Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Pigtail Twist

by M J H Simmonds

  Lestrade smiled, without much humour.

  “I think I would rather hear what you have been up to since you left this morning in such a hurry. I cannot be giving it all to you on a plate, can I?”

  “Very well, Inspector. I had already told Watson on the journey over here that I was prepared to share with you all that I have learned and so I shall.”

  “The solution, as I told Watson as we were examining the property of the alleged victim, is remarkably simple. So simple, that even I almost overlooked it.” Holmes spoke confidently, but with no hint of superiority.

  “I first became aware that something was not as it seemed when we were shown the alleged burglar. Although, unlike you Watson, I was not entirely surprised by his physical appearance, we did both notice his singularly inappropriate footwear. How could a man climb a drainpipe wearing such heavy cumbersome shoes? You had the beginnings of the solution when you suggested that he may have left them behind altogether. However, you failed to take this theory to its ultimate logical conclusion.”

  “You see, my dear friend, you were quite correct when you suggested that the shoes never left the ground, but then neither did anything or anyone else!”

  I was both taken aback and puzzled by Holmes’ exclamation.

  “I could see quite clearly, even from ground level, that the pipe was perfectly straight, the paint unmarked and not a single screw had been pulled from the wall,” explained Holmes.

  I was gobsmacked. “I don’t understand. Then how were the jewels taken?” I implored.

  “They never were, there was no burglary, was there?” interrupted Lestrade. “But if that is so, then how do you account for the evidence, the footprints?”

  “All part of an elaborate set-up, Inspector, designed to allow a quite separate nefarious act to occur unnoticed. Did the countenance of our poor accused not strike you in any way as unusual? Doctor, surely, you must have suspected something?”

  Holmes looked upon me with barely concealed disappointment.

  “Confusion, lethargy, lack of coherent communication? I could go on.”

  “Of course, he was drugged! I am sorry, Holmes, it has been a long time since I practised medicine, but there is no excuse for missing those symptoms.”

  I felt my face redden and anger grow from deep within. What a fool I had been. I resolved, then and there, to get back up to speed with my much-neglected profession.

  “Whatever he was given, it must have been pretty strong to still be in his system this morning,” I added, trying desperately to be helpful. “Whoever is responsible is fortunate not to be looking at a murder charge.”

  Holmes nodded his agreement and continued. “The poor man probably came to the side gate of the house hoping for charity from within when he was accosted. His boots were then taken and used to create the impression that he was standing below the open window. Then it was simply a matter of taking the unconscious man to a quiet place nearby where he would not easily be discovered.”

  “But what of the jewels, Holmes?” asked Lestrade. “We found them secreted on his person.”

  “A calculated risk was taken here. The man had been hidden and the jewels placed deep in the pockets of his old trench coat. The assailant now had to lead the police to the criminal at precisely the right time, long enough for him to have at least begun to regain consciousness, but not so long that he might wander off, never to be found. I suggest he achieved this by keeping the poor beggar under surveillance, while also giving ever-growing hints to the police to guide them closer to where the faux intruder was slowly waking. That he managed both, speaks of a man of extreme intelligence, cunning and resourcefulness.”

  “Couldn’t he simply have kept him secured at the property and taken him outside once he had begun to recover?” Lestrade asked.

  “Quite possibly, Inspector, but adding the risk of him being discovered at, or around, the house by a member of staff, to those already being taken would surely be too much and also leave absolutely no room for an innocent explanation, if he were to be discovered.”

  “I see, it appears that we are now, if not quite on the same track, then at least moving in the same direction, approaching the same destination,” replied Lestrade, somewhat confusingly.

  “Without having access to your new information, I have to, grudgingly, conclude with speculation, rather than fact,” admitted Holmes, candidly.

  “There can be but one suspect. Samuel Galton is the only person capable of perpetrating this deceit but, alas, I have to yet to obtain absolute proof of his guilt or indeed his motive. Of the latter, though, I do have considerable suspicions.”

  “Well, I understand how he might be responsible, Holmes, but I fail to see a motive,” I admitted. Lestrade and I both looked towards him for expansion.

  “It has been argued that there are only three possible motives for any one crime. Love, money or power. This must be about money. Well, that’s enough from me for now, I feel we would now be better served by hearing the Inspector’s contribution rather than any more of my aimless conjecture.”

  Lestrade straightened up, looked briefly at the first page of a small pile of papers before him, and began.

  “Very well. What I am sharing with you now is an incomplete and unconfirmed report, so be prepared for details, even major ones, to change at any time.”

  “At around ten o’clock last night, there was an ‘accident’ at the electrical supply plant at Holborn Viaduct. It seems that one of their top engineers spilled a large amount of water onto a live electrical cable and, well, I think you can imagine the results.”

  “How ghastly, the poor fellow,” I remarked. Electricity was a modern wonder, but certainly not without its dangers.

  “Yes, indeed, but it is the identity of the engineer that is of interest. His name was Rufus Pemberton Lythe. The younger brother of a certain Mr Edgar Pemberton Lythe of Chelsea. Well, what do you make of that?”

  Holmes raised an eyebrow, paused for a few seconds to ponder this new revelation, and then spoke.

  “It seems that this case may be darker than we had imagined. But it does at least confirm what I suspected, young Galton seeks control of the family fortune.”

  “Earlier today, I made some discreet inquiries into the state of the Pemberton Lythe family finances,” Holmes continued. “What I discovered is that a considerable amount of money has accumulated in a charitable trust. This pays out to good causes, on the approval of its two trustees.”

  “Sounds like perfectly normal and decent behaviour from an old and well-respected family,” I commented.

  “Indeed. Both brothers had added considerable sums to this trust, as both had been successful in their chosen fields; Edgar in banking and his younger brother in engineering. However, neither man had married, so there appeared the thorny issue of inheritance. At present, the fund is designed to default to the state upon the death of the last trustee. Young Galton clearly has his beady eyes set upon the trust fund. He appears to be rather profligate and careless, prone to wasting large sums on gambling and questionable women.”

  “But if the money is in trust, how could he gain access to it?” asked Lestrade.

  “I believe he saw his ailing Uncle as his way in. If he could persuade him that he was no longer fit and able to look after the trust, then he might pass his authority over to the younger man. It is a quite straightforward procedure, it simply requires his retirement from the trust and the drawing up of a new deed of appointment.”

  “And he attempted to do this by faking the burglary, to shake up the poor sick old man,” Lestrade added, taking up the narrative. “He thought the shock would make him more amenable to an offer, to lighten the burden of his responsibilities. Good heavens, he might be working on his Uncle even as we speak.”

  “He did say he was busy with important legal matters when
we visited earlier, I thought he was just being short with us,” I suddenly remembered.

  “Of course, there was still the issue of the younger brother - he would have, in effect, a total veto on any decision Galton may try to make regarding the trust,” said Holmes, sombrely.

  “And, as a decent man, he would never allow Galton to syphon off any funds for his own lurid activities,” I added. “So, he needed him out of the way, permanently.”

  “Precisely, Watson. And this, it appears, is just what he has done.”

  “It certainly seems that way,” agreed Lestrade. “But how did he do it? Electricity is tricky and volatile, how could he ensure that he would not also be electrocuted?”

  “Here we are back into the realms of conjecture, but I do have a theory that fits all of the known facts. Watson, do you remember Galton’s footwear?” asked Holmes.

  “Why yes, they were those new athletic shoes, the ones with - of course - the ones with the rubber soles! He knew enough about electricity from his uncle to know that he would be safe standing on an electrified wet surface as long as he was separated from it by a layer of rubber.”

  “The Liverpool Rubber Company has actually been manufacturing rubber soled footwear for over ten years,” Holmes corrected, “but otherwise you are quite correct, old friend.”

  “Well, bravo, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson. On this occasion I can honestly say we have all had a hand in solving the crime,” Lestrade beamed.

  “But to what effect?” Holmes’ face took on a very serious aspect. “He has, I fear, achieved his aims and we do not have a shred of real evidence against him. No proof at all. Any half-decent barrister would have the case thrown out within a day. And then sue, successfully, for damages to his reputation too, I venture. No, he has beaten us, for now, but we must keep a close watch on this young fellow. He will either rise quickly in the criminal underworld or be brought sharply to his end by it. Which one of these comes to pass will, at least, be of some interest to me.”

  “Well it is late enough in the day for a drink. Would you gentlemen care to join me?” Lestrade stood up and gestured to the door. “Tomorrow I will see what I can do about releasing the beggar. I think a few hints that we are onto him might make Galton more sympathetic to a dropping of the charges.”

  Holmes declined Lestrade’s offer, stating that he had other business that needed his attention. I, however, was happy to join the Inspector for a pleasant hour in a nearby public house. The place appeared to be wall-to-wall police, and Lestrade was clearly at home here, something of a big cheese, holding court amongst his colleagues. I imagine his regular patronage here was the perfect antidote to a day spent in the perpetual shadow of the intellect of Sherlock Holmes.

  Postscript

  You will be pleased to know that, under Lestrade’s pressure, all charges against the poor beggar were dropped. In fact, to his credit, the Inspector even went so far as to get the old fellow some light work at reasonable rates. Galton never faced any charges for his wicked crimes, but he may well have had to face a far higher authority, shortly after.

  Holmes kept a keen eye on Galton’s activities from then on and announced, only three months later, that he had sailed to America. Holmes contacted the local authorities to warn them of his diabolic character. The reply was as singular as it was unexpected. The passenger manifest confirmed him as having boarded in Southampton but no one of that name had disembarked in New York. At first, we suspected some subtle subterfuge, but nothing further was ever, officially, heard of Samuel Galton. The trust remained untouched and was dissolved some years later, its wealth going, as was always intended, to the state.

  Case 4: A Clash of Wills

  Thursday 15th of May 1884

  I slept late into Thursday morning. The activities of the previous day had left me exhausted. When I finally rose, I found that I was alone, so called down for a very late breakfast. By the time I had finished what I believed to be a very well earned meal, it was already well past eleven o’clock.

  As Holmes had left no note or other instruction, I decided that the day was my own, so I mentally planned the simplest of afternoons. I dressed and left for a walk in the nearby Regent’s Park. The sun was already near its zenith and, though it was still unusually cold for May, the sunlight warmed my face and eased the sense of disappointment and failure that I had felt regarding the previous day’s adventure.

  It was mid-afternoon by the time I returned to Baker Street. I climbed the stairs and entered the sitting room to see the familiar figure of Sherlock Holmes sitting in his usual armchair. His knees were raised so that his feet perched on the edge of the chair cushion. He had replaced the long dark coat he wore outside with his comfortable mouse-brown dressing gown. He was deep in thought and appeared not to notice me as I entered and divested myself of my hat and coat. He had in each hand a piece of paper, about eight by twelve inches in size. The paper looked to be of a good quality, heavy in weight and buff in colour.

  “Legal documents?” I ventured, breaking the silence.

  “Very good, Watson. Yes, and indeed, no. Legal, or not legal, is the precise question I have to answer.”

  Holmes failed to elaborate on this, so I poured us both a drink and sat down opposite.

  “These must be the wills mentioned by Lestrade on Monday, that much is clear,” I stated. “But I have to ask, in what way is this Police business? Any argument over the validity of a will is up to the civil courts to decide, not a Scotland Yard Inspector, surely.”

  Holmes stopped staring at the sheets, looked up, and smiled.

  “No, but the breach of the peace these two little documents caused was quite within his remit. Apparently, some pushing and shoving amongst rival family members escalated into a veritable free-for-all when the family solicitor discovered that two opposing wills existed.”

  “So, one must therefore be a fake or forgery, but how did you come by them?” I asked.

  “Friend Lestrade asked me to take a look to see if I could ascertain which was the imposter. And, if forgery it is, then we are firmly back into the realms of the criminal.”

  Holmes put the paper aside and reached for his stygian clay pipe, filled and lit it. Large plumes of tobacco smoke filled the air.

  “It was an interesting challenge, while it lasted, but now I have nothing left to do but report back to the good Inspector.”

  “Do you mean you have solved it already? In that case, I cannot imagine that the forgery was of a very high quality. Would you mind if I took a look?” I asked, grinning.

  Holmes ignored my mild teasing and handed both pages to me.

  I examined each, carefully, trying to spot any tell-tale signs of foul play. The wording of the wills themselves was fairly standard, both seemingly being based on a popular legal template. The main difference between them was, of course, the list of beneficiaries. What stood out most plainly, was that not one name appeared on both lists. This troubled me and I said as much to Holmes.

  “Good old Watson,” he replied. “You see the first major clue. Now, can you find the others?” he challenged with a faint smile. I was now the one being teased.

  I studied the papers intently for a further ten minutes or so. I rose and moved closer to the bay window to utilise all of the available light before giving them a final close-up examination with the aid of Holmes’ magnifying glass. I passed them back to Holmes who raised an eyebrow and awaited my conclusions.

  “The signatures do appear to be almost identical at first glance, but when you look closely at this one,” I pointed to the paper now in Holmes’ right hand, “it appears to be less distinct, somewhat fuzzy around the edges, as it were. And if you look very closely, the ink seems to be denser in the centre of each individual stroke, as if someone had gone over the letters with a very fine-nibbed fountain pen, probably one of the recent American models. In fact, if you an
gle the document to the light you can see that the only actual impressions onto the paper are the extremely fine marks scratched by this thin instrument.” I felt rather pleased with myself as I was certain that I was on the right track and looked to my friend for confirmation.

  “Watson, well done old chap, your abilities increase daily,” Holmes declared. “I cannot fault your observations so far, but can you deduce the rest of the process used to create this, really rather amateurish, fabrication?”

  “That is where I think a better mind than mine will have to step in.” I sank back into my chair and sighed, resignedly.

  “But this time it really is child’s play, almost literally in fact,” laughed Holmes. “When you were a young boy did you never paint or draw in ink then fold the page over to create a mirrored double of the image?”

  “Yes of course, how simple,” I exclaimed, but I was halted by a thought that occurred almost immediately. “But that would not work, the signature would be back to front, a mirror image as you said. And what about the witnesses? Surely they would notice papers being folded and pressed.”

  “Yes, but if you add some cunning, practice and a degree of resourcefulness, it becomes possible to imagine how this little imposter could have been created.”

  “Imagine a rocker blotter, quite normal in appearance to the casual observer, but with the thick absorbent blotting paper replaced with a thinner slightly glossy sheet. Add the darkened room of a dying old man and a fountain pen tampered with to increase the flow of ink. It would take a little practice to master the routine, but once perfected it would be almost impossible to detect.”

  “Using a sharp blade, it is possible to prise open up the two parts which form the very tip of the nib of a fountain pen,” continued Holmes. “This increases the flow of ink. Trial and error would ascertain the ideal level. The genuine will would be presented for signature in the dull candlelit bedroom. The will would be signed and no one present would bat an eyelid at the careful blotting of the wet writing. Neither would they notice the peculiar way in which it was returned to the writing desk, placed down firmly, rocked from left to right. This would leave a very convincing copy of the signature at the bottom of a completely blank page, the rest of which was hidden beneath the many other documents which covered the desk.”