Bates, rushed into Baker Street in a state of panic.

Bates warned Holmes that his employer was a brutal man who had made his late wife's life miserable.

When Gibson arrived, his domineering presence and fierce temper confirmed Bates' description.

After a tense exchange, the gold magnet finally admitted that he had fallen in love with Miss Dunbar, but she had rejected his advances.

Meanwhile, his devoted wife grew increasingly jealous of the hold Dunbar had over her husband.

Sherlock agreed to take the case, and he and Watson headed to Gibson's estate, where they met Sergeant Coventry, a local police officer investigating the case.

Sherlock has just told Coventry that he has not ruled out Mr.

Gibson as a suspect, and the two men are about to continue their conversation.

You've not seen Miss Dunbar.

She is a wonderful fine woman in every way.

He may well have wished his wife out of the road, and these Americans are readier with pistols than our folk are.

It was his pistol, you know.

Was that clearly made out?

Yes, sir.

It was one of a pair that he had.

One of a pair.

Where is the other?

Well, the gentleman has a lot of firearms of one sort and another.

We never quite matched that particular pistol, but the box was made for two.

If it was one of a pair, you should surely be able to match it.

Well, we have them all laid out at the house if you would care to look them over.

Later, perhaps, I think we will walk down together and have a look at the scene of the tragedy.

This conversation had taken place in the little front room of Sergeant Coventry's humble cottage, which served as the local police station.

A walk of half a mile or so across a windswept heath, all gold and bronze with the fading ferns, brought us to a side gate opening into the grounds of the Thor Place estate.

A path led us through the pheasant preserves, and then, from a clearing, we saw the widespread, half-timbered house, half Tudor and half Georgian, upon the crest of the hill.

Beside us, there was a long, reedy pool, constricted in the centre where the main carriage drive passed over a stone bridge, but swelling into small lakes on either side.

Our guide paused at the mouth of this bridge, and he pointed to the ground.

That was where Miss Gibson's body lay.

I marked it by that stone.

I understand that you were there before it was moved.

Yes, they sent for me at once.

Who did?

Mr.

Gibson himself.

The moment the alarm was given, and he had rushed down with others from the house, he insisted that nothing should be moved until the police should arrive.

That was sensible.

I gathered from the newspaper report that the shot was fired from close quarters.

Yes, sir.

Very close.

Near the right temple.

Just behind it, sir.

How did the body lie?

On the back, sir.

No trace of a struggle, no marks, no weapon.

The short note from Miss Dunbar was clutched in her left hand.

Clutched, you say?

Yes, sir.

We could hardly open the fingers.

That is of great importance.

It excludes the idea that anyone could have placed the note there after death in order to furnish a false clue.

Dear me.

The note, as I remember, was quite short.

I will be at Thorbridge at nine o'clock, G.

Dunbar.

Was that not so?

Yes, sir.

Did Miss Dunbar admit writing it?

Yes, sir.

What was her explanation?

Her defense was reserved for the Assizes.

She would say nothing.

The problem is certainly a very interesting one.

The point of the letter is very obscure, is it not?

Well, sir, said the guide, it seemed, if I may be so bold as to say so, the only really clear point in the whole case.

Holmes shook his head.

Granting that the letter is genuine and was really written, it was certainly received some time before, say, one hour or two.

Why then was this lady still clasping it in her left hand?

Why should she carry it so carefully?

She did not need to refer to it in the interview.

Does it not seem remarkable?

Well, sir, as you put it, perhaps it does.

I think I should like to sit quietly for a few minutes and think it out.

He seated himself upon the stone ledge of the bridge, and I could see his quick, grey eyes darting their questioning glances in every direction.

Suddenly he sprang up again and ran across to the opposite parapet, whipped his lens from his pocket, and began to examine the stonework.

This is curious, said he.

Yes, sir.

We saw the chip on the ledge.

I expect it's been done by some passer-by.

The stonework was grey, but at this one point it showed white for a space not larger than a sixpence.

When examined closely, one could see that the surface was chipped as by a sharp blow.

It took some violence to do that, said Holmes thoughtfully.

With his cane he struck the ledge several times without leaving a mark.

Yes, it was a hard knock, in a curious place, too.

It was not from above, but from below, for you see that it is on the lower edge of the parapet.

But it is at least fifteen feet from the body.

Yes, it is fifteen feet from the body.

It may have nothing to do with the matter, but it is a point worth noting.

I do not think that we have anything more to learn here.

There were were no footsteps, you say?

The ground was iron-hard, sir.

There were no traces at all.

Then we can go.

We will go up to the house first and look over these weapons of which you speak.

Then we shall get on to Winchester, for I should desire to see Miss Dunbar before we go farther.

Mr.

Neil Gibson had not returned from town, but we saw in the house the neurotic Mr.

Bates, who had called upon us in the morning.

He showed us with a sinister relish the formidable array of firearms of various shapes and sizes which his employer had accumulated in the course of an adventurous life.

Mr.

Gibson has his enemies as anyone would expect who knew him and his methods, said he.

He sleeps with a loaded revolver in the drawer beside his bed.

He is a man of violence, sir, and there are times when all of us are afraid of him.

I am sure that the poor lady who has passed was often terrified.

Did you ever witness physical violence towards her?

No, I cannot say that, but I have heard words which were nearly as bad, words of cold, cutting contempt, even before the servants.

Our millionaire does not seem to shine in private life, remarked Holmes as we made our way to the station.

Well, Watson, we have come on a good many facts, some of them new new ones, and yet I seem some way from my conclusion.

In spite of the very evident dislike which Mr.

Bates has to his employer, I gather from him that when the alarm came, he was undoubtedly in his library.

Dinner was over at 8.30, and all was normal up to then.

It is true that the alarm was somewhat late in the evening, but the tragedy certainly occurred about the hour named in the note.

There is no evidence at all that Mr.

Gibson had been out of doors since his return from town at five o'clock.

On the other hand, Miss Dunbar, as I understand it, admits that she had made an appointment to meet Mrs.

Gibson at the bridge.

Beyond this, she would say nothing, as her lawyer had advised her to reserve her defence.

We have several very vital questions to ask that young lady, and my mind will not be easy until we have seen her.

I must confess that the case would seem to me to be very black against her if it were not for one thing.

And what is that, Holmes?

The finding of the pistol in her wardrobe.

Dear me, Holmes, I cried, that seemed to me to be the most damning incident of all.

Not so, Watson.

It had struck me even at my first perfunctory reading as very strange.

And now that I am in closer touch with the case, it is my only firm ground for hope.

We must look for consistency.

Where there is a want of it, we must suspect deception.

I hardly follow you.

Well now, Watson, suppose for a moment that we visualize you in the character of a woman who, in a cold, premeditated fashion, is about to get rid of a rival.

You have planned it.

A note has been written.

The victim has come.

You have your weapon.

The crime is done.

It has been workmanlike and complete.

Do you tell me that after carrying out so crafty a crime, you would now ruin your reputation as a criminal by forgetting to fling your weapon into those adjacent reed-beds which would forever cover it, but you must needs carry it carefully home and put it in your own wardrobe, the very first place that would be searched?

Your best friends would hardly call you a schemer, Watson, and yet I could not picture you doing anything so crude as that.

In the excitement of the moment.

No, no, Watson, I will not admit that it is possible.

Where a crime is coolly premeditated, then the means of covering it are coolly premeditated also.

I hope, therefore, that we are in the presence of a serious misconception.

But there is much to explain.

Well, we shall set about explaining it.

When once your point of view is changed, the very thing which was so damning becomes a clue to the truth.

For example, there is this revolver.

Miss Dunbar disclaims all knowledge of it.

On our new theory, she is speaking truth when she says so.

Therefore it was placed in her wardrobe.

Who placed it there?

Someone who wished to incriminate her.

Was not that person the actual criminal?

You see how we come at once upon a most fruitful line of inquiry.

My favorite thing about shipped since I signed up for Target Circle 360, no price markups when I order same-day delivery from tons of local stores.

Only a handful of alcohol retailers and items don't count.

I won't lie, I've had too much fun being like, markups on groceries, not in my fridge.

Markups on pet food?

Not from my DOG.

Markups on tools, electronics, home goods, meds, not in my house.

Anyway, it's awesome.

Order now at shipped.com slash 360 terms apply.

We were compelled to spend the night at Winchester, as the formalities had not yet been completed.

But next morning, in the company of Mr.

Joyce Cummings, the rising barrister who was entrusted entrusted with the defence, we were allowed to see the young lady in her cell.

I had expected from all that we had heard to see a beautiful woman, but I can never forget the effect which Miss Dunbar produced upon me.

It was no wonder that even the masterful millionaire had found in her something more powerful than himself, something which could control and guide him.

One felt, too, as one looked at that strong, clear-cut, and yet sensitive face, that even should she be capable of some impetuous deed, nonetheless there was an innate nobility of character which would make her influence always for the good.

She was a brunette, tall, with a noble figure and commanding presence, but her dark eyes had in them the appealing, helpless expression of the hunted creature who feels the nets around it, but can see no way out from the toils.

Now, as she realized the presence and the help of my famous friend, there came a touch of colour in her wan cheeks, and a light of hope began to glimmer in the glance which she turned upon us.

Perhaps Mr.

Neil Gibson has told you something of what occurred between us, she asked in a low, agitated voice.

Yes, Holmes answered.

You need not pain yourself by entering into that part of the story.

After seeing you, I am prepared to accept Mr.

Gibson's statement both as to the influence which you had over him and as to the innocence of your relations with him.

But why was the whole situation not brought out in court?

It seemed to me incredible that such a charge could be sustained.

I thought that if we waited, the whole thing must clear itself up, without our being compelled to enter into painful details of the inner life of the family.

But I understand that far from clearing, it has become even more serious.

My dear young lady, cried Holmes earnestly, I beg you to have no illusions upon the point.

Mr.

Cummings here would assure you that all the cards are at present against us, and that we must do everything that is possible if we are to win clear.

It would be a cruel deception to pretend that you are not in very great danger.

Give me all the help you can, then, to get at the truth.

I will conceal nothing.

Tell us, then, of your true relations with Mr.

Gibson's wife.

She hated me, Mr.

Holmes.

She was a woman who would do nothing by halves, and the measure of her love for her husband was the measure also of her hatred for me.

It is probable that she misunderstood our relations.

I would not wish to wrong her, but she loved so vividly, in a physical sense, that she could hardly understand the mental and even spiritual tie which held her husband to me, or imagine that it was only my desire to influence his power to good ends which kept me under his roof.

I can see now that I was wrong.

Nothing could justify me in remaining where I was, a cause of unhappiness, and yet it is certain that the unhappiness would have remained even if I had left the house.

Now, Miss Dunbar, said Holmes, I beg you to tell us exactly what occurred that evening.

I can tell you the truth so far as I know it, Mr.

Holmes, but I am in a position to prove nothing.

And there are points, the most vital points, which I can neither explain nor can I imagine any explanation.

If you will find the facts, perhaps others may find the explanation.

With regard then to my presence at Thor Bridge that night, I received a note from Mrs.

Gibson in the morning.

It lay on the table of the schoolroom, and it may have been left there by her own hand.

It implored me to see her there after dinner, said she had something important to say to me, and asked me to leave an answer on the sundial in the garden, as she desired no one to be in our confidence.

I saw no reason for such secrecy, but I did as she asked, accepting the appointment.

She asked me to destroy her note, and I burned it in the schoolroom grate.

She was very much afraid of her husband who treated her with a harshness for which I frequently reproached him and I could only imagine that she acted in this way because she did not wish him to know of our interview.

Yet she kept your reply very carefully.

Yes.

I was surprised to hear that she had it in her hand when she died.

Well, what happened then?

I went down as I had promised.

When I reached the bridge, she was waiting for me.

Never did I realize till that moment how this poor creature hated me.

She was like a mad woman.

Indeed, I think she was a mad woman, subtly mad, with the deep power of deception which insane people may have.

How else could she have met me with unconcern every day, and yet had so raging a hatred of me in her heart?

I will not say what she said.

She poured her whole wild fury out in burning and horrible words.

I did not even answer.

I could not.

It was dreadful to see her.

I put my hands to my ears and rushed away.

When I left her, she was standing still shrieking out her curses at me in the mouth of the bridge, where she was afterwards found

within a few yards from the spot.

And yet, presuming that she met her death shortly after you left her, you heard no shot?

No.

I heard nothing.

But indeed, Mr.

Holmes, I was so agitated and horrified by this terrible outbreak that I rushed to get back to the peace of my own room, and I was incapable of noticing anything which happened.

You say that you returned to your room.

Did you leave it again before next morning?

Yes, when the alarm came that the poor creature had met her death, I ran out with the others.

Did you see Mr.

Gibson?

Yes.

He had just returned from the bridge when I saw him.

He had sent for the doctor and the police.

Did he seem to you much perturbed?

Mr.

Gibson is a very strong, self-contained man.

I do not think that he would ever show his emotions on the surface, but I, who knew him so well, could see that he was deeply concerned.

Then we come to the all-important point.

This pistol that was found in your room.

Had you ever seen it before?

Never, I swear it.

When was it found?

Next morning when the police made their search.

Among your clothes?

Yes, on the floor of my wardrobe under my dresses.

You could not guess how long it had been there?

It had not been there the morning before.

How do you know?

Because I tided out the wardrobe.

That is final.

Then someone came into your room and placed the pistol there in order to inculpate you.

It must have been so.

And when?

It could only have been at mealtime or else at the hours when I would be in the schoolroom with the children.

As you were when you got the note.

Yes.

From that time onwards for the whole morning.

Thank you, Miss Dunbar.

Is there any other point which could help me in the investigation?

I can think of none.

There was some sign of violence on the stonework of the bridge, a perfectly fresh chip just opposite the body.

Could you suggest any possible explanation of that?

Surely it must be a mere coincidence.

Curious, Miss Dunbar, very curious.

Why should it appear at the very time of the tragedy and why at the very place?

But what could have caused it?

Only great violence could have such an effect.

Holmes did not answer.

His pale, eager face had suddenly assumed that tense, far-away expression which I had learned to associate with the supreme manifestations of his genius.

So evident was the crisis in his mind that none of us dared to speak, and we sat, barrister, prisoner, and myself, watching him in a concentrated and absorbed silence.

Suddenly, he sprang from his chair, vibrating with nervous energy and the pressing need for action.

Come, Watson, come, he cried.

What is it, Mr.

Holmes?

Never mind, my dear lady.

You will hear from me, Mr.

Cummings.

With the help of the God of justice, I will give you a case which will make England ring.

You will get news by tomorrow, Miss Dunbar.

And meanwhile, take my assurance that the clouds are lifting and that I have every hope that the light of truth is breaking through.

To protect your brand, all the content your company creates needs to be on-brand.

Meet Adobe Express, the quick and easy app that empowers marketing, HR, and sales teams to make on-brand content.

Now everyone can edit reports, resize ads, and translate text.

Brand kits and locked templates make following design guidelines a breeze and generative AI that's safe for business, lets people create confidently, help your teams make pro-looking content.

Learn more at adobe.com/slash express.

It was not a long journey from Winchester to Thor Place, but it was long to me in my impatience, while for Holmes it was evident that it seemed endless, for in his nervous restlessness he could not sit still, but paced the carriage or drummed with his long, sensitive fingers upon the cushions beside him.

Suddenly, however, as we neared our destination, he seated himself opposite to me we had a first-class carriage to ourselves and laying a hand upon each of my knees he looked into my eyes with the peculiarly mischievous gaze which was characteristic of his more imp-like moods.

Watson, said he, I have some recollection that you go armed upon these excursions of ours.

It was as well for him that I did so, for he took little care for his own safety when his mind was once absorbed by a problem, so that more than once my revolver had been a good friend in need.

I reminded him of the fact.

Yes, yes, I am a little absent-minded in such matters, but have you your revolver on you?

I produced it from my hip pocket, a short, handy, but very serviceable little weapon.

He undid the catch, shook out the cartridges, and examined it with care.

It's heavy.

Remarkably heavy, said he.

Yes, it is a solid bit of work.

He mused over it for a minute.

Do you know, Watson, said he, I believe your revolver is going to have a very intimate connection with the mystery which we are investigating.

My dear Holmes, you are joking.

No, Watson, I am very serious.

There is a test before us.

If the test comes off, all will be clear, and the test will depend upon the conduct of this little weapon.

One cartridge out.

Now, we will replace the other five and put on the safety catch.

So, that increases the weight and makes it a better reproduction.

I had no glimmer of what was in his mind, nor did he enlighten me, but sat lost in thought until we pulled up in the little Hampshire station.

We secured a ramshackle trap, and in a quarter of an hour were at the house of our confidential friend, the sergeant.

A clue, Mr.

Holmes?

What is it?

It all depends upon the behavior of Dr.

Watson's revolver, said my friend.

Here it is.

Now, officer, can you give me ten yards of string?

The village shop provided a ball of stout twine.

I think that this is all we will need, said Holmes.

Now, if you please, we will get off on what I hope is the last stage of our journey.

The sun was setting and turning the rolling Hampshire moor into a wonderful autumnal panorama.

The sergeant, with many critical and incredulous glances which showed his deep doubts of the sanity of my companion, lurched along beside us.

As we approached the scene of the crime, I could see that my my friend, under all his habitual coolness, was in truth deeply agitated.

Yes, he said in answer to my remark, you have seen me miss my mark before, Watson.

I have an instinct for such things, and yet it has sometimes played me false.

It seemed a certainty when first it flashed across my mind in the cell at Winchester, but one drawback of an active mind is that one can always conceive alternative explanations which would make our scent a false one.

And yet,

and yet,

well, Watson, we can but try.

As he walked, he had firmly tied one end of the string to the handle of the revolver.

We had now reached the scene of the tragedy.

With great care, he marked out, under the guidance of the policeman, the exact spot where the body had been stretched.

He then hunted among the heather and the ferns until he found a considerable stone.

This he secured to the other end of his line of string, and he hung it over the parapet of the bridge so that it swung clear above the water.

He then stood on the fatal spot, some distance from the edge of the bridge, with my revolver in his hand, the string being taut between the weapon and the heavy stone on the farther side.

Now for it, he cried.

At the words, he raised the pistol to his head and then let go his grip.

In an instant, it had been whisked away by the weight of the stone, had struck with a sharp crack against the parapet, and had vanished over the side into the water.

It had hardly gone before Holmes was kneeling beside the stonework, and a joyous cry showed that he had found what he expected.

Was there ever a more exact demonstration?

he cried.

See, Watson, your revolver has solved the problem.

As he spoke, he pointed to a second chip of the exact size and shape of the first, which had appeared on the under-edge of the stone balustrade.

We'll stay at the inn tonight, he continued, as he rose and faced the astonished sergeant.

You will, of course, get a grappling hook, and you will easily restore my friend's revolver.

You will also find beside it the revolver, string, and weight with which this vindictive woman attempted to disguise her own crime and to fasten a charge of murder upon an innocent victim.

You can let Mr.

Gibson know that I will see him in the morning when steps can be taken for Miss Dunbar's vindication.

Late that evening, as we sat together smoking our pipes in the village inn, Holmes gave me a brief review of what had passed.

I fear, Watson, said he, that you will not improve any reputation which I may have acquired by adding the case of the Thorbridge Mystery to your annals.

I have been sluggish in mind and wanting in that mixture of imagination and reality which is the basis of my art.

I confess that the chip in the stonework was a sufficient clue to suggest the true solution, and that I blame myself for not having attained it sooner.

It must be admitted that the workings of this unhappy woman's mind were deep and subtle, so that it was no very simple matter to unravel her plot.

I do not think that in our adventures we have ever come across a stranger example of what perverted love can bring about.

Whether Miss Dunbar was her rival in a physical or in a merely mental sense seems to have been equally unforgivable in her eyes.

No doubt she blamed this innocent lady for all those harsh dealings and unkind words with which her husband tried to repel her too demonstrative affection.

Her first resolution was to end her own life.

Her second was to do it in such a way as to involve her victim in a fate which was worse far than any sudden death could be.

We can follow the various steps quite clearly, and they show a remarkable subtlety of mind.

A note was extracted very cleverly from Miss Dunbar, which would make it appear that she had chosen the scene of the crime.

In her anxiety that it should be discovered, she somewhat overdid it by holding it in her hand to the last.

This alone should have excited my suspicions earlier than it did.

Then she took one of her husband's revolvers.

There was, as you saw, an arsenal in the house, and kept it for her own use.

A similar one she concealed that morning in Miss Dunbar's wardrobe after discharging one barrel, which she could easily do in the woods without attracting attention.

She then went down to the bridge where she had contrived this exceedingly ingenious method of getting rid of her weapon.

When Miss Dunbar appeared, she used her last breath in pouring out her hatred, and then, when she was out of hearing, carried out her terrible purpose.

Every link is now in its place, and the chain is complete.

The papers may ask why the mirror was not dragged in the first instance, but it is easy to be wise after the event.

And in any case, the expanse of a reed-filled lake is no easy matter to drag unless you have a clear perception of what you are looking for and where.

Well, Watson, we have helped a remarkable woman and also a formidable man.

Should they in the future join their forces, as seems not unlikely, the financial world may find that Mr.

Neil Gibson has learned something in that schoolroom of sorrow where our earthly lessons are taught.

Next time on Sherlock Holmes short stories, Holmes investigates a grisly murder in The Adventure of Black Peter.

In a lonely cabin on the edge of the woods, a retired sea captain lies dead, pinned to the wall by his own harpoon.

But no one weeps for Peter Carey, a violent drunk who terrorized his family, family, neighbours and colleagues.

With the list of enemies that stretches from the Arctic seas to the Sussex countryside, the question Holmes faces is not why someone would want to kill the old seaman, but which one of his victims finally took revenge.

That's next time.

Can't wait a week until the next episode?

Well, listen to it right away by subscribing to Noiser Plus.

Head to www.noiser.com slash subscriptions for more information.

Or click the link in the episode description.

ABC Wednesdays, Shifting Gears is back.

Here's a result.

Tim Allen and Kat Dennings return in television's number one new comedy.

What what?

With a star-studded premiere including Jenna Elfman, Nancy Travis, and Hey Buddy!

A big home improvement reunion.

Welcome.

Oh boy.

That guy's a tour.

Shifting gears, new Wednesdays, 8-7 Central on ABC and stream on Hulu.

From Australia to San Francisco, Colin Jewelry brings timeless craftsmanship and modern lab grown diamond engagement rings to the U.S.

Explore solitaire, trilogy, halo, and bezel settings, or design a custom piece that tells your love story.

With expert guidance, a lifetime warranty, and a talented team of in-house jewels behind every piece, your perfect ring is made with meaning.

Visit our Union Street Showroom or explore the range at colournjewelery.com.

Your ring, your way.