“I gathered as much from your rather dramatic entrance,” observed my friend, languidly. “Do take a seat, Lestrade, while you get your breath back. Watson, be a good chap and pour the inspector a cup of café noir. I can see that he needs something to help him keep awake. He has been up since the early hours of the morning involved in some terrible crime.”
“How d’you know that?” Lestrade asked, slumping down in the wicker chair near the fire. “Go on, amaze me.”
Holmes smiled. “Your unkempt appearance indicates that you dressed in a hurry. By the state of your collar, I should say that was yesterday’s adornment, reached for as you were roused from your slumbers. Your tired features suggest worry and lack of sleep. Why would a police inspector be dragged from his bed in the small hours other than to investigate a serious crime? Obviously the incident is terrible and mystifying, otherwise you would not be calling on me in such a distressed state.”
“I am not in a distressed state,” the policeman protested. “I am just a little… nonplussed.”
Holmes and I exchanged knowing glances.
I passed Lestrade a cup of coffee, which he received gratefully.
“Tell us all about it,” said Holmes, sitting back in his chair and steepling his fingers.
“There’s been a murder in Paddington. A young woman strangled – very much in the same way that Lady Damury was dispatched. She had those sharp indentations around her throat that you pointed out to me before – marks from long fingernails.”
Holmes’s eyes flickered with keen interest.
Lestrade continued. “A constable on night duty was passing the house and saw that the front door was wide open. On inspection, he discovered that the lock was broken and a forced entry had been effected. He made his way into the building to investigate further and on the upper floor he made the terrible discovery. In one of the bedrooms he discovered the body of a young woman. She was laid on the bed and the savage marks around the throat indicated that she had been strangled. But that was not all. There was a sheet of paper lying on the woman’s chest with a message from the murderer.”
“A message. Indeed. What did it say?”
In response, Lestrade pulled a sheet of paper from his overcoat pocket and passed it to Holmes. “You can read it for yourself,” he said.
Holmes did so and gave a gasp of surprise. He handed the note to me. I read the scrawled handwriting with shocked amazement:
Sherlock Holmes is to blame for this.
“What can it mean?” I asked.
“Search me,” muttered the inspector, shaking his head.
“Tell me,” said Holmes, “what was the address where the girl was murdered, and this note found?”
Lestrade consulted his notebook. “Forty-seven Robin Terrace, Paddington.”
Holmes clapped his hands with what I can only describe as pleasure. “That is the address where Ruth Marshall lodges. The young woman’s name?”
“Blanche Andrews.”
Holmes nodded.
“Blimey,” cried Lestrade. “Did he think he was having another go at the poor girl?”
Holmes shook his head. “No, no, not all. It very much looks as if our killer, in frustration at failing to end Miss Marshall’s life, decided to settle for the next best thing: to murder her fellow lodger.”
“You’re not serious,” cried Lestrade.
“Oh, but I am. We are dealing not only with a cunning and clever murderer, but one whom I am convinced is also mentally unhinged. This message alone indicates as much. It is a tit-for-tat reply in return for the note which I left at the nursing home.”
Lestrade scratched his head. “What note at the nursing home? I’m confused.”
“It scarcely matters at this moment, but the claim that ‘Sherlock Holmes is to blame for this’ clearly indicates that the murderer sees my involvement in the case as a great obstacle to his plans. The fact that I removed Miss Marshall from his clutches and prevented his second attempt on her life frustrated him greatly, and he saw killing someone close to her as his revenge on me.”
“That is grotesque,” I observed. “If what you say is true, the fellow is a madman.”
“Probably so,” agreed Holmes. “That does not help our case, for it is not easy to anticipate the machinations of such a mind. I fear that my involvement with the case may well have made matters worse.”
“How do you make that out, Mr. Holmes?”
“I seem to have given him another purpose, a focus for these killings. I fear there will be further deaths, accompanied by other notes taunting me.”
“Well, if you are right, something must be done about this at once.”
Holmes gave a wry smile. “But what? Who can say where he will strike again? It would seem that all he requires is a vulnerable female to satisfy his blood lust, and there are thousands in this city of ours. He may strike again anywhere, or at any time.”
At this pronouncement we all fell silent for some time. At length, Lestrade rose from his chair with a loud sigh. “Well, I’d better get on with my duties – and keep my fingers crossed that you come up with some idea of how we can track this blighter down.”
“I will do my best,” said Holmes.
After Lestrade had departed, I sat opposite my friend and asked quietly, “Is it really as hopeless as you indicated to Lestrade?”
Holmes stared at me for some moments before replying. “Nil desperandum, my dear Watson. Nil desperandum.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Gustav Caligari stared down at the comatose figure of Robert, who lay like a corpse, hands crossed over his chest, his bloodless face ash-white in repose.
“You have done well. Superbly well, Robert. You have made your master very happy,” Caligari intoned with repressed glee and laughed. It was the eerie gurgle of an unstable mind. Slowly he leaned over and took hold of Robert’s two hands in his. He caressed them as a lover would his paramour. “You have brought such joy into my life, Robert. You have fulfilled my dreams. We have achieved a wonderfully dark greatness and we shall go on and achieve more. I am the genius and you are the instrument of my success.” He bent forward and kissed each finger before replacing Robert’s hands upon his chest.
“I shall let you rest for a few days while I ponder my next move. I need to concoct an even more challenging death to frustrate and humiliate Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” He laughed again, in the strange high-pitched fashion that he had developed in the last few days. Reality was gradually being obscured by the shadows of his madness.
He moved downstairs to his tiny sitting room, poured himself a large glass of wine and began to think. “Sherlock Holmes,” he murmured to himself several times. He must learn more about this supposedly brilliant detective. Only that way could he be fully aware of the man’s weaknesses and vulnerable points. Such knowledge was essential if his next murderous project were to succeed. The glass drained, he replenished it to the brim and raised it in a toast. “To Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he intoned. “May God have mercy on your soul – for I certainly shall not.” And then he gave another grotesque laugh.
* * *
Caligari’s investigations into Holmes’s career were fruitful. He read copiously about the detective and learned quickly how he operated. The hypnotist came to believe that he could reclaim the upper hand by setting a trap to ensnare the interfering sleuth. A new plan was swiftly engendered and the following afternoon, Caligari stood in a small empty office in Cedar Court, off Marylebone High Street. It was a dusty, cramped little room devoid of fixtures and fittings but Carruthers – the young, arrogant land agent – knew all too well that the office was situated in a prime area of the city. He had no need to make apologies for the cobwebs and peeling wallpaper. Its location at the hub of the West End would sell it to this prospective client without any effort on his part.
Caligari explained that he would need the premises for only one month, and when he had been quoted the exorbitant rent he nodded, accepting the terms without demur. It w
as an investment which would bring him a great deal of pleasure.
“May I ask for what purpose you intend to use these premises?” asked Carruthers, extracting a contract from his briefcase.
“You may ask,” said Caligari.
Carruthers looked blankly at him, faintly unnerved.
Caligari smiled at the young man’s discomfort. “I shall be running a medical practice.”
“Just for a month?”
“Indeed. Just for a month.” He produced an envelope from his overcoat pocket and handed it to Carruthers. “Here is the agreed fee in cash. There is no need to count it. I can assure you it is correct. Now if you will pass me the contract, I shall conclude this transaction and be about my business.”
“Why, yes,” said Carruthers, stuffing the envelope in his briefcase and passing the document to his new client.
Caligari signed the contract and handed it back to Carruthers.
“Thank you, Mr. Rubenstein,” the young man said, scrutinising the name. “Here are the keys. The place is now yours for the next month.”
Chapter Twenty-three
From the journal of Dr. John H. Watson
After consuming a selection of the assorted dottles from the mantelpiece in the black clay pipe which was his favourite counsellor, Sherlock Holmes retired to his room without a word. I knew that at this stage of the investigation, I could be of no real assistance to my friend. It was at the time of action that I could best provide support, and so I planned to visit my club for the day. I thought that a change of atmosphere and possibly a game of billiards might help refresh my brain and allow me to gain a new perspective on this most challenging case.
I was about to retrieve my bowler, coat and stick from the hat stand in preparation for my departure when Sherlock Holmes returned to the sitting room. I say that Holmes returned, but that is not quite accurate. A shifty-looking soul, stooped in posture and dressed in a dark, shabby overcoat, shuffled into the chamber. He wore a battered billycock with grey whiskers spreading down either side of his face almost to his chin. His cheeks were rubicund, as was his nose. The figure looked for all the world like a fellow who was down on his luck and sought solace in drink.
“Morning, guv’nor,” he croaked, raising his mittened hand to his hat in a mock salute. I had seen many of Holmes’s disguises over the years, but this was surely among his most convincing. Had I encountered this sad creature in the street, I may well have passed him a small coin out of sympathy, but I would never have recognised the decrepit wretch as my old friend. I could not help but laugh out loud and applaud the miraculous transformation.
Holmes stood erect and smiled. “You approve, then?” he said cheerfully in his own voice.
“Better than Irving! Your own mother would not recognise you.”
“Such a creature as I have become, one of many similar unfortunates in this city of ours, may pass along its streets virtually unnoticed. I am one of the miserable scraps of humanity who have no perch in society and so are ignored by its more fortunate members. My disguise will allow me to move freely and invisibly while I carry out my investigations.”
“And what are they?”
“I am to visit Knightsbridge and search its streets and byways in search of a carriage with two hooks and a white cross on the back. Yes, yes, I know, old friend. Your metaphor concerning that needle in the proverbial haystack is already trembling on your lips; and, indeed, you may well be right. But one has to try. I am well aware that it only takes a zealous coachman to have cleaned the vehicle and we are lost. However, when crumbs are few, as they are in this case, one has to rely on persistence and luck.”
I nodded in firm agreement. Holmes was right. When times were desperate, desperate measures must be employed. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Holmes shook his head. “Not at the moment. You go and enjoy your day at the club.”
“How did you know that was my intention?”
“You have slipped our copy of The Times into the side pocket of your jacket. It is a habit of yours when you go to the club – an insurance that you will have something to read in case their copy is already in the hands of another member.”
“Of course. Well, happy hunting. I will see you this evening.”
“That you will, sir,” Holmes replied in his adopted hoarse whisper, assuming his bent posture. And with another feeble salute, he shuffled out of the room.
* * *
My day at the club was dull. Certainly the visit did not achieve its aim. My mind kept returning to the strange and puzzling case in which we were involved. To me, the mystery seemed impenetrable, and it preyed on my mind. I ate a light lunch and then I was joined in the bar by my old friend, Thurston. Later we engaged in a game of billiards, but my concentration was so poor that he had no trouble in thrashing me soundly.
Wearily, I returned to Baker Street around five in the evening. I called in on Mrs. Hudson and found her sitting by her cheery fire, chatting to Ruth Marshall. The young lady now appeared to be much recovered. She had dispensed with the attire of the sick bed and was dressed in a dark green velvet costume. She looked charming.
On seeing me, she beamed brightly and immediately began to question me as to when she might return to her lodgings. She was very eager to resume her normal life, but I could see from the dark shadows beneath her eyes and the pallor of her complexion that she was still far from being restored to full health and vigour. I knew that I must not alert the girl to the news that her fellow lodger had been killed. The revelation could easily send her spinning back into a distressed state. It was equally clear to me, however, that even discounting this terrible incident, it was not safe for the girl to leave Baker Street as long as the killer was at large. I made the point in the gentlest and least dramatic terms, emphasising that it was with her safety and best interests at heart that both Holmes and I believed that she should stay under our roof a little longer.
Somewhat reluctantly she accepted my argument, but I could see that it made her unhappy. She was a young woman on the brink of an exciting acting career and she wanted to be getting on with it. She had no real knowledge of the nature of the twisted individual who had made one attempt on her life, or the threat that he still posed. Holmes was certain, I knew, that, given an opportunity, the devil would try again. While in Baker Street, under our watchful supervision, she was secure; that was the main thing. Assuring her of our best attention, it was with some relief that I made my way up the seventeen steps to our sitting room.
Holmes had not yet returned, so I sat patiently by the fireside smoking a pipe and awaiting his arrival. Around seven, I heard his familiar tread on the stair and moments later, the old derelict entered the room with a heavy sigh. Despite his make-up I could see that my friend was weary and his expression gave me little hope that he had achieved any success in his venture.
“Pour me a brandy, old chap,” he said in his normal voice. “I’ll just dispose of this character and be with you in five minutes.” It was nearer a quarter of an hour before he returned to our sitting room, wrapped in his mouse-coloured dressing gown. All signs of his assumed persona had disappeared and the fine gaunt features were unadorned by greasepaint and whiskers. Taking up the glass of brandy I had poured for him, he flung himself down in his usual chair opposite me. “As you may gather from my demeanour, Watson, my efforts have been fruitless. I have travelled every street, road, avenue and cul-de-sac within a mile of where Wiggins was dislodged from the carriage. I was looking for premises that might house such a carriage or, if I was fortunate, the carriage itself. I was not fortunate enough.”
“Well, it may be that the villain was only passing through Knightsbridge, and his destination was further afield.”
“Of course, of course. And if that is the case your haystack has grown to tremendous proportions.” He took a sip of brandy and sighed.
“Where does this leave us?” I asked.
“In a very precarious situation. There are no clues to
help us. We are in the dark. I think tomorrow I will seek Lestrade’s permission to visit Paddington, the scene of the recent murder. It is possible I might find something there that will help to light our way to future action.”
“We can but hope,” said I.
“Sadly, hope is the best we have at present,” responded my friend wearily.
In all the cases that I had been involved in with Sherlock Holmes, I was unable to remember a time when he appeared so despondent and frustrated regarding his lack of progress. Both of us, I believed, harboured the dark thought that this investigation might not move forward at all until there was another victim.
* * *
The case took a dramatic and unexpected turn the following morning. We had breakfasted early and were preparing to see Lestrade when there came a loud, insistent ring on our doorbell. I gazed out of the window and observed standing on our doorstep a tall, stout man wearing a fedora and large black overcoat with an astrakhan collar. I had not seen him before and I assumed that he must be a potential client. When I conveyed the information to Holmes, he groaned.
“That is the last thing I want now. My mind and time are completely devoted to this baffling murder case; I cannot take on other considerations.”
“Well, at least you can see the man,” I said. “A fresh challenge may in some way help your thought processes…”
Holmes gave a sarcastic bellow. “Sometimes, Watson, you talk the most utter rot.”
Before I was able to respond there came a gentle knock on the door. Holmes raised his brow in resigned frustration. “Enter,” he cried.
Our visitor was the man I had observed on the step moments earlier. He was well-built, with a pugnacious expression and startling blue eyes. His complexion was coarse and his face had a fine layer of perspiration on it, which I suspected was a permanent feature. He whipped off his hat to reveal a large head with cropped hair, which was beginning to grey at the temples.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Instrument of Death Page 13
