“In what sense?” I said.
“To ask me what is the motive. That is often the guiding light that leads one to a solution. But in this instance we have nothing. One cannot apply logic where there appears to be none.”
I was about to respond when there came another tap at the door.
“Surely, this cannot be Firbank returning,” I said.
Holmes shrugged and called to the visitor to enter. In walked a bedraggled youth with a grimy visage and muddied clothing.
“By all that’s wonderful, Wiggins!” cried Holmes. “You look as though you have been brawling in the street.”
“I wish I had. I’d ’ave come off better than I did with the kerbstone.” As he finished the sentence, his knees buckled and he sank to the floor. “Bleedin’ ’ell!” he cried.
“Quick, Watson, the brandy,” said Holmes, rushing to the youth’s aid and helping him into a chair.
“Sorry, Mr. ’Olmes,” he muttered. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“That’s all right, Wiggins. You have clearly been in the wars.”
Wiggins gave a half-hearted smile. “Not the wars, sir, just fallin’ off the back of a carriage.”
I pressed a brandy glass into his hand. “Take a few sips of that. It will help restore your equilibrium,” I said gently.
The boy’s smile widened. “I didn’t know I had any of that, Doctor,” he said, before taking a large gulp of brandy. “Phew!” he said, spluttering. “That’s fire in a glass, that is.”
Holmes smiled and returned to his seat. “Now then, Wiggins,” he said, “do you feel up to telling us all about it? You obviously have a rare tale to tell.”
Wiggins nodded and drained the glass. “I certainly have. It’s like this: I did as you asked me and set meself up as sentry at the nursing home down Camberwell way. Settled down in the bushes at the far end of the garden with a good view of the front door. There were a few comings and goings but nothing what you might call suspicious-like. Certainly there was no gent callin’ with all that hair and the large moustache as you’d mentioned, Mr. H. That is, not until around nine o’clock.” At this juncture, Wiggins produced a shiny pocket watch from his shabby waistcoat to give evidence of how he could be so accurate as to the time.
Holmes nodded appreciatively and Wiggins returned the watch to its safe lodging. “So, there he was. A big bloke with that hair and ’tache. I crept a little closer as he rang the bell so’s I could hear what he was goin’ ter say. The maid came to the door and he said he was a Dr. Dodd and had come to take that girl, Miss Ruth Marshall, back to the bosom of her family.”
“Did he, now,” said Holmes, an expression of dark amusement touching his gaunt features.
“He weren’t best pleased when he heard she’d gone. The maid gave him a letter. I don’t know what it said but it certainly made him mad and he screwed the paper up. Soon after he stormed off down the path to his carriage. Oh, yes, I forgot to mention he came in his own carriage. He was the driver.”
“Was he? Did you happen to see whether there was a passenger inside?”
“I did later on, yes. All I could tell you was that it was a man. It was dark and he was back in the shadows of the cab. He didn’t say nothing, or move at all as far as I could tell. Anyway, I knew I had to act fast. The hairy fellow was up in the driver’s seat in a trice, so I ran round to the back of the cab to get meself a free ride. I was sure as you’d want to learn where the cove lived.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes enthusiastically.
“Well, there was very little to grab hold of, but I managed after a fashion. I tell you, Mr. ’Olmes, it was a treacherous journey. My hands are red raw. And the blighter drove at such a speed. He went round corners as if he were in a race. I was nearly thrown off more than once. Then, of course, it did happen. We had just got into Knightsbridge when the carriage turned suddenly with such a ruddy sharp motion spinnin’ round a corner. Well, I lost my grip and my balance and I fell off, banging my head on the pavement and then rolling into a muddy puddle.”
“Oh, my poor fellow,” I cried.
“Indeed, commiserations, Wiggins. You have acted beyond the call of duty. I am most appreciative of your efforts.”
“But I let you down, sir. I didn’t get to know his address.”
“Do not fret about that. I am sure it will come to light in due course.”
“As I say, I didn’t manage to stay with him till he got to his lair, but I did get to put a mark on the back of the carriage so I’d recognise it again.”
“Did you, by Jove!” cried Holmes, rubbing his hands enthusiastically.
Wiggins beamed with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Yeah, I managed to put a big chalk mark on the back in the shape of a cross. If you see a carriage with one of those on, you’ll know you’ve got your man.”
“That is quite excellent, Wiggins. Deserving of another sovereign.” Sherlock Holmes reached inside his trouser pocket, extracted a gold coin and tossed it to the Baker Street Irregular.
“Ta. Very much obliged, Mr. ’Olmes.”
“No, Wiggins, it is I who am very much obliged. You have managed to provide me with essential information this evening. I am in your debt. Now, you say that when you were dislodged from the carriage you were in Knightsbridge?”
“Yes, just off the Brompton Road.”
Holmes made a note of this, scribbling details on his cuff.
“How are you feeling now?” I asked the bedraggled youth.
“Oh, I’m all right, Doctor. Nearly back to me normal self. But I wouldn’t mind another glass of your medicine to send me on my way.”
I grinned and obliged the fellow, inspecting him meanwhile to ensure that he had come to no serious harm. He downed the brandy in one gulp and got to his feet. “Well, gentlemen, if I can be of no further assistance…”
Holmes rose also. “You have done sterling work, for which I thank you. Go home now and get a good night’s rest. I will be in touch if I need you again.”
Wiggins grinned and gave a salute. “Right you are, guv. Happy to be of help,” he said, jingling his pockets, and then was on his way.
“Well, Holmes,” I said when we were alone once more, “it seems that your theory is bearing fruit. What a pity Wiggins was unable to hang on to the carriage until it reached its destination.”
“Yes, that is unfortunate. But the problem is not insurmountable. And we have the marked carriage to console us. It will give me some investigative work to carry out tomorrow. We know it is probable that our murderer resides somewhere in the Knightsbridge area. It should not be beyond the bounds of my ingenuity to discover the exact whereabouts.”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise at this statement. “Well, the haystack in which the needle is hidden is now considerably smaller, but it is still a haystack,” I observed.
Holmes chuckled. “Oh, ye of little faith, Watson. We shall see what the morrow brings. Black carriages with a large white cross on their rear are, I believe, a rarity in London. In the meantime may I suggest you go down to Mrs. Hudson’s quarters and check on your patient one last time before you retire.”
I did as requested and found Miss Marshall fast asleep. Her pulse and temperature were normal and her complexion had lost the waxen pallor it had when I first saw her. “She had some soup and a chicken salad for supper,” Mrs. Hudson informed me. “I think she’s really on the mend. We had a little chat earlier and she seemed quite normal. How long do you think she’ll be staying with us?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I cannot be sure. While the man who tried to kill her is still at large it would not be safe for her to return to her own quarters, or resume her role in the theatre. We have to catch the blighter first.”
“With Mr. Holmes on the case, that can’t be long, I imagine.”
I did not share Mrs. Hudson’s sanguinity concerning this complicated investigation, and so I merely gave her a weak smile in response.
It was time for me to leave. I thanke
d her heartily for her ministrations and then made my way up to my bedroom. In passing our sitting-room door, I could hear the melancholy strains of Holmes’s violin. He was obviously intent on keeping a midnight vigil.
Chapter Twenty
Gustav Caligari, too, was far from ready to retire to his bedroom. The anger that had taken hold of him when he learned that his plans had been thwarted – thwarted by none other than Sherlock Holmes – had festered within him like a canker. This fury, coupled with the frustration that he felt regarding the failure of that evening’s mission, wracked his body. It brought him physical pain, to such an extent that he was barely able to sit still. He paced the floor of his small consulting room, hands thrust deep into his pockets, muttering a mixture of dark thoughts and foul oaths.
“Sherlock Holmes!” he barked occasionally in his perambulations, as though the name were a curse. It was all Holmes’s fault that his plans had been thrown into disarray. Of course he knew the man by reputation. Which Londoner didn’t? Sherlock Holmes, the so-called brilliant private detective. He had a string of successful cases to his name. Criminals went in fear of him and the police were in awe of him. Well, I neither fear nor revere the scoundrel, thought Caligari, bringing his fist down hard on his desk.
Caligari had never contemplated for one moment that their paths would cross. He harboured no insecurities regarding Holmes, he was simply enraged that the fellow’s actions had disrupted his plans so effectively. His careful preparations to snatch Ruth Marshall and watch her die had come to naught – all because of Sherlock Holmes. The thought bore into his brain and he cried aloud in fury. Seizing a decanter of whisky from the sideboard, he snatched off the stopper and downed a long draught of the liquid straight from the neck, deliberately allowing it to burn his throat and make him splutter. Strangely, the discomfort caused him to smile.
At length he sat down, and in more civilised fashion poured more whisky into a glass before consuming it. Gradually, as the effects took hold, his temper calmed and he began to think in more rational terms. How was he to resolve his dilemma? What was he to do now? He strove hard to corral the various diverse thoughts that crowded his mind. He knew that he must be practical and logical in his actions – emotional decisions would only lead to disaster – but he was also very sure that he had in some way to ameliorate his disappointment. Once more, he turned his attention towards Sherlock Holmes. Whatever I do, Caligari thought, Holmes must in some way suffer and experience the sourness of failure and defeat. That damned fellow shall not beat me; I shall defeat him. At this thought he gave a small cry of satisfaction. Indeed, to cause deep discomfort to the Great Detective would bring him great joy and to some extent help to eliminate the pain he now felt.
Another glass of whisky passed his lips while he contemplated this premise. As usual, all must be secret. All must be conducted without giving the slightest hint as to the identity of the perpetrator, the supreme puppet master. He nodded sagely in his intoxication. But what was he to do? It was obvious that it would be foolish, and most likely fatal, to attempt to discover the whereabouts of Ruth Marshall and make a second attempt on her life. That would be too dangerous and might easily lead to exposure. Holmes would have her hidden somewhere. He was like a spider on his web, waiting for the unwary fly. He would have it all set up: an intricate and sophisticated trap.
Well, the devil Holmes would be disappointed. Gustav Caligari was not about to take on the role of fly, seeking to end Miss Ruth Marshall’s life once more. Mr. Detective Holmes could wait in the shadows until he rotted.
The cogs of Caligari’s mind, amply lubricated by the oil of alcohol, began turning swiftly and a fantastical notion came to him. Yes, of course, he would strike elsewhere, while old Holmes was playing guardian angel to Miss Ruth Marshall. He would effect a different kind of blow on his enemy. If he could not eliminate the wretched girl, he would pick the next best thing.
Caligari’s eyes brightened as he contemplated the possibility and his lips parted in a ghoulish leer. Of course, that was it. That was what he would do. This particular plan, which seemed to fall into place in seconds, would not only bring him enormous satisfaction but would bring great discomfort to that infernal meddler, Sherlock Holmes.
Caligari knew he must act quickly. Immediately, in fact. For his own sense of satisfaction, at least. The sooner he caused an upset in the life of that damned interfering detective the better. And it would be a very serious upset. It was not yet eleven in the evening and his plan was already formulated. He intended to carry it out that very night. By dawn, the deed would be done. His brain was sparking now. Energy, alcohol and hatred mixed in a potent brew to fuel his twisted imagination. The mechanics, he knew, were easy. Speed was of the essence. Within half an hour, Caligari had roused Robert and placed him in the carriage, and was traversing the midnight streets of London on his way to Paddington.
It was nearly one o’clock by the time he reached his destination: a smart road of small, respectable suburban terraced houses. They stood silent and dark in the delicate moonlight which beamed down from a cloudless sky. He pulled into a side street and tethered the horse. Inside the carriage, he gave his instructions to Robert once more, slowly and deliberately. There must be no mistakes this time. His puppet was to carry out his instructions whatever obstacles he might encounter. The somnambulist’s unblinking eyes stared into the darkness as Caligari’s forceful words registered themselves in his mind: “Go now. Go now and kill.”
Slowly, with stiff awkward movements, Robert left the carriage and made his way towards his destination.
* * *
Blanche Andrews was roused from a particularly pleasant dream in which she was visiting her mother’s house in Ireland and giving her a warm embrace. Despite the fact that her mother had been dead for seven years, the dream seemed so real. She felt the smooth skin of her mother’s face against her cheek and caught the faint smell of rosemary that always seemed to accompany her. And then some raucous commotion from downstairs propelled her into wakefulness. There was another sound, and she sat up in bed, at first puzzled rather than concerned. She strained her ears for further disturbance. There seemed to be none at the outset, but moments later, she heard a sound that sent a chill of fear through her whole being. Footsteps, moving up the stairs with a slow, heavy tread. Instinctively, she jumped out of bed, reached for her robe – and then stood frozen with fear. She had no idea what to do next. The footsteps grew nearer, and the handle of her bedroom door turned. She gave a small whimper of distress as she saw the door open, slowly revealing the intruder.
Standing before her was a tall, dark figure of a man who, on sensing her presence in the gloom, moved towards her with a strange, stiffened gait. The fact that she was unable to see his face made him all the more terrifying. She screamed, the sound quickly stifled by the strong fingers that clutched her throat and pressed hard on her windpipe. She tried to struggle. She tried to pull free of his grasp. She tried to fight back, but his grip was unyielding and soon she began to lose consciousness. A roaring sound, rather like waves crashing on the seashore, filled her ears, while a shifting, dark grey mist began to fog her vision. For a brief moment an image of her mother rose up before her eyes and then disappeared. It was at this moment that she knew she was about to die, and there was nothing she could do to prevent it.
Within seconds, Blanche had become like a rag doll in the hands of her assailant. Her head lolled backwards, her mouth agape, her thick moist tongue protruding. Robert hauled her limp frame over to the bed and laid it down, gently, on the rumpled bedcovers. For some moments he stared down at her. His features remained immobile but the eyes flickered brightly, indicating the vague pleasure that he felt – pleasure at carrying out his master’s instructions successfully. Then, from the inside pocket of his jacket, he extracted the sheet of paper that Caligari had given him and laid it down with great reverence on the chest of the corpse. Now his mission was complete, he turned quickly and left the room.
&nbs
p; Blanche Andrews lay dead on the bed, her sightless eyes gazing at the ceiling.
Chapter Twenty-one
From the journal of Dr. John H. Watson
I rose early and visited my patient, Ruth Marshall. She was well on the way to recovery. The colour had returned to her cheeks and she had lost that strained nervous manner she had exhibited when first I saw her. It seemed to me that she had blanked from her mind her unpleasant experience and was looking forward to returning to normal life and to the theatre. I was uncertain whether Holmes would allow her to do so before her would-be murderer was apprehended. As I left her room, Alan Firbank arrived to see her, carrying a large bunch of flowers. He also seemed in a far more cheerful frame of mind now that he knew Miss Marshall was safe and making a sound recovery. We exchanged a few pleasantries before I returned to our sitting room.
I found Holmes still in a meditative mood. Indeed, he eschewed any food or conversation and simply smoked his old briar and drank black coffee. I knew that on such occasions it was best to leave him to his own contemplations. He certainly would not welcome any attempts on my part to involve him in discussing the case. I had no wish to derail any of his trains of thought. Instead, I satisfied myself with a boiled egg and some of Mrs. Hudson’s excellent buttered muffins.
I had an instant before pushed my plate away and was contemplating joining Holmes in the first pipe of the day, when there came a heavy knock at our door and without waiting for a reply, our visitor entered. It was Inspector Lestrade. He seemed a ragged ghost of his usual self. In general, he was smartly dressed and tidy in appearance. This morning he presented a much-altered image. His tie was askew, his suit rumpled and his features haggard, with dark circles beneath his eyes. The growth of stubble on his chin, meanwhile, suggested that it had not seen a razor for at least twenty-four hours.
“Sorry to burst in on you like this, Mr. Holmes,” he said in breathless tones, “but there’s something you ought to know.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Instrument of Death Page 12
