As Lestrade and I stood some distance away, Holmes knelt down beside her and began his examination. Taking out his magnifying glass he studied her ladyship’s neck, hair and fingers. He then carried out a minute inspection of the room, sometimes kneeling and once lying flat on his face. So engrossed was he in this occupation that he appeared to have forgotten our presence, for he muttered to himself the whole time. Some ten minutes later, his task complete, he returned to our side.
“What have you learned from your study, Mr. Holmes?” asked Lestrade.
“Many minor details that open up avenues for various speculations. It seems very likely that while she was being strangled, Lady Damury offered up no resistance. There is a paper knife on the floor by the bed which appears to have been discarded. If she had meant to wound her attacker, she would still have it in her grasp. Moreover there are no traces of material or skin under the fingernails: there would be if she had tried to defend herself, attempting to force her assailant to desist. Similarly her hair is still neatly coiffured and is hardly disturbed. It as though she simply lay down and allowed herself to be murdered.”
“Or that she was drugged,” said I.
“Indeed, Watson, that was one possibility that I had considered, but her pupils show no sign of dilation, as there would be if there were drugs in her system. I believe that she was frozen with fear and was unable to offer any resistance to her assailant. He must have proved a terrifying sight.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” asked Lestrade.
“Very little. The murderer was a tall man of around six feet. He wore square-toed boots and a full-length black woollen overcoat, and had long fingernails.”
“And how do you come by all this information?” asked Lestrade, a note of disdain in his voice.
“The height is indicated by his stride. As luck would have it, some mud from the garden had adhered to his feet and left marks on the carpet, which allowed me to make the calculation.”
“How do you know the mud was left by the murderer’s shoes, and not by Rance or Damury?”
“Because neither man is six feet tall, nor do they wear square-toed boots.”
“I see. And the other details?”
“Strands of black wool have been caught on the wooden foot of the bed; no doubt the garment was flapping about as the murderer committed his deed and the coat caught there briefly. If you examine the strangulation marks, you will notice that, above the bruises left by the murderer’s fingerprints, there are small wounds in the flesh left by long fingernails.”
“Well, that’s all well and good, but it really doesn’t get us any nearer to identifying the culprit.”
“I agree, Lestrade. They are merely details to add to the portrait of the perpetrator. However, all the attributes I have described will apply to the man you eventually arrest and they will help secure a conviction.”
“That’s as may be, but it seems to me that we have two possible culprits for this crime: Damury himself and Godfrey Forbes, the lover. I don’t think we need look very much farther than those two coves,” said Lestrade.
“But neither man fits Holmes’s description,” I said.
“That is by the by, Doctor,” sniffed Lestrade.
“Lestrade, may I offer some advice?” said Holmes softly, leaning close to Lestrade’s ear.
“You can offer,” grinned Lestrade awkwardly.
“You already have one of your suspects in custody, regarding the theft of the ruby. I would suggest you put pressure on him to ascertain his role in the matter, if indeed he had one. In the meantime, invite Lord Damury for an informal chat down at the Yard, say the day after tomorrow at ten, merely to clear up a few details regarding tonight’s terrible events. You may learn more in a relaxed conversation than by arresting him now, and allowing him to hire the brightest legal mind to be in attendance when you question him.”
Lestrade thought for a moment and stroked his chin. “You could be right, I suppose.”
“I am happy to be present at the Yard when you see Damury.”
Lestrade’s face brightened. “Would you? That may be very useful, Mr. Holmes. Very well then, it is settled. I’ll follow your advice for the moment. I’m sure one of these men will slip up at some point and then I’ll have him.”
* * *
“I have said it before,” cried Holmes, as we left Carisbroke House in search of a cab to convey us back to Baker Street. “That man is a fool!” His voice resonated with frustration and anger. “As I intimated, the facts are quite clear. Neither Forbes nor Damury is responsible for that poor woman’s death, but Lestrade is blind as a mole.”
I could only agree with my friend. If the murderer fitted the description as determined by Holmes’s examination of the scene, then neither man had performed the cruel deed. It was true that Forbes had a clear motive for killing Lady Damury. In silencing her, he would be able to keep hold of the ruby; but, apart from Holmes’s deductions, from what I had seen of the fellow I didn’t believe he possessed the nerve for such a drastic action.
“Do you have any notion who might be responsible for the murder?”
Holmes shook his head. “Without a glimmer of a motive, there is really nothing to go on. It may well be that there is no motive, and that therefore we have very little chance of catching the culprit.”
“No motive?”
“Yes. There are those demented souls in this great city of ours who gain delight in murder simply for pleasure. They derive their enjoyment from the snuffing out of life. They require no other reward than the satisfaction that it brings.”
I knew Holmes was correct, but the thought of it made me shudder.
“For example,” he continued, “let us suppose the murderer of Lady Damury harboured an irrational hatred of rich titled ladies, and that is the only reason that she became his victim. Where does the criminal investigator begin in trying to trace such an individual? It is an impossible task. The only facts we have at the moment that could help us are that our murderer is tall and has long fingernails. Minute needles in a dark haystack, I regret to say. If I am right and we have a random killer on our hands, I am afraid that we shall have to wait for other murders to occur before we can collect sufficient information to lead us to the malefactor. I fear this will be a waiting game.”
* * *
The early morning sun was beaming brightly by the time we arrived back at Baker Street. Somewhat fatigued after our long and eventful night, we both indulged in a hearty breakfast, each of us lost in thought and saying little. After a post-prandial pipe Holmes took himself off to bed and stayed there for most of the day. I dozed fitfully.
Lestrade paid us a visit in the evening to confirm details regarding the interview he had arranged with Damury at Scotland Yard the following day. “I am coming round to your state of thinking, Mr. Holmes,” he admitted. “Considering the matter again, I don’t really think Damury is our man.”
Holmes said nothing, but nodded gently.
“In my book, however, once a criminal, always a criminal, and Mr. Godfrey Forbes has already proved himself to be a cunning thief. I believe it is only a few steps farther on the pathway of crime to commit murder – a murder that would be very beneficial to him.”
Holmes continued to remain silent, but he cast a disparaging glance in my direction with a gentle roll of the eyes.
“After all,” continued Lestrade, “he is the only one in the picture. The only one with a motive.”
“That we know of,” I interjected, rather more strongly than I intended.
Holmes gave a bleak smile. “You must do as you see fit, Lestrade. I believe there will be another murder within the month carried out using the same modus operandi.”
Lestrade chuckled. “What leads you to that rather far-fetched conclusion, Mr. Holmes?”
“I am afraid to say it is built on shifting sand – albeit based on many years of criminal investigation.”
“Not one of your solid deductions, then. Well,
we shall see, eh?” grinned the policeman, collecting his hat and coat. “In the meantime, I’ll expect you at the Yard tomorrow for our interview with Lord Damury.”
Holmes gave Lestrade a friendly wave and bid him good night.
I did not attend the interview with Damury, which took place the following morning. I was still somewhat fatigued and, like Holmes, I thought that it was a pointless exercise. Damury did not fit Holmes’s description of the murderer and he seemed genuinely distraught over his wife’s death.
On his return from Scotland Yard, Holmes gave me a brief account of the interview. “It was a waste of time, Watson, as you may well imagine,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Damury turned up with a note signed by two respectable members of his club stating that he had been in their company all evening. One of them shared a cab with him, which dropped him off at his house minutes before he encountered Constable Rance inside the property. Of course, this has now made Lestrade all the more certain that Godfrey Forbes is the culprit. If this blinkered Scotland Yarder is determined to make a fool of himself, so be it. If the matter does come to court, a decent counsel will tear the case to shreds.”
“In the meantime, the killer of Lady Damury is out there somewhere,” I observed gloomily.
“Quite so, Watson. Out there and ready to kill again.”
Chapter Twelve
Gustav Caligari read with great pleasure the details in the newspapers of the murder of Lady Damury, his enjoyment initially augmented by the news that the police had arrested a certain Mr. Godfrey Forbes for the crime. He rubbed his hands with glee. Another life blighted, he thought. This was a bonus. And then a further thought struck him.
He made his way up to Robert’s room and read out from the Daily Telegraph the details of the “terrible murder”. Robert, who now spent most of his existence in a somnambulistic, comatose state, stared with dark haunted eyes at the bare wall opposite him during Caligari’s recitation.
“You know, my friend,” said Caligari amiably, as he laid the paper aside, “on reflection I am not so sure that I am happy our handiwork is being attributed to others. After all my planning and your efforts, I believe that we should receive the credit for our remarkable acts. What do you say?”
Robert said nothing. Until primed by his master, words meant nothing to him now. He lived in an intellectual void.
“I knew that you would agree with me, my friend. However, the next time we must leave our signature.”
The next time.
The thought occupied Caligari’s mind to the exclusion of almost everything else. He still saw his patients, their fees were essential for him, but his practice meant little to him now that he had embarked on his murderous crusade. Nevertheless, he knew he must be cautious and avoid rushing things. The first murder had been so successful thanks to its meticulous planning. It was essential that the same be true of all future ventures, if his great scheme of leaving a trail of strangled corpses across London was to succeed. He salivated at the thought.
Caligari’s first task was to choose his next victim. At this early stage in the somnambulist’s career, Caligari thought that Robert should not be trusted to tackle a victim who might fight back and have the strength to overpower his assailant. Robert needed more practice first, and therefore a vulnerable female would be more appropriate.
It was a month after the death of Lady Damury that Caligari found a suitable target. He had gone out for the evening, dined at a favourite restaurant and then attended the Savoy Theatre to watch The Magic Rose, a new operetta concerning a disfigured flower seller who is granted her wish of eternal beauty by a mysterious stranger who is in fact the devil in disguise. As a result of this trickery, the girl has sold her soul to the master of evil. The plot appealed greatly to Caligari, but of more importance was that he was very much taken by the young actress playing the girl. Consulting his programme, he learned that her name was Ruth Marshall and that this was her first leading role in the West End. Before the final curtain call, Caligari was developing in his mind a dark plot.
After the performance was ended, he made his way to the stage door. Already a small group of admirers waited there to catch a glimpse of the stars of the show. Caligari hung back in the shadows, biding his time. The leading man emerged first, to be greeted by a chorus of oohs and aahs from the women in the crowd, and programmes were proffered for his signature. Then the chorus trooped out and among them, rather shyly, Ruth Marshall. She appeared a great deal more petite in real life than on stage, and was far prettier.
She chatted briefly to a group of admiring men and signed a few programmes before making her way up to the Strand. Cautiously, Caligari followed her at a distance. Once on the main thoroughfare, still thronged with people at this late hour, she hailed a cab, and Caligari followed suit.
“See that cab ahead,” he cried to the driver, “I want you to follow it. There’s an extra sovereign for you if you don’t lose it.”
“Certainly, guv’nor. I can manage that all right,” came the hoarse reply.
Caligari smiled and sat back in the cab, enjoying the thrill of this new adventure.
Some time later they reached the environs of Chiswick. By now Caligari was leaning out of the window, keeping his eye on the young woman’s vehicle. Suddenly it turned off the main street into a maze of tree-lined avenues, eventually pulling up outside a small semi-detached property. Caligari’s driver had the good sense to drive past and halt a hundred yards further along the street.
“What now, guv’nor?” he asked in a forced stage whisper.
“This is where I get out,” replied Caligari, passing some coins to the cabby. The man examined his bounty with glee.
“God bless you, sir,” he said, before urging his horse onwards.
Keeping to the shadows, Caligari made his way back up the street and was just in time to see the door opened to Ruth Marshall by a tall young man. The two embraced briefly before going inside.
So she has a lover, or a husband, perhaps, thought Caligari as he stared intently at the property. After a short while, the upstairs room over the bay window was illuminated and he observed the young man drawing the curtains. A sneering smile touched Caligari’s lips. “Definitely a lover,” he muttered to himself. Taking note of the address – 14 St Alban’s Avenue – he made his way back to the Chiswick High Road and within minutes was able to engage a cab to take him home. On the journey, he turned over in his mind the matter of Ruth Marshall’s demise. There were a number of possible scenarios, but he was determined to fashion one that was both entertaining and safe. The challenge of arranging a murder gave him great satisfaction and delight.
As he sat up in bed later that night with a brandy nightcap, he raised it in a toast: “To Ruth Marshall, the prettiest corpse in the graveyard.”
* * *
There followed several weeks of what Caligari regarded as “research”. To obtain certain information required him to adopt a disguise – a procedure that he abhorred at first, but gradually came to enjoy. Eventually he realised that taking on another persona with the aid of a wig, false whiskers and heavy-rimmed spectacles gave him a great feeling of freedom. He visited the Savoy and, in the guise of a theatrical agent, chatted to the stage door keeper, slipping him a couple of sovereigns to gain information about Ruth Marshall. “Gammy Alf”, as the old codger was known because of his twisted leg, was able to inform Caligari that “Miss Marshall lives in diggings in Paddington but I knows she has a young man as an admirer. He turns up sometimes with a bunch of flowers after the show. I think his name is Alan something.”
Caligari deduced that this was the fellow she had visited in Chiswick. His next task was to discover more about “Alan Something” and locate the girl’s address in Paddington in order to build up a fuller picture of her life – before he arranged for it to be snuffed out.
Some days later, the wig and whiskers came out again, but this time he adopted the persona of a solicitor’s clerk making enquiries in St Alban’s Avenu
e about number 14. “I have a client who is very keen to purchase that property,” he averred to several of the neighbours. “The owner seems to be out. Could you tell me his name and how I can contact him in order to inform him of the situation and ascertain whether he is prepared to consider selling? My client is prepared to pay a very respectable sum for the dwelling.”
It was a flimsy pretence, but it did the trick. The neighbours, particularly the women, gushed forth information about the young, attractive man at number 14. His name was Alan Firbank and he worked as a journalist on the periodical Science News. He had lived in the property for less than a year and was regarded as a respectable fellow although, as one elderly lady observed, “I do believe he has lady friends visiting.” There was much suggestion in her tone of voice, and in the knowing expression with which this information was delivered. Caligari had difficulty holding back a smirk.
By positioning himself outside the stage door each evening for two weeks he was able to establish a pattern of behaviour. On Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays, the girl went to Chiswick and spent the night with her lover. The rest of the week she went home to her little nest in Paddington. He followed her there to a shabby little terraced property which she shared with another woman, whom Caligari assumed was also in the theatrical profession.
Now he possessed all the information he needed to construct his plan. He determined that the girl should be murdered at the Chiswick address on the night of the next full moon. The great yellow orb had been so propitious for him that he regarded it as his lucky charm.
To murder Ruth in the little house she shared with her female companion would be too dangerous, too complicated. Besides, it appealed to his sense of the dramatic and tragic that the girl should be found in the house of her lover, who might well be suspected of the murder. Of course, one problem remained: how to lure Mr. Alan Firbank away from the house on the night of the operation, allowing Robert the opportunity to carry out his task. It was essential that Firbank should be absent from the premises when Robert made his entry.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Instrument of Death Page 7
