The Curious Case of the Broken Window

by Bryan Porter

ous Case of the Broken Window

  By Bryan M. Porter

  Copyright © 2012 Bryan Porter

  ISBN 978-0-9880793-1-1

  After my release of the case titled the Ghost of Belgravia, I have had communications from the papers, who wish to hear more of the strange cases involving my friend. I feel no small pride in the fact that I have in some small way made the world aware of my dear friend and his deeds. Though yet again I find myself hard pressed to choose from the many cases we had worked on together. After reviewing the first article, I find that I had made mention of the case of the broken window, and seeing the main turns we took before reaching our conclusion, I felt it the best choice, though I am glad the Count is no longer with us so that he would not have to relive the event.

  It was July 25, 1864 when next I found myself in the company of my unique and somewhat strange companion, though at the time I was not aware that our paths would cross. The day was reaching its end when something very queer happened. As I had collected my coat and hat, I was approached by a younger constable already sporting a wide bushy moustache. I was informed that the chief inspector wished to have a word with me and as my time was not quite done I accented. Chief Inspector Anderson was a broad man, though more so through the waist that chest. His eyes were a pale green almost sickly, and he had grown a large but neatly trimmed beard.

  “Tell me Wright; is it your prerogative to consort with criminals?” The first question hit me with all the force as a rampaging horse.

  “Why, no.” I huffed trying to catch my bearing. “Not outside of work that is. Why do you ask?”

  “Well it seems one knows you. There was a murder over at Upper Philmore Gardens. Seems some rich git by the name of Cartwright got himself shot. Blasted out the second floor window and lodged in his chest. Inspector McMurdy was placed in charge of the scene, and could you believe it when he began to investigate he founds a man prowling the streets with an uncommon knowledge of the crime. He won't answer any of the questions we set to him; all he will say is that he wishes to speak to you.”

  “What a strange incident.” I muttered more to myself.

  “I would prefer that this gets taken care of quickly.” Anderson said. “The address is 1907 Upper Philimore Gardens. Get the suspect to speak. I have a feel that when he does things will become much clearer.”

  I was out of the door before the conversation had finished, and dropping a half-pence into the hands of a coach man I was soon whisked off in the direction of the crime. I must admit that I was intrigued by who this man could be, as I didn't keep company with many outside of work and a handful of friends. It took me a quarter of an hour to reach the scene, and when I jumped down from the hansom I was greeted by the constable who was first on the scene, whom I vaguely knew as Morris.

  “Inspector Wright. It is good that you are here, as perhaps you could shed some light on this queer individual.”

  “Is he so unique?”

  “I should say so.”

  I would have questioned him further but when I entered the mansion I was greeted by the sight of a deeply crimson waist coat that I had come to associate with one man. As my eyes focused I took in the rail thin frame, and narrow features.

  “Count.” I uttered in astonishment, as my friend and companion was seated on a velvet duvet with irons clapped over his wrist sat the Count of Samerand.

  “Ah my Inspector Wright, it is good you are here. Since you recognize him as the Count of Samerand, I suppose that you are in fact acquainted with him. I must say though that I frown upon inspectors associating with the sort who would get themselves involved in such a matter. He won't even be as good as to tell us his name.”

  Inspector McMurdy was a short man with a wide frame, small eyes set together and a large moustache that showed tobacco stains.  

  “I have wondered often times myself what it is but he has never deemed it necessary to inform me.”

  “And I never shall my friend, there are some mysteries that are better left alone, but come come, surely with my good name restored to me you can surely release me from this bondage.”

  McMurdy looked dubious. “Your good name does not except you from the law.” Said the inspector. “When I arrived on scene, I perceived this gentleman wondering around the area with far too much interest. When I spoke to him, he advised me that I would be better off not inspecting the error for the murderer, without me saying a word. Why I had him in cuffs so quick that his head would spin, and would you guess it that when I did so, we found a spot of powder on his cuff. I think we shall soon have this case wrapped up.”

  It was only from my experiences with the Count, that I was able to see his expression of polite congeniality was false. “Really, Inspector, you place the blame at my feet before ever I can prove my innocence.”

  “I think we are well beyond that.”

  “But surely, you must give me a chance to prove myself.”

  The inspector considered it. “You are no detective, so how could you hope to prove your innocence?”

  “Inspector.” Said I. “The Count has helped me on many a case and I can assure you that his powers of deduction are like no I have seen before?”

  “Is that so?” McMurdy said dubiously. “Well if they are so wondrous, I will give him two hours. That is if he can prove it to me, perhaps you could glean something about me just from sight.”

  “I have already remarked you dear inspector.” The count said absently. “You are a man of some vices. You take liberally of both smoke and drink, you are suffering from a rather, what I believe to be gout, and you have lost your wife six months ago.”

  “My good man, how could you know that?”

  “Quite simply. When I examine your left hand I see tobacco of stains of deep colour circling out from your index and middle finger, the comfortable place for a cigarette. The shade tells me that you have had several since the last time you have washed your hands. You shirt on the other hand gives away your love of the drink, having several spots of a tangy odour, and the shaking in your limbs. The gout I surmise from the red swelling around your joints, and the fact that while you should be limber from the drink your limbs are in fact quite stiff. As for your wife, I observed your wedding ring and jacket when you placed the cuffs on me. Your jacket is older and has been mended many times, but if you were to look close you will see the older stitching is quite straight and done with a steady hand, while the new is jagged and in several spots has wood shaving, meaning that you placed it on the table as your shaky hands made the work impossible. When you pushed the need through several times you ended up scoring the wood leaving the shavings. If your wife no longer mends your clothing then that leads us to her absences of one fashion or another. If your marriage had soured or if she had left it could be explained. I disposed of this conclusion when I saw your wedding ring. It is deeply scarred, telling me that you never remove it, speaking of intense feeling. In either of the first two cases the ring would not hold such value, but if your wife had passed it would fit quite nicely. As for the time, I estimated the mending to be six months old from regular wear and recent work.”

  “It seems the inspector has not embellished your abilities.” McMurdy said rather sourly. “You have your two hours.”

  The Count held up his still shackled hands. “Now if you would.”

  McMurdy considered it for a moment, before relenting. “Alright, but I am keeping you in sight.”

  With the cuffs removed, my friend regained the masterful expression that would often have all eyes in the room drawn upon him.

  “Count. In the time I have know you, you have never voluntarily involved yourself in a case.”

  “No,
I don't. If I involved myself in all crime I fear that I would never have time for anything.”

  “Then what brings you here tonight?”

  “I asked for him to come.” The voice that spoke now was feminine, but with a richness.

  Descending the main stairs was Mrs Cartwright. Dressed in a blue dress with a high bosom reminiscent of the French design, made her quite the scandal. Even in the light of such a nefarious act she was stately, and breathe taking. 

  “Mrs. Cartwright.” Said McMurdy. “This is the first time that you have told me that you invited the count.”

  Her face was still pale from what must have been the shock of her husband's death. “I am sorry; it is my fault for not making you aware. I can only blame the horror that this tragedy has upon my mind.”

  When her feet left the stairs,