Holmes was gone three days, and travelled, as I later heard, to the tiny town of Rowberrow in Somerset. He found a relative of his suspect, a woman who was honest as to what she knew.
“Nay, there were nothing. T’ father wanted his only child to have schooling, and they managed that, but there were nothing left over. Parents died and were buried here, but that cost little, very little, and there were some talk about it ’cos of it being such a poor do and nothing much afterwards.”
And from another witness in a neighboring county. “My uncle? Yes, he was there. He were born there and when he come back from learning ’is trade, he returned. Later he took in someone to help him, and he made them his partner after a while, so I heard. No, I expected to inherit no great sums. In fact, my uncle left me his wife’s jewelry an’ her good fur coat, and I had no cause for complaint. I was happy to be remembered. Had I met his beneficiary? Once, when they came to bring my own bequest. I found them pleasant, polite, well dressed, but not ostentatious. Why do I speak of them in the plural? Because there were two that came to see me. A description of them both? Why, yes.”
And a third witness from the outskirts of London. “I knew him, a good man, and… oh, no, he wasn’t. Greedy, you could see it in his eyes from a lad. I wouldn’t never have trusted him. I could tell you a tale or two as I heard.” And she told them, to Holmes’s interest and profit.
And while at the time I knew nothing of Holmes’s conversations, I did know that he was back after three days with a look of accomplishment. Thereafter he vanished again, and while I saw him once on his departure and almost failed to recognize him, I shrugged that off as Holmes in disguise on some ploy. I thought no more of it until he came back some days later, around eight one evening, hurrying up the stairs to change from the expensive, well-tailored clothing of a wealthy, elderly man, into his familiar dressing-gown. He had bathed, removed his lavish side-whiskers, and scrubbed his face free from any traces of theatrical gum.
I received him with a filled glass, a stoked fire, and a chuckle. “I prefer this look, my dear Holmes.”
His eyes glimmered as he accepted the whisky and soda. “As do I, but the disguise served its purpose.”
I drank from my own glass and studied him.
“You have deceived someone who thinks you a well-do-do man, frail, elderly, maybe a little foolish and trusting, and in need of—what?”
“Their assistance in certain matters that will yield a substantial profit. They were very ready to provide that backing, at a price. And I received their promises with suitable gratitude. What they offered was almost the final piece in the puzzle, Watson. I talked to the police, and together we have laid a trap. If you can be free in three days’ time, you may travel with me to Sheppey and assist at the denouncement.”
“You know who killed Lily?”
“I do.”
“And who killed Alistair Johnson?”
“Yes.”
“And Grace?”
“And Grace Klimpton,” he confirmed.
“There are more than one involved?”
This time he merely nodded, and I sat back. “I shall be delighted to accompany you, Holmes. May I also presume the disappearances of the other men will be explained?”
“You may.”
I would have asked more but understood this was as far as he would go.
* * * *
For the next two days I strove to fulfill all my duties. I raced from appointment to appointment until my patient list was up to date, and I arranged that my semi-retired colleague should be on call at need. I felt entitled to the day I would take out of London.
We caught the first ferry that morning and went directly to the rented cottage. There Holmes packed his suitcase, leaving all else. The landlady accepted her final payment, being gracious enough to say that my friend was an excellent tenant.
“And if so-be-it you ever want to hire the cottage again, Mister, you’m most welcome. What about t’ food you’ve here still? Do you mean to take that?”
Holmes indicated it was for her disposal and, as there was a fair amount her gratitude overflowed, to his embarrassment. I spoke a few pleasant words, extricated my friend, and we hurried along the pavement.
“Why did you leave so much food, Holmes?”
“I did not know when events in this matter would come to a point, Watson. They did so rather faster than I thought they might.”
“Where are we going?” I queried.
“To a hall in the center of town. It is small, convenient, and the entrance is down an alleyway and unobtrusive. The police should already be there, as well as the Simeses, Kyle Johnson, the Farrells, Paul Wright, and a number of others who have a personal or professional interest in the various deaths.”
I reached the hall right on his heels, eager to hear what he would say, and to discover the perpetrator. Once in the hall I stared about. Mrs. Michelle Rogers was amongst those present, and I was somewhat surprised. What she had to tell I could not think, but perhaps she was there on behalf of her one-time friend, Grace Klimpton.
A frowning, prune-faced man with the aspect of a civil servant sat towards the back, and I wondered who he was. There were a dozen others I recognized but could see no reason why most of them were present. I only ceased staring about and took a seat when Holmes moved to the front of the hall. Those about the hall—including the six or seven men I identified as detectives in plain clothes—gradually fell silent one by one and turned their gaze on Holmes. He stood watching them in turn.
12
When all was quiet, Holmes spoke.
“I was asked to scrutinize the murder of Lily Klimpton, and then that of Grace Klimpton. But as I investigated, I uncovered other deaths: some ascribed to disappearances, some considered natural deaths. The disappearances were those of Jason Sommerville, Jason Hunter, and Guy Moore. They vanished, not of their own desire, but because they were murdered. There was also the death of Alistair Johnson, supposedly from natural causes. I now can prove his death was murder.”
There was a faint rustle, as if someone moved sharply. Dr. James Farrell stood abruptly, his face showing indignation and affront.
“By what right do you make such an accusation? He was my patient, and I say he died of natural causes. What proof do you have to the contrary?”
“Sufficient,” Holmes said succinctly. “Let me continue and all will be made clear to you.”
Farrell sat down slowly, his look changing to one of apprehension; Holmes’s tone was convincing.
“Let me begin at the beginning, with a boy whose family lived in poverty, but since he was their only child he had sufficient. He never went cold or hungry, but he saw other children who had more, and he wanted that. He had a keen mind, and he persuaded his parents to let him stay on at school. There he worked like a drudge to surpass others and he attained a small scholarship. It was not sufficient to keep him fully at university, but his parents loved and were proud of him, and so he might attain his desire, both worked long hours and scrimped to support him. He graduated with a degree and found work.
“His initial position was menial, but he found ways of supplementing his income and slowly, cautiously, he prospered. His parents died, both in the same year. He blamed that on long years of hard work. He determined he would live otherwise, and he moved where none knew him—or knew of him. He expanded his activities, until he committed the ultimate sin, that of murder. I have named four men he killed, but I believe there were others earlier, when he was more cautious.”
He had the audience under his sway now. They sat listening, and now and again their gaze shifted to those about them. I saw the question in those looks: did they sit beside a killer? Was it someone they knew?
“He did not kill too often lest someone grow suspicious, and his victims were chosen carefully. They were men who lived alone, with few family or friends to notice if they disappeared, and moreover, they were men who had a secret from which he could profit.”
Kyl
e Johnson stiffened.
Holmes shook his head. “I do not say the secret was always disreputable. The fact of its being a secret was the key. If he used it to enrich himself, then who would know?”
Johnson relaxed again.
Holmes continued. “Secrets are common. Many of us have them and, as I said, they may not be discreditable. Take Jason Sommerville. He was an unpleasant man, disliked by everyone who knew him, so when he walked out of his rented house and was never seen again, none cared enough to make inquiries. What they did not know was that an uncle of his had recently died, a man of similar personality. He approved Mr. Sommerville’s efforts to force those about him to correct behavior. He left all he owned to his nephew, a goodly sum in investments and a bank account. All those monies were transferred to Sommerville’s London bank…” His voice deepened. “Two days before Sommerville disappeared.”
The rustle was quicker this time.
“You may ask why that was not discovered?” Holmes told them. “The answer is that it was some time before his disappearance was known, and then no inquiry was made. He was a man, an adult. He owed no debts, and if he wished to leave he had every right to do so. To all appearances that was precisely what happened. Had the money remained in his bank account, sooner or later the bank would have made inquiries, but the money did not remain there. A day after he walked out of his house, the bank received a letter from Sommerville, asking that a letter of credit be honored when it was presented. The letter was duly received, honored, and Sommerville’s account left almost empty, so that when it became quiescent, no alarm was raised.”
Holmes paused, and his gaze went around the room. “No alarm was raised, although that letter of credit was for the sum of nine thousand pounds.” He waited out the incredulous murmurs. “Why should that raise an alarm? The letter was legal. The bank did no more than its duty toward a depositor. The police had no reason to think there was anything amiss, and so Mr. Sommerville was all but forgotten. As was Jason Hunter, a less reputable character. One who was a businessman of sorts, a man who, despite having no convictions, was known to step across the line now and again. He, too, walked out of his house one day and disappeared.
“But he had family, some of whom were fond of him. When they had not seen him for some time, they asked questions—and received no answers. Hunter divided his time between the Isle and London, and those in both places thought him elsewhere. His papers, valuables, and best clothing were gone, along with a trunk. Mr. Hunter was never seen again…” His voice deepened and slowed.
“Nor were five thousand pounds, profits from a deal he had just completed, and quite legitimate in origin. Had the police known, they would likely have said this explained his disappearance: he left to spend the money, perhaps abroad or in some gambling den, where he was killed. and the body disposed of. They would have been wrong. Once apprised of this, the police ascertained that Hunter never left the Isle. His bank records show he received the money in cash. The ferry master, who knew him, says he saw Hunter that day, travelling to the Isle on the late afternoon ferry. Hunter was last seen by a reliable witness entering his house shortly before dark. No one took him off the Isle privately, or at least no one admitted doing so. He did not catch the ferry. After he entered his house, he was never seen again.”
A man stood. “I’m Jason’s cousin. When we didn’t hear from him we asked where he’d gone, and what happened to him. No one could say. He wasn’t a bad man. He was kind, generous, and never ill-tempered. He may have sailed a mite close to the wind, but he shouldn’t have been killed for it.”
“No,” Holmes agreed. “If everyone who sailed close to the wind in business died for it, there’d be few alive in London.”
The tension released in a roar of laughter. Holmes waited until that died and continued.
“Then there was Guy Moore. Again, a man disliked by many for his unpleasant tongue and his proclaimed dislike of fools. He lived in a cottage well away from any other. He retired to the Isle of Sheppey, bought the cottage, and needed do no more work than he wanted. What work he did, some of you know. He became a beachcomber: for exercise, for the free firewood he could gather, and for whatever he found that could be sold. Of that latter he had some fortune, finding furs, minor items washed up from old wrecks, and then a trunk containing jewelry and expensive clothing. That trunk, however, was taken from him.”
“Why?” came the question.
“Moore claimed the items he found while beachcombing as his, under the laws of flotsam and salvage. Those state that if a found item cannot be identified and proven to be his or hers by the owner, it may be freely sold by the finder. But—if it can be identified and ownership proven, it must be given to the owner, else a charge of theft may be preferred. The lady whose trunk Moore found could prove the trunk and contents hers. She gave no reward for its restoration, but in law the trunk and contents were hers by right, and he had to allow her to take possession.”
Holmes paused and looked over his attentive audience. “You may think that unfair, but if they were your valuables, would you still think so?” There was a murmur, a few heads shaking, and he nodded. “No, but in Moore’s place you, too, would think yourself cheated. So did Moore, and he determined not to have it occur again. To that end he created a hide in which to conceal other such items of salvage. We know he found items he concealed there. However, what if he found something more? Something of considerable value, but small size.”
All eyes were on him now. “Some time ago, a yacht was wrecked close by the Isle. On it, amongst other passengers, was a noble lady of the Russian court. She had her jewels with her, and those were lost. However, they were contained in a jewel-case which, because of its construction, would float. Given the tides, it might well arrive on a beach. It may have done so before the survivors could tell their stories and the lady lament the loss of her gems. Suppose Guy Moore found the case? Suppose he opened it and recognized the value of the contents? Suppose he saw they could be easily identified and thus reclaimed? Yet again, he would receive nothing for his pains. But what if he said nothing? What if he knew someone who might help him dispose of them?”
You could have heard a pin drop in the hall, so riveted was his audience. Even the detectives were agog.
“Moore found the jewel-case. That he asked someone to aid in their disposal is certain. I have seen the jewels Moore found, and they are of a size and quality that could not be disposed of without notice, nor could they be re-cut without the loss of a good part of their value. Instead, Moore’s partner, who was no fool, conceived of a simple plan: he would approach the lady and offer their return for a ransom. She accepted, since not only would she have her jewels returned for a price she could afford, but that price would be paid, not by her, but by the insurance company—who had already paid on her loss, and whom she did not tell of their recovery.”
The comments that broke out seemed to be evenly divided between approbation of the lady’s shrewdness and disapproval of her actions.
“Her insurance company paid her for the loss of her jewels—a very large sum, indeed—and she used a portion of the monies to pay the ransom. Thus, she had jewels and money both. Moore then vanished. Again, there was no one to mourn him or to demand answers as to where he had gone, and why. Three men, at least, all of whom had recently received large sums of money, were never seen again. But it was not that which originally attracted my attention. No, I was called in by the Simes family, whose mother was said to have killed herself. They wished me to disprove this.”
I noticed with an inward smile that he did not say it was also the belief of the police, and they refused to investigate the matter further. He had only been called in as a result of their indifference.
Holmes surveyed his audience. “From the beginning, I thought it unlikely that Mrs. Klimpton killed herself,” he said. “But it was not until I considered the death of Alistair Johnson that I was convinced she had been murdered. People do not act against their own natures
. A kind and generous person does not become mean and cruel overnight. A woman who is strong-minded, optimistic, and sensible, does not alter into a weak and tear-sodden pessimist between one day and the next. What is more, a man who is honest, upright, and fair-minded, does not reverse those characteristics overnight, either. And yet, that was what we were expected to believe about both Lily Klimpton and Alistair Johnson.”
He thumped a fist against the desk before him. “I did not believe it. Suppose instead, that Alistair Johnson wrote a will that left almost everything he had to Lily—as he swore to her he had done.” He leaned forward. “Suppose, however, that he held money in a separate account, money listed in his will. Suppose that money was stolen? What would betray the theft? Why, his death, and Lily’s inheritance, clearly listed in his will. Still, those matters could be dealt with; all that was needed was a will that did not include that money. If the lady noticed, then she, too, would die—as she did. As Alistair Johnson died before her, leaving someone free to take everything in the account, to close it, and leave no trace.”
Mrs. Rogers rose to her feet. “What about Grace?”
“Grace Klimpton,” Holmes said, “was murdered. She was known to eavesdrop, but she was also an honest person. She overheard two men talking and asked the one she did not believe to be a villain to attend her that evening. He called, and she told him what she heard, warning that he must set matters to rights, else she would denounce them both.
“But he was in deeper than she knew, and in panic and desperation he pushed her. She fell, struck her head, and was left unconscious. He pulled her jacket onto her limp body and carried her down to the beach, dragged her into the water, and held her under. He had not examined her, else he would have seen that the blow to her head would not keep her unconscious long. Thrust into cold water, she revived and fought savagely for her life.
“In that fight her jacket was disarranged. Upon taking a more secure grip on her shoulders he left bruising, bruising that was obvious upon further medical examination.”
Sherlock Holmes - Found Dead Page 27
