The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part XI
Page 17
“Naturally.” Holmes turned to Lestrade. “The cause of death is the bullet, I take it?”
“Surely you are joking, Mr. Holmes? A man is found dead with a bullet wound and a pistol in the room, and you question the cause of death? I know you have your fancies and your theories, but this beats all.”
“Then I take it that the bullet has not been extracted? The post mortem examination has yet to take place, Inspector?”
“This afternoon, Mr. Holmes. I take it that you and Doctor Watson here would like to attend?”
“Who is performing the autopsy?”
“Sir Greville Patterson, if I recall correctly.”
“Then there will be no cause for me to attend. Pray let me have a copy of Sir Greville’s report as soon as it becomes available.”
“As you will, Mr. Holmes, but I do not believe that it will shed any new light on the matter.”
“My thanks.” Stepping cautiously, and keeping to the edges of the room, Holmes moved to the side table near the door where the pistol lay. “With your permission, Inspector?” he asked, reaching for the pistol. Lestrade nodded silently, and Holmes picked up the weapon and raised it to his nose. “There is no smell remaining,” he remarked, “such as I would expect from a weapon using black powder.” He examined the flash pan. “There is no sign that the weapon has been fired in the recent past.”
“What?” exclaimed Lestrade in confusion. “Are you telling us that this is not the means by which Lord Gravesby met his end?”
“Indeed I am,” said Holmes. “You may verify this for yourself,” he added, presenting the pistol for the police agent’s inspection.
“Then we have more than one mystery on our hands. Who placed the pistol here, and how did Lord Gravesby die?”
“As to the first, I strongly suspect Sir Quentin Austin, presumably to place suspicion on Major Prendergast. I believe we will have to await the results of the autopsy before we know the answer to the second.”
We left the Club in company with Lestrade, who seemed to be more than a little disconcerted by Holmes’s findings. “So you believe Prendergast to be innocent?” he asked.
“Innocent of shooting Gravesby with that particular pistol, at any rate. Indeed, consider the evidence we have just seen and heard. Can we indeed believe that Gravesby was indeed shot?”
“I am not entirely sure why you should say such a thing. He is dead, at any event, no matter how he died,” said Lestrade, thoughtfully. “I hope you are not disputing that fact. But, as you say, the post mortem examination may provide us with a few more answers.”
“I think I will make my way to Barts and view the body before Sir Greville starts his work,” said Holmes. “Watson, you will accompany me to the haunts of your youth? Lestrade?”
“Willingly,” I answered him, but Lestrade declined the invitation.
“However, if you would be good enough to pass on anything you find, Mr. Holmes, I would be most obliged,” he requested, and Holmes acknowledged this with a nod of his head.
We took ourselves to the hospital where I had trained as a student, and made our way to the room where Sir Greville Patterson plied his grisly trade.
“Ah, Holmes. Good to see you here. Shocking business, what? Watson, delighted to have another pair of hands and pair of eyes on this case. Shall we start?” He withdrew the sheet covering the cadaver. “I was informed that the cause of death was a bullet at the base of the neck. However, I perceive no exit wound. Watson, if you would, please?”
He and I turned over the body to expose the back of the neck, where a small hole was to be seen which lacked the superficial characteristics that mark wounds caused by projectiles fired from pistols or rifles.
“If I may say so, Sir Greville,” I remarked. “That hardly appears to be a bullet wound. I have seen enough of such in my time with the Army.”
“I agree,” replied my medical colleague. “We can easily determine the truth or otherwise of your observation, Watson.” A few minutes’ work with the scalpel, and Sir Greville grunted. “You were perfectly correct, Watson. There is no exit wound, and no sign of any bullet in here. I detect some fracturing of the second and third cervical vertebrae, but it does not resemble that which would be caused by a bullet.”
“As I thought,” commented Holmes, who had been silently observing the proceedings. “We must seek another weapon. You are certain that this wound was the cause of death?” he asked Sir Greville.
“Certainly this injury was the cause of death. I would put the immediate cause as the extreme compression of the spinal cord caused by the pressure of the fragments of the vertebrae being driven forward by - by whatever it was that caused this.” His tone, at first the confident manner of one of the foremost pathologists in the land, weakened and grew fainter as his doubts grew, in an almost visible manner.
“That, my dear Sir Greville, is my province,” remarked Holmes cheerfully. “Yours was to determine the cause of death, and you have done so admirably. Thank you so much for your work here.” He turned to go. “You will let me have the full report in good course? Come, Watson.”
“In all my experience, I have never seen a wound like that,” I said to Holmes as we walked away from the hospital.
“No more have I,” he told me. “This has the makings of a most ingenious case, Watson. The only possibility that suggests itself to me is that the murderer held in his hand an object similar to a dagger, but with no edge, and a slightly blunted tip - you observed the distinctive characteristics of the wound, did you not? - and used it with sufficient force not simply to break the skin, but to crush the vertebrae and the spinal cord. Death must have been painless and instantaneous. There is a certain diabolical ingenuity here, as well as a powerful motive.”
“I cannot conceive of such a weapon, or indeed, of the man who would wield it.”
“Indeed. We would seem to be searching for a man of powerful build - a man of action.”
“I hope that you are not suspecting my friend Prendergast,” I told him.
“At the present time, no one and everyone may be suspected. But let us see Prendergast, in any event. It is best that we do not acquaint him with Sir Greville’s findings, though.”
We returned to the Club through the Park, and secured a quiet corner of the smoking room in which we awaited Prendergast.
On his arrival, I noted his drawn face, which exhibited a curious pallor. “Are you unwell?” I asked him.
“A bit worried, old man. What with the pistol missing from my room and turning up next to the body. Enough to give anyone a turn.”
“I quite understand your concerns,” said Holmes. “However, I do not think you need to worry yourself over that matter. However, I would appreciate your providing more details on Sir Quentin Austin - specifically on his appearance. For example, does he usually carry a stick, and if so, what kind?”
Prendergast appeared to be considering the question for a short while before responding. “I do not recall seeing him with such an article. I believe I would remember if I had done so.”
“A lacquered stick, with a silver head in the shape of a skull, for example?”
Prendergast started. “You are describing a stick that is the property of His Royal Highness. It is a most distinctive article, and one of which he is most proud. I have heard it said that there is some secret about it, but it is not one to which I am privy. It may have been a gift from one of his female friends, perhaps.”
“Very well. Another question about Sir Quentin. I observed when he visited us that he is a user of tobacco in some form. Perhaps you can enlighten me further as to the form in which he indulges the habit.”
“He is often to be seen with one of those foul Trichinopoly weeds,” smiled Prendergast.
Holmes clapped his hands together in an expression of delight. “Then the case i
s solved,” Holmes told him. “When I have talked to the police, you will be freed from suspicion, and the culprit brought to justice.”
“Sir Quentin?” asked Prendergast incredulously.
“It may well be he,” answered Holmes. “I would advise you, Major, to return to your rooms and remain there until the police let you know formally that you are no longer under suspicion.”
After Prendergast had left us, Holmes and I took a cab to Scotland Yard.
“But have you deduced that Sir Quentin killed Gravesby?” I could not but refrain from asking my friend.
“I have,” he told me. “No doubt you noticed his stick?”
“Indeed so. I could hardly tear my eyes away from that grotesque skull that formed the handle?”
“Tut. You did not observe the tip? The silver ferrule was stained with some dark substance that was certainly not mud, and could not have been, since we have had no rain in a week. Furthermore, the shape of the stick at that end, and therefore the ferrule, was not round, but octagonal. When we arrived at the Club, I noticed a peculiar indentation on the carpet, within one of the areas that had been stained with blood. That, too, was an octagonal shape. The cigar ash that I observed is the final clue that points fair and square, or should I say fair and octagonally?” Holmes gave a faint chuckle, “to Sir Quentin Austin as the murderer.”
“I all seems too simple, Holmes. But you believe that that stick was the murder weapon? However, Sir Quentin seemed to me to be of too slight a build to inflict a blow that could cause the injuries we observed at Barts.”
“That point had occurred to me also, and I confess to being a little troubled by it,” Holmes admitted to me. “However, if we can convince Lestrade of the wisdom of interviewing Sir Quentin on the subject, I have little doubt that we will soon know the truth of the matter.”
On hearing Holmes’s words of explanation, Lestrade instantly sat up straight in his chair. “Why, thank you, Mr. Holmes. I will dispatch a constable to arrest him and bring him here immediately.”
“It might be better if he were not arrested at this stage of the proceedings,” Holmes suggested to him. “Let us hear what he has to say for himself first.”
“Especially given his friendship with a certain personage,” Lestrade added. “I see the sense in what you are saying, Mr. Holmes.”
The constable was dispatched, and returned some time later with Sir Quentin Austin, dressed as we had previously seen him, and carrying the skull-headed stick on which Holmes had remarked.
Lestrade opened the questioning. “Sir Quentin, do you deny being in that card room at the Tankerville Club after the death of Lord Gravesby?”
“I do deny it,” came the toneless reply.
“Then how is it,” asked Sherlock Holmes, “that your stick still retains traces of blood on its tip, which were imparted to it when the stick was pressed into that part of the carpet where a bloodstain was present?” Sir Quentin looked down at the end of the stick with what appeared to be a genuine look of surprise and horror on his face. “Furthermore,” Holmes continued, “traces of the cigar that you were smoking were present in that room, in the form of ash. We have established that while you were playing cards in that room on that night, you were not smoking.”
Sir Quentin closed his eyes in resignation. “Very well, then. Yes, I was in the room after Lord Gravesby’s death.”
“For the purpose of placing the pistol that you had abstracted from Major Prendergast’s room? For the purpose of implicating him in the murder?” Holmes went on.
“Yes,” came the answer in a hushed voice. “It was the work of a cad, I know, but the alternative was worse.”
“Such as being hanged for murder?” sneered Lestrade. “Sir Quentin Austin, I arrest you for - “
Holmes held up a hand. “Stop, Lestrade. Sir Quentin has not confessed to killing Lord Gravesby. With your permission, I would like to ask him a few more questions.”
“Oh, very well,” grumbled the police agent. “Since it is you.”
“Sir Quentin,” Holmes addressed the baronet, from whose face all colour had now drained. “However unpleasant or serious the consequences of your words, I strongly advise you to provide full and truthful answers to the questions I am about to ask you.” The other nodded. “Very well. Imprimis, I believe that is not your stick that you are holding. Or, if it is, that it was only recently presented to you by another who was the original owner.”
“The second of those statements is correct,” was the reply.
“And I believe I know who presented it to you. Very well. Let us continue. Do you know the secret of this stick? Why it was given to you?” Lestrade and I looked at each other in puzzlement. Holmes’s reasoning was beyond my comprehension, and from the look on his face, beyond that of Lestrade also.
“I believe I know why this was so,” Holmes went on. “Will you do me the kindness of passing me the object in question?” Wordlessly, Sir Quentin complied with the request. “Observe the tip closely,” Holmes requested us.
He held the stick horizontally, and we waited. Suddenly there was a loud click, and what we had taken to be the ferrule shot out from the tip of the stick to the extent of about two inches, with the velocity and force of a bullet from the mouth of a gun. “Imagine,” said Holmes calmly, “that I had the tip of this pressed against the back of my victim’s neck. Watson, what sort of injuries would result?”
“Those that we observed on Lord Gravesby,” I answered.
“But how does this return to its former state?” asked Lestrade.
“By the very simplest of methods,” Holmes informed us. He placed the tip of the stick on the floor and placed his weight on the handle, forcing the stick downwards. After a little exertion, the tip retracted, and another clicking sound presumably informed us that the mechanism was now locked into place. “And hence, gentlemen, the bloodstains on the tip of this stick when the murderer pressed the murder weapon into the carpet, at a point where it was soaked in the blood of the victim.”
“What is this diabolical thing?” I asked.
“Behold the Totenkopfstock. A few of these were created at the end of the last century in Vienna for those involved in espionage and in secret government work. I believed them all to have been destroyed, but such is clearly not the case. The trigger to release this diabolical weapon is concealed in the eyeholes of the skull.”
“My God!” breathed Sir Quentin. “I had no conception.” His face, formerly pale, was by now ashen. “To think I have been walking around London with this - this monstrous thing in my hands. So I have been in possession of the weapon that killed Lord Gravesby without knowing it?” he stammered.
“Why do you think it was given to you?” asked Holmes. “As a reward for placing false evidence to condemn an innocent man? No, it was to absolve your master of any complicity in the crime. You are guilty, my man, of conspiracy to pervert the cause of justice, even if you are innocent of the killing itself.”
By now, Sir Quentin, slumped in his chair, had his face in his hands, and appeared to be sobbing to himself. Between the sobs, we could make out the words, “I had no choice.”
“I must warn you,” Lestrade told him, “that anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you.”
“No matter,” replied Sir Quentin, recovering his posture, and addressing us with some dignity. “I am, as you may know, unmarried, and am likely to remain so for the rest of my life. I leave you to draw whatever conclusions you may choose from this statement. His Royal Highness drew his conclusions, and from then on, I was in his power, helpless to do anything other than what he commanded. The story of the card game at the Tankerville Club that you have read is a complete fiction. You have read, have you not, that His Royal Highness accused Gravesby of cheating?”
“That is so,” Holmes affirmed.
“Was there any truth in the accusation against the Prince?” Lestrade asked.
Sir Quentin bowed his head. “I am ashamed to say that there was. It was not the first time that this had occurred. The Prince sent a Club servant to fetch a box from his rooms at - - House.
“That containing the duelling pistols?”
“Indeed. When the servant returned with the case, His Royal Highness ordered me to talk to Gravesby, and prevent the facts from becoming public, as I am ashamed to admit I had done on previous occasions. In this instance, however, I was unable to do so, and reported as much to the Prince, who thereupon flew into a passion and stormed out of the room. He returned, some ten minutes later, informing me that Gravesby had challenged him in a duel. He had refused to accept, and had named Prendergast to take his place.”
“Without consulting Prendergast? And did not Prendergast object?” I asked, incredulously.
Sir Quentin shrugged. “It is his way of doing things. Prendergast is a military man, and used to obeying orders. I believe that he would do anything in the world, if he were ordered to by a superior. His Royal Highness then dictated a note to me, addressed to Lord Gravesby requesting a meeting in the same card-room the next evening.”
“That is to say, the evening that Gravesby died,” Lestrade remarked.
“Indeed so. That evening, His Royal Highness and I made our way to the Club. While he went to the card-room where he’d arranged to meet Gravesby, I, as I had been instructed, met Prendergast and requested him to deliver a letter to Lady Thruxton at her home in Grosvenor Square.”
“The purpose of the letter?”
“I believe it was merely a ruse to take him out of the Club for a short time. I then waited in Prendergast’s room, and His Royal Highness joined me a few minutes after Prendergast’s departure.