Sherlock Holmes - Found Dead

by Lyn McConchie

  “And you, do you like animals? You could always get a cat for the kitchen.”

  Mrs. McVey smiled. “I grew up on a farm. I wouldn’t mind a cat or dog about the house, but if the master doesn’t get one it’s not my place to do so. No, we’ve no kitchen cat, not that we couldn’t use one, or a terrier, come to that. Rats come off some of the cargo ships as docks on the Isle. A cat won’t take on a big rat, so a terrier would be useful. Still, that’s for the master to decide.”

  It was. I changed the subject and asked if she was Irish.

  She nodded. “I am, sir. From Donegal. A poor area, and I married young. My husband worked on a local farm, and we had a tied cottage. He died in an accident only a year after we were wed. I couldn’t go home again. My family would have taken me in, but they’d little room. Fortunately, I was able to make my own way. I took a job as maid and moved with the family to London near sixteen years later. When they visited here I fell into conversation with the housekeeper the master had before me and heard that she was about to retire. She said it was a good job, the work was easy enough, and the master a good man. I applied to him, and he took me on.”

  “And your previous employers?” I smiled. “I’m sure they were sorry to lose you.”

  Her voice was dry. “Maybe so, sir, but they never said that, nor did they ask me to remain, nor offer me a better wage. The one I had was not so wonderful. I’m better paid and treated where I am now and, God willing, I’ll not be leaving here until I’m carried out.”

  I nodded. “Yes, some people expect a lot for a small amount, and gratitude is something you are expected to express, not they. Oh, well, it’s the way of the world. And how do you like living on an island? Do you ever get to London?”

  I allowed our conversation to end naturally and watched as she left the café. A pleasant woman, one who made the best of unhappy circumstances, and she told me two interesting things. One, that she liked and was used to animals. And secondly, that despite this, Johnson had not acquired one. Mrs. McVey liked both dogs and cats, said they could do with both, but that it was the master’s decision….

  I wondered idly if I was on a false trail. The truth was, that his like—or dislike—for animals could have no bearing on Lily’s death. But to me it called his character into question and that could have relevance.

  * * * *

  I was busy for the next week. Holmes acquired another case that took him to Scotland for that period. Not until his return—with the case solved—was I able to make further enquiries about Kyle Johnson.

  We finished breakfast and I asked, “Holmes, how do you do on Lily Klimpton and Grace Klimpton’s deaths?”

  He sighed. “I am at a stand just now. I told Johnson I would take a period of reflection and come to it again. He accepted that, as did the Simeses. The truth of it is, Watson, I cannot see my way.”

  “Perhaps a short visit to the Isle would help?”

  “Have you the time?” I nodded. “Then let us go immediately.”

  He seized his overcoat, allowed me time to snatch mine and my doctor’s bag, and then we were down the stairs, onto the pavement, and being whisked towards the ferry. We caught it, I may say, by the narrowest of margins. Indeed, the gangplank was about to be raised when we hurtled aboard and found seats a little apart from other passengers.

  “Holmes,” I said, in quiet tones, “do you have a clue?”

  “No,” my friend said, equally quietly. “It merely seems to me to be an excellent idea. I have not heard from anyone on the Isle for a week, and events may have occurred of which I have not been informed. We shall first approach the police, then we should seek out Kyle Johnson, and perhaps Wright. If nothing more, we shall at least hear if the house has sold, and what became of Miss Klimpton’s body.”

  “I could approach Farrell senior regarding that,” I offered.

  “Yes, while I talk to the Simeses,” Holmes agreed.

  We put that schedule into practice as soon as we stepped off the ferry.

  At our first call, the police were polite but repressive. “I fear we have nothing further on either case,” the detective inspector informed us. “Yes, I agree there is no doubt Miss Grace Klimpton was murdered and our investigation continues. That is all I can tell you.”

  I followed my friend from the station and commented irritably that the police told nothing because they knew nothing.

  Holmes eyed me, and I saw he was amused. “Would you rather they told nothing because they knew something, Watson? Or they knew and told everything to everyone? Or…”

  I smiled reluctantly. “Oh, well. Shall we find Mr. Johnson now?”

  Holmes pointed to where a familiar figure was approaching a slipway ahead. A child walked before him, sack in hand, and as we neared the slipway, the boy swung the sack about in a circle and released it. It flew through the air and landed in the water, drifting away slowly on the outgoing tide.

  To my surprise, Kyle Johnson uttered a loud yell, ran forward, and jumped into the water. He landed waist-deep, snatched for the drifting sack, let it go briefly with a yelp of apparent pain, and seized it again.

  He waded for the shore, and I could see that his hand was bleeding. Holmes and I reached him, and he handed me the sack.

  “Be careful! Whatever is in there is terrified.”

  The boy started to dart away, and my friend caught the lad. Holmes persuaded him to return, and the boy—a lad poorly dressed and perhaps nine or ten years—eyed us sullenly.

  “What is in the sack?” I asked sternly, while Johnson vainly attempted to wring out his sodden clothing.

  The lad shrugged. “Coupl’a beasts. Belonged to my granny. She died, an’ dad says as we can’t afford to keep ’em.”

  I untied the knot that bound the mouth of the sack, and something thrust against it. The head of a drenched and infuriated kitten popped out. It uttered a piercing wail, bit me sharply on the thumb, and vanished again. I stared at the sack.

  Kyle Johnson collapsed, roaring with laughter.

  “Here, give me that,” he said, and reclaimed the sack. To the boy he said, “Tell your father I’ve taken them. You threw them away, so I owe you nothing. Now get along with you.”

  The boy took to his heels and Johnson opened the sack cautiously. The kitten reappeared and was taken gently by the scruff. It was a ginger tom of perhaps four or five months. Holmes took it and cradled it in his hands, where the kitten seemed quite content to remain.

  Johnson reached into the sack again, speaking soothingly and—like a conjuror—produced, not a rabbit, but a small dog. It whimpered, and he dropped the sack to hold the frightened animal against him.

  I said—with the addition of some adjectives—that I did not hold with that method of disposal of unwanted animals. In my opinion the boy’s father should be brought to book. I asked what should happen to them now?

  “The family did not want them,” said Holmes. “I can only suppose they could find no one amongst their friends who did so either. They cannot just be let go to starve.”

  We moved away from the slip. The lad reappeared, dived past us to grab the empty, discarded sack, and took to his heels again.

  Kyle Johnson looked up from his examination of the dog. “This fellow is no more than a year or so, and the kitten is half that. If they’ve spent time together it is likely they are friends. I’ll take them.” His face creased into a wide smile. “My housekeeper says someone was talking to her recently about animals, and she would not mind if we had a cat or a dog. Well, the opportunity has arisen and now we have both.”

  He hailed a taxicab and indicated the kitten, now asleep in Holmes’s hand.

  “If you would care to bring your charge, we can return to my house and see them settled in.”

  Holmes climbed into the cab, holding the kitten carefully. I joined them, my mind spinning. Did Johnson mean what he said? I was certain he identified me as the “someone talking about animals,” although I hoped he had not guessed my suspicions.
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br />   When we reached the house, I paid off the driver. We entered via the kitchen door, and Johnson set the dog onto the flagstones. Holmes placed the kitten beside it. Both small animals made it plain they were indeed friends by licking each other and huddling together.

  Mrs. McVey came in, looked at the beasts, and exclaimed.

  Johnson smiled. “Do we have milk? If so, bring a plate—they’ll be less likely to knock that over. And what else do we have that would suit them?”

  It transpired that there was fresh mince meant for a pie, an end of mutton, bacon rinds that could be removed from tomorrow’s intended breakfast, and an egg or two which could be spared.

  Johnson nodded. “Separate two egg yolks, and whip them into milk,” he ordered. “That’ll help with any shock, and it’s rich enough that even a few mouthfuls will do for now. They can have more to eat once they’ve digested that.”

  He sounded knowledgeable on the subject and I was surprised. For a man who merely “did not dislike animals” he was acting more like a lover of such household companions.

  Mrs. McVey acted efficiently, and the plate was soon put before its appreciative consumers. They both drank eagerly, and neither pushed the other aside. Once the plate was emptied, polished by hopeful tongues, and the two creatures accepted there would be no more for a while, they again huddled together, looking up at us more trustfully.

  Holmes smiled. “It seems you now have a cat and a dog.”

  Kyle Johnson grinned down at them. “So it would seem. I hadn’t planned… but then I could not see them die. I guessed he had a cat or dog in that sack, for I saw it writhe as he carried it, the wretched boy.”

  Holmes was reasonable. “You know the poverty of some families. The grandmother may have had an annuity or some sort of pension that died with her and they could not afford to keep them.”

  “Or it may have been,” Johnson said severely, “that with her gone they did not see why they should waste money. She may have left money. They may even have promised her the animals would be cared for.” He scooped up the animals, cradling them. “I think I’ll ask around. If I find they inherited her money on that agreement, they’ll pay.”

  I eyed him. “I thought you didn’t want any pets?”

  Over the small bodies he looked back at me, a battle-light in his eyes. “I may not have wanted them, but they’re here now, and here they stay. They’re mine.”

  He left to change from his wet clothing, while Mrs. McVey crooned over the house’s new inhabitants. We went in search of others we wished to see.

  As we walked, I considered the character of Kyle Johnson. It was likely someone who objected so firmly to the cruelty of such a miserable death visited on a defenseless creature, was unlikely to have done so to another human being.

  If he could not stomach two small animals drowning slowly, could he hold a woman down in the sea, and feel her struggles as she weakened? I did not think so. But if the murderer was not Kyle Johnson, then who was it? I pondered that as I walked beside my friend, in search of answers to that very question.

  9

  We parted once we were back in the main street, he to find Mr. Wright, and I to visit the Doctors Farrell. They were in and welcomed me.

  “Dr. Watson, it is good to see you again! What can we do for you? Are you here on business, or is this no more than a social call?”

  “Both,” I said smiling at them. “I would consult with you if you have the time. Your combined knowledge of local conditions may aid my colleague in certain matters.”

  And on their expressing their entire willingness to be of assistance, we repaired to the drawing room. With cups of tea all around, we settled to address the questions I brought before them.

  “I have two questions,” I said. “Both may be general and carry us far afield. Firstly, what can you tell me of your autopsy of Grace Klimpton?”

  Farrell senior grinned. “She was dead,” he announced as his son guffawed. He then sobered. “Aye, poor woman. Mr. Holmes said we should leave the body a while and see what developed. That is a trick I’ll remember. We left her in the cellar, for it’s cool enough to retard decomposition, but not so cool it freezes. There’d been no bruising visible at the time she was brought in, but they came up nicely after a time. Not heavy, mind you, but present. I could tell from the placing and shape what caused them.”

  “Yes,” his son agreed. “Handprints. Someone held her hard on either side of her neck, across her shoulders.”

  I asked him to stand and turned to his father. “From the site and shape of the bruising, how would the person who held her have been placed?”

  “Crouch down on the carpet, Morgan,” his father ordered, and on being obeyed, he stepped to straddle his son’s body. His hand came down on his son’s shoulders, and he positioned them so the heels of his palms pressed the hardest. “Thus,” he said. “See, if he struggles, I push down.”

  His son obediently strove to rise, and the natural instinct of one trying to stop his victim from regaining her feet was to force the shoulders down again. The weight drove through the heels of the hands, the fingers curling over the shoulders, retaining a powerful grip.

  “Yes,” I agreed thoughtfully. “He was behind her, pressing down, and in order to rise she had not only to get free of his grip, but also to rise against his weight as he thrust down.”

  “She wasn’t a big woman,” Dr. Farrell senior noted. “I’d put her around a hundred pounds, no more, with the musculature typical for a woman of her age and class. In other words, she would be fit enough for shopping, gardening, and housework each day, even for walking a mile or so. But she’d done no heavy work in recent years, and any concentration of expended energy would likely leave her breathless. She would spend an hour or two at work, then take tea and enjoy a period of relaxation, work, then take tea again.”

  I grinned. He was right. I’d seen that with my own patients for years.

  “The part of her that got the real exercise was her tongue,” his son added. “Oh, and one more thing. She was a…” He lowered his voice, and I nodded. Considering the lady’s history, it was highly unlikely she would be other.

  “Respectable,” his father summed up.

  “Could you give any estimate of the time she died?” I asked.

  Father and son consulted with a volley of half sentences, looks, and gestures. I hid a smile. No one seeing that conference could doubt they were kin, or that they had worked together all the son’s life.

  Consensus being reached, the father took the lead. “We reason thus: she was last seen the previous evening near dusk. She was found at six the next morning. Therefore, she died between those times. However, she had eaten a small supper of cracker biscuits with butter and cheese, and cocoa to wash that down. I knew the lady a little, sufficient to say she would have taken her supper around eight and gone to bed not much more than an hour or so thereafter.”

  I regarded him with approval. “That is most helpful, for it narrows the time.”

  “It can be narrowed further. I could identify her supper because it was almost completely undigested.”

  I sat up. “Then,” I said slowly, “she let someone into the house after dark, after she had eaten supper, but before she began to prepare for bed.”

  The elder Farrell looked back at me, his gaze hard. “Aye, it was someone she knew. She’d not let him in else, and she would most certainly not go walking down to the shore with him. It wasn’t a cold night—my son and I were out that evening—but whatever he said to persuade her outside must have been effective, because she put on her jacket and went with him.”

  I nodded. “Her shoes?”

  “Walking shoes and stockings, as you’d expect, but no jewelry nor handbag, at least, not that was found.”

  Or was likely to be found if she’d brought a handbag with her, I thought. The younger man shook his head.

  “I know the lads who found the body,” he assured me. “They’d not take her handbag nor her jewelry. No
, they found her just as it was first light. I’d say they were the first to see the body at all. I was there when they talked to the police, and they said they’d been just off-shore in a small boat, doing some early fishing. On looking at the beach, one saw something black washing in the waves. They thought it might be flotsam they could salvage so they rowed closer, and when they saw what it was they jumped out of the boat and dragged her to shore.”

  “How did they raise the alarm?” I queried. If all three left her, her property could have been plundered in that interim.

  “On seeing that she was, as one of them put it, ‘a gonner,’ he hailed an acquaintance, told him there’d been an accident, a lady was dead, and he should fetch the police.” Farrell shook his head. “That cock won’t fight, Doctor. Knowing the police, I’d say the boys made sure none of her property was taken before the police arrived.”

  “Were there any other marks on the body?” I asked.

  Farrell shook his head. “Nothing, bar a graze on one knee, and a bruise on the hip.”

  “Her body is still with you?”

  “Aye, we packed it with ice. The police asked if we would mind you inspecting it, and I thought it best to keep it in good condition, since we knew not when that might be.”

  His tone grew sour, and I was horrified. “My dear Farrell, I had no idea! Nothing was said to me of that. I do beg your pardon. I came here merely to consult, to pick your brains, perhaps, and listen to your opinions.” I showed my annoyance. “It is unconscionable. What? They think you should accept such a cavalier request? I am appalled, I will speak to whomever…”

  The elder Farrell waved his hands, good humor quite restored. “Be calm. We thought it was not your style, but if you wish a consultation, then you shall have it. Follow me.”

  He led the way to his cellar where, behind a stout oak door, the body was brought out for my inspection. It had been carefully treated, and the ice had indeed preserved much.