“The case was brought to my attention by Miss Bibiana Paget. Collin Melrose was an old family friend of the Paget family, and Miss Paget was his heir. Dr. Sedgwick was adamant that there was nothing suspicious in Melrose’s death, but Miss Bibiana was equally certain something was wrong. I shall therefore begin at that point. Miss Bibiana, will you explain your certainty?”
Blushing a little, the girl came forward and looked at those before her. “It was simple. When I called upon Mr. Melrose after being absent from the village for a day, I found him dead, sitting in a kitchen chair. But here was the strange thing—it was not the chair in which he always sat. As those in the village know, there were two fireside chairs that he inherited with his cottage. One was carved with oak leaves, and that was his chair. The other was carved with playing kittens. That was always for visitors. It was his fixed custom to use the oak-carved chair and he would never have even thought of using the other chair. It was this which struck me first.
“The other oddity was that he was sitting in a chair. Again, some of you may know that he had grown weaker for many months. At this point he could not leave his bed and walk to his chair without support.” She flushed but carried on bravely. “Beside his bed was a commode he could reach. On the bed’s other side was a cabinet with food such as biscuits, cold meats, and a carafe of lemonade. These were brought over each morning by Mrs. James, who lives opposite, at which time she also emptied and cleaned the commode, made up the fire again, and ensured that Mr. Melrose was comfortable.”
She looked at Mrs. James, who agreed. “Aye, I did that, but not that morning.”
“Why not? “Holmes asked.
“I were running late. My Harry wasn’t well, an’ I’d gone to doctor to ask if he’d call an’ see Harry. Miss Bibi came before I’d done wi’ doctor. He went straight across when she found poor Mr. Melrose and said as he’d died natural. I thought it were odd at t’ time, but you don’t question a doctor, do you?”
“So you hadn’t been to Melrose’s cottage at all that day?” The woman shook her head. “You saw no one enter that previous evening, or that morning?” Again the head shake. “And if they had come to the main door, you would have seen them?”
At last she spoke. “Aye, sir. So I think. I were over to him around five that evening. Made up the fire, I did, brought him his cooked dinner, emptied the commode—beg pardon for mentioning it—an’ he was in good spirits. Said he’d missed Miss Bibiana that day, but she’d be there tomorrow, and he looked forward to hearing her read newspapers direct from Lunnon. I were there until just afore six, and there weren’t no one in sight as I didn’t know, nor I didn’t see anyone go to the door, nor even near it.”
She paused. “’Sides, sir, t’ childer were playing nearby. Miss Bibi asked if they’d seen anyone and they hadn’t, sir. ’Cos I asked too, and they swore there hadn’t been no one come by. Not that evening and not next morning. They was up early, schoolteacher was letting them do a play an’ they was that excited. All about some old Roman and they got to stab Jimmy Burns for not treating his people as he ought’a. Jimmy, he were playing Julipus Sneezar, or some such. They was all up early and outside, waiting for school bell to ring. Miss Bibi can tell you.”
The girl nodded. “I was just riding up to Mr. Melrose’s cottage when the bell rang, and the children went running toward the school.”
“What time would they have been outside, Mrs. James?” Holmes questioned.
“I calls them at five. They had breakfast and would’a bin outside by six. Weren’t raining nor that cold, so I saw they had their coats and out they went.”
Holmes nodded. “So you see,” he said to the audience, “Dr. Sedgwick was certain Melrose had been in that chair for some hours when he was found. But Mrs. James saw no caller, the children saw no caller, and yet,” he paused, and unconsciously most of us leaned forward, “a caller there must have been. Not only was Melrose found in a chair he could not gain on his own, he was seated in the wrong chair. In addition, Mrs. James had not yet been over to the cottage, but the fire was still going.”
Both Miss Bibiana and Mrs. James gasped. “Yes!” the girl exclaimed. “I thought of course that Mrs. James had been there! I never thought to question it.”
“So,” Holmes said. “There was no caller at the front door at any usual hour. Yet a caller there must have been, since Melrose was across the room in a chair he could not reach without help. Therefore, a caller must have approached and entered through the back. My colleague, Dr. Watson, was able to examine the body and from this he and I made certain deductions.” He motioned for me to speak.
“I made a careful examination of the body,” I started. “It showed atrophy, that is, a wasting, of the leg muscles, and it is my opinion that there was no way Mr. Melrose could have walked to the fireside chairs without some support and assistance. There was clear bruising in one armpit, more bruises down a forearm—those have the appearance of finger marks—and some circular bruises on his chest.” I halted and looked across at my friend, who continued.
“I believe, from these indications,” he explained to our listeners, “that Melrose was carried from bed to chair. The bruising was where a hand gripped his forearm, and the marks were from the buttons on their coat. The bruising under the armpit came when he was carried face down over the person’s shoulder and they gripped him there to let him down into the chair. Or perhaps, to raise him into a seated position.” Our audience, riveted by this, were intent on every word.
Holmes’s gaze swept over them. He appeared satisfied by something he saw, although what that could be I was unable to guess.
Holmes resumed. “I am told that Melrose habitually wore cotton pajamas. When he was found he was wearing a pair, but with a dressing-gown over them. No doubt that was added once he had been moved, in an attempt to make it appear he had walked to the chair himself. Had he been wearing it when he was moved, the marks of the buttons would not have been so clear. Miss Bibiana told me later that she noticed the dressing-gown was not fastened at the front. I questioned Dr. Watson as to the strength of a person committing these actions.” He glanced at me.
I spoke again. “Despite a prolonged illness, Mr. Melrose weighed some eleven stone. In his prime he must have been a powerful man and such a weight would not be easily carried, especially if the patient were uncooperative. I could have carried him that distance if he permitted, but a doctor is accustomed to moving patients at need. Supposing the person who moved Melrose was not used to moving a body, he would have to be fairly strong. A child, or even a small woman could not do it, unless she were used to regularly carrying heavy items.”
I took a deep breath, knowing that what I said next would cause some sensation. “In this case the murderer had one advantage. When Melrose was moved, he was already dying, or at the very least unconscious. I examined his stomach contents.” I paused, all eyes on me, as I exploded my bombshell. “I am certain he was given a large dose of laudanum sometime in the evening, well after his last meal. As a result, his death occurred in the early hours.”
The silence erupted into questions, protests, and loud-voiced discussion between some present. I allow it to continue for a few minutes before raising my hand.
“Miss Bibiana was adamant that no unusual amount of Melrose’s drug was missing from the bottle. However, your doctor here provides a large bottle of laudanum each time a repeat prescription is required, so that it is not necessary to return often. A new bottle had been obtained only three days prior to Melrose’s death. If he were to have received a double or triple dose, in his weakened condition that might have been sufficient to kill him. If water were added to the bottle, only as much as would match the amount removed, the bottle would appear untampered.”
I sat down, and Holmes looked over the audience. “I therefore obtained the bottle and contents, tested it and, after calculations involving the number of doses removed legitimately, the amount originally supplied, and the current concentration, I was able to
determine that an additional three doses had been removed from the container, and water to that amount had been added.” He waited out the chatter.
“I believe Melrose was given the drug by someone he trusted, probably in a drink, and that drink may have been home-made wine.” Another verbal explosion greeted that. “I returned to your village and searched. In a hedgerow I discovered an empty tonic bottle, but within that there remained a few drops of what was described to me as ‘a pleasant and well-made elderberry wine, home-made certainly, by someone who had either a very good receipt, or much practice.’ Unfortunately, there was nothing about the bottle to indicate a maker.”
He allowed the chatter to swell and begin to die away again before calling upon his next witness. “I have asked this gentleman to describe his involvement with Collin Melrose. It is not discreditable to either party, but it casts a light on some aspects of the character of the deceased.” And with that Mr. Elliot stood.
“Melrose was my teacher when I was a lad,” he said abruptly. “I was a young fool and on one occasion was inveigled into gambling. I lost my current allowance, going on to lose more, which I could not pay. For that I gave them an I.O.U. In some way Melrose discovered what I had done and the amount I owed. He intervened, insisting on giving me the sum required, made certain I got back my I.O.U., and took that until I should be able to repay him. I was able to do so in mere weeks when next I received my allowance, but he refused to return my I.O.U. I became anxious over that, as I feared that it was being held to be used against me for some improper purpose.”
I saw Miss Bibi’s outraged glare. She opened her mouth, to protest I assumed, then remained silent as Mr. Elliot continued.
“As a result, I went to another teacher and confessed everything. He was able to reassure me that Melrose would not do such a thing. Later, I considered the matter, and came to this conclusion: Melrose might be a good man—yet he demanded that I do as he said and not as he did. He admitted when he spoke to me that he knew of my gambling because he himself gambled. I asked then how it was that I should not gamble, and he should. He said that as a man it was for him to do as he wished, and as a man, too, he could afford the amounts he spent. A boy must take advice, obey the rules of his school, and not spend money he did not have.
“Indeed, he gave me a great lecture and I resented that he retained my I.O.U. He said very piously that he held it to be sure I did not revert to evil ways. As I had given my word I would not, I was furious at the suggestion I would break it. I cannot complain of his aid, yet I had made my own arrangements to cover my debt, which would have been adequate. I felt that he was a sanctimonious hypocrite, and I still do.” He sat.
Holmes nodded. “Other notes-of-hand, retained by Mr. Melrose, were discovered in the course of this investigation. They, too, had been acquired under similar circumstances and there was some resentment by at least one other at their non-return. However, I am satisfied that all of those involved were not in any way responsible for the death of Collin Melrose. Two letters sent to him by those with good reason to resent his involvement in an affair of theirs were also scrutinized and their writers cleared.
“However, these items make clear an aspect of the murdered man. He took upon himself the right to cause distress and fear as a punishment for what he saw as folly. He acted as both judge and jury. In the case of the man who just spoke, Melrose’s actions were unnecessary. He described Melrose as a sanctimonious hypocrite, and while that is harsh, it not altogether wrong. And my belief, as I continued to seek answers to his death, was that it may well have been this aspect of his character that drove someone to murder.”
He beckoned Eustace Montgomery to stand and addressed him. “You called upon Mr. Melrose three times and intended to call a fourth time, which was prevented by his death. Tell us of your relationship?”
Montgomery spoke slowly. “I am on the board of a scholarship fund. I used to consult with Melrose when a lad from his area was being considered. I believe he came to value my requests. In this case, he asked my advice on a specific scholar’s work.”
“He asked your advice on a scholarship that was in his power to grant?” Holmes enquired.
“Yes. He did not anticipate living much longer and his savings would provide this scholarship. He had a certain lad in mind as the first recipient, and had, in fact, written that into his will. However, he recently questioned the lad’s honesty and wondered if the work he had shown Melrose was his own. He asked me to call again, to compare certain essays written by his intended recipient with those by another, older, writer. He saw certain similarities that suggested plagiarism. Before I could visit, word came that he died. I hoped that Melrose made his decision before his demise.”
“But you subsequently received a package from him?”
“I did. He wrote that his weakness of body had increased, and as he was worrying about the matter, he made copies of the relevant papers to send to me. They were mailed prior to his death, however, the parcel went astray. It came into my hands only this past week, and when you visited me two days ago I had just read the works to check their validity and to make a determination.”
“Which was?”
Montgomery straightened, holding up a package. “Melrose requested that the original recipient write certain essays. This was done, and Melrose planned to award the scholarship to this local boy. However, some weeks after that he came upon two papers that were suspiciously similar to the lad’s essays. Melrose jumped to the conclusion that the lad copied the older writer’s work and presented it to Melrose as original.”
“What action did he take?”
Montgomery held up a letter. “He explained in this. He asked for my own opinion but wrote that a boy he always thought honest had deceived him. He spoke sternly to the lad, telling him that the scholarship would not be his after all. The boy was so adamant in his protestations of innocence, however, that Melrose wanted my consideration and opinion of the essays. He sent copies, asking that I reply as soon as I was able.”
“And what was your opinion?”
Montgomery sighed audibly. “That far from the essays being copied by his scholarship lad, the other writer had done so. But that was Melrose. Too often he did not give someone time to explain, nor was he always ready to listen. He preferred to lecture, and he could be self-righteous. He was a good man, but not without his own faults—for which unhappily he did not always allow.”
Holmes watched the listeners. “Thank you, Mr. Montgomery. You are certain of your decision? That the boy wrote the original essays, and that those were then copied from him?”
“I am, sir.”
At the back of the group a man was holding his son. Suddenly, I knew the truth.
I saw grief on the mother’s face, pain and sorrow on that of the father, but his grip was sure, and the son did not struggle. Quietly and competently Arthur Paget cleared his banqueting hall. The others filed out, each in turn gazing on the boy. Some looks were those of anger, others of pity, and some merely the blank gaze of spectators at an accident, absorbing the drama without real understanding.
At last everyone save the Pagets, the Scotts, Eustace Montgomery, Holmes, and myself was gone.
Holmes spoke to the motionless boy. “William Scott, why did you kill Collin Melrose?”
The boy snarled and all his bitterness came pouring out. “He said I cheated! Said I wouldn’t get that money he’d promised me, said I couldn’t stay on at school and learn. Dad works hard, but they can’t afford for me to go to university. His scholarship would have let me. Then he tells me I’m not getting it, that he’s caught me cheating. I didn’t!” He pointed at Eustace Montgomery. “He said I didn’t, but Mr. Melrose wouldn’t listen. I was going to lose everything, and I couldn’t! I couldn’t!”
“So you visited him?”
“Went in through the back window just before midnight. The door’s locked come night, but that window catch is loose. He was asleep. I knew he’d be. He’d take laudanum last t
hing and sleep like death. I got three more doses out of the bottle, put them in some elderberry wine from my mother’s larder, and added a bit of honey, made it sweet. All I had to do was put the glass to his mouth and he drank it down. I’d marked the side of the laudanum bottle where the level had been and filled it back up with water, then rubbed the mark off.” There was a note of pride in that. He’d been clever, and he knew it.
“And once he was dying you carried him to a chair, put his dressing gown on, made up the fire, and went out the back window again.” Holmes looked at him keenly. The boy nodded sullenly. “Why did you move him?” Holmes asked. “Why stoke the fire?”
“Thought if anyone realized what killed him that’d think it was someone who came earlier. Someone who came in the back door. A visitor would make up the fire so they could sit there and talk.”
“And your parents knew that at such a time you were still home.” He nodded again. “So it would never occur to them that their son had gone out once all were asleep? That he was a murderer?”
“If I am, he made me so!” he burst out. “Saying I cheated, taking away the only thing I ever wanted, lecturing me about honesty and not taking someone else’s work. I never, I didn’t!” Again he pointed at Mr. Montgomery. “He said I didn’t, but Mr. Melrose wouldn’t listen, just kept lecturing, telling me to admit I’d done wrong, saying even if I lost my scholarship, I’d feel better once I’d confessed. He wouldn’t shut up! In the end I told him I hadn’t done it, what I wrote was mine and no one else’s and I walked out. But I knew him. Like stone he was. He’d made up his mind I was a cheat and I wouldn’t be able to go to university. All I ever wanted, all of it gone because he decided I’d cheated when I hadn’t. So I figured…”
“That if he died before he could change his will,” I said, torn between outrage and pity, “you’d get your scholarship money.”
Sherlock Holmes - Found Dead Page 14
