Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Pigtail Twist

by M J H Simmonds

  “But it seems that on the day the plan was not quite as successful as they had hoped,” I added. “Hence the need to improve the forged signature afterwards. It was too faint, they must have made an error with the ink flow.”

  “Very enterprising, I am sure, but the results were really rather amateurish in the end. I have no illusions as to my own abilities, yet even I saw that something was amiss with the signature,” I declared with some satisfaction.

  “Most certainly, my dear Watson, but think upon this: would you have challenged the will had there not been a contradictory document present itself almost simultaneously?”

  “I suppose not,” I admitted, with a sigh. Holmes was quite right, of course. Unless there is a specific reason for doubt, we do accept all manner of signed documents to be genuine without a moment’s thought.

  “Well, in this case, at least, we can reveal a falsification and endorse the opposing will as genuine.” I tried to sound upbeat despite Holmes’ continued dark countenance.

  “And that is where you fail, sadly, my dear friend. You have examined only a part of the picture, but once you discovered an anomaly, you made the worst possible mistake. You stopped looking altogether.”

  “Well, what more do you expect?” I replied, feeling somewhat put upon. “Surely the matter is resolved.”

  “How about this then?” Holmes waved the second will in a thin, white, bony hand. “You have yet to inform me of your observations upon this document.”

  I shrugged. “Other than a few drops of wax towards the bottom, it seemed perfectly normal - a clear, crisp signature, no obvious signs of foul play.”

  “Did anything strike you as odd regarding the wax droplets?” Holmes asked, clearly enjoying himself.

  I asked for another look under Holmes’ glass and, after a few minutes examining the page, I suddenly announced, “Some of the drops are not complete. They have a sharp, horizontal upper edge as if something has cut through them. They appear to be,” I lay a ruler across the page, “and indeed are, in a perfect horizontal line about four fifths of the way down the page.”

  “Caused by?” Holmes asked, patricianly.

  “Something else covering the page? Wait, I have it Holmes!” I declared. “Another sheet of paper was laid over this one. It must have been the text of the original will. In the candlelit gloom, the old fellow and the witnesses would not have noticed that he was, in fact, signing a completely different sheet of paper. As the old man struggled to read in the half-light, a candle was brought closer and the wax has dripped on the area where the two sheets met. They were quickly pulled apart once the signature was completed and, as the wax was still soft, this left a straight edge to the top of the droplets that remained. Why, it is an even simpler subterfuge than the first fabrication.”

  I was momentarily shocked by the ramifications of our discoveries, but soon composed myself.

  “So they are both fake, how extraordinary. I suppose the poor old fellow was too ill to realise much of what was going on and simply signed whatever was put before him. What a contemptible bunch of relatives he had.” I shook my head, disgustedly.

  “Greedy, duplicitous and very much the masters of their own downfall,” added Holmes, with a glint in his eye.

  “How is that? They very nearly got away with it. If we hadn’t been called into investigate -” I stopped, suddenly, the light beginning to dawn. I began to laugh, long and loudly.

  “Indeed, dear Watson. If only some of them had not been so avaricious then they would probably have got away with the deception. But they were all covetous of the inheritance and formed two groups, each without knowledge of the other. They used whatever artifice they could muster and each produced a will favouring their own interests. Once satisfied with their spurious documents, they each deposited them in the family safe, completely unaware that a competing party was doing exactly the same.”

  “Once the two contradictory wills were discovered, it was inevitable that they would be investigated and subjected to extreme scrutiny, far more so than had there been only the one. As they would both bear a very similar date, there was no way that they could be mistaken for a will written some years earlier and a later one that superseded it,” Holmes continued. “One simply had to be a fake. That, along with the abominable behaviour of the beneficiaries, alerted the police and, ultimately, ourselves to their little chicanery.”

  “Hoist with their own petard?” I ventured.

  “See, sons, what things you are,

  How quickly nature falls into revolt

  When gold becomes her object,” Holmes concluded.

  Case 5: “Cura te ipsum” - Physician, Heal Thyself

  Friday 16th of May, 1884

  By the time I had risen and dressed for breakfast the following day, Holmes had already visited Scotland Yard, learned what he could about his next challenge and returned to Baker Street. He threw off his hat and coat and sat down with me at the table, which had already been set and was awaiting our presence.

  “Well, this is a problem with a little more substance.” Holmes declared, after we had called down for coffee for the both of us, along with rashers and eggs for myself. There was little point in wasting good food by ordering it for Holmes when he was so deeply immersed in a case.

  “Two suspicious deaths, Watson, alongside two burglaries. For once, Scotland Yard do already have a suspect in custody, however, they are struggling to build any sort of case against their captor. With no physical evidence of any kind, they will shortly be obligated to release him.”

  Holmes looked gaunt after the week’s exertions but his eyes shone brightly with fierce determination.

  “Well, regardless of any help Lestrade may require in this case, I would prescribe complete rest for yourself for at least a day or two, but you seem quite determined to drive yourself to a breakdown. The best I can hope for is that you will solve this case as quickly as you have the previous ones this week. Then you can eat some proper food and put your feet up for a while,” I snorted, as discouragingly as I could manage.

  I deliberately avoided direct eye contact with Holmes, as I was certain he would see that I was, of course, secretly loving every minute of these investigations.

  “A time for everything, Watson. Now is the time for dissemination and reflection upon what I have so far learned. Would you be good enough to sit with me, share a pipe and give me your thoughts?”

  We moved to more comfortable seating, filled our pipes and Holmes began.

  “Even by the standards of central London, Belgravia and its surroundings are home to a measure of such wealth it is almost impossible to calculate. However, its affluence does not make the area immune to crime, the very opposite in fact. The risks may be high, but the rewards available to a skilled and determined criminal must be very much greater, indeed.”

  “You mentioned murder, that’s about as temerarious as you can get,” I interjected. “But, one moment Holmes, I do not recall hearing of any murders in Belgravia recently, and certainly not of any double murder. Surely such an event would be national, nay international, news for the area is home to numerous foreign embassies and high commissions.”

  “Quite correct, Watson. The murders have yet to be publicly reported as such and as things stand, at this moment, are unlikely ever to be so described. I believe the Duke, himself, has made it very clear that unless, and until, charges can be levelled with a realistic chance of conviction, any suggestion of murder in this case will remain resolutely unreported.”

  “Luckily, our old friend Lestrade was more than happy to share with me all of the known facts, such as they are,” he continued. “Two elderly, wealthy, men have been found dead in the past month. They both appeared to have died during the night, and each was pronounced dead before nine the following morning. In the first instance, the exact cause of death was never determ
ined and it was simply put down to old age, in fact, very little detailed examination of this body was carried out.”

  “That is certainly not unusual in cases where the patient was of advanced years,” I concurred.

  “It was only later, when some extremely valuable pieces of jewellery were found to be missing, that suspicions were raised. After hearing of the second death, a friend of the family made contact with the family of the second victim. They soon realised that the circumstances were remarkably similar in both cases. By good fortune, this friend was a former officer in the Mounted Military Police and he quickly and ably informed Scotland Yard as to the details of the situation.”

  “In both cases the elderly victim had been visited on the fateful night by the same Doctor. A minor ailment was diagnosed and a sedative was administered to aid the patient’s sleep. The next morning, the patients were found to be unresponsive and a physician was quickly summoned. The victims were pronounced dead shortly after the doctor’s arrival. It must be noted that, in both cases, the physician who attended in the morning was not the man who had treated the patient the night before.”

  “I don’t like the sound of where this is leading,” I admitted. “A doctor gone rogue is a terrible danger to anyone around him. I take it that he is the man in custody. What do we know about this egregious fellow?”

  “His name is Ambrose Wormwood, no criminal record, not much record to speak of at all. Studied medicine at the Université de Poitiers in France, graduated in seventy-seven. Moved to London four years ago and joined a practise as its junior doctor, covering mostly late night call-outs. His colleagues all speak well enough of him, although due to his unsociable hours they have had precious little direct contact with the fellow himself.”

  “What did you make of him, yourself? I am sure that you persuaded Lestrade to let you speak to him.”

  “Indeed so. He is still a young man, maybe four and thirty years of age, of average height, clean shaven with slicked-back jet-black hair. He was wearing exactly what you would expect from a doctor: black frock coat, dark trousers and white shirt. His ascot tie was fixed in place with a gold tiepin. He has dark, deep-set eyes, which reveal little expression even when questioned at length. He speaks clearly and crisply, when he speaks at all. He is extremely reluctant to engage with his interrogators, save to protest his innocence and the unlawful nature of his detention.”

  “Sounds like a man with something to hide,” I concluded. “But I do have one question, Holmes, was the doctor who called the following morning the same man both times?”

  “Indeed he was, and that is also something worthy of note, I am certain of it.” Holmes exhaled a swirl of blue-grey smoke, which coiled and lingered in the air.

  “Now, let me tell you how they came to arrest this Wormwood character,” Holmes continued. “Lestrade, after being told in no uncertain terms to be discreet in his investigations, had formulated a really rather ingenious little scheme to catch the villain in the act. He had ordered that the doctor, that is Wormwood, be followed. He also had his surgery closely observed, especially so in the evenings and at night. When the doctor was called out late, they followed him from a distance until they discovered his destination. Of course this was not always such an affluent address as Belgravia and when arriving at such locations, they held back and watched from the shadows.”

  “Then, one night, when Lestrade himself was following the physician alongside a plainclothes sergeant, they saw their man enter a luxurious apartment block on Park Lane. They followed him inside and identified themselves to the concierge who confirmed that an elderly resident had indeed been taken ill and had called for a doctor about an hour earlier.”

  “So, they caught him red-handed, bravo Lestrade!” I declared, rather prematurely.

  “They caught him, alright, he was in the very act of injecting an unknown substance into the poor old man’s arm when they burst through the door. They immediately arrested and handcuffed him, shouting down to the concierge to call for another doctor. But it was too late, the old man was already unconscious. Lestrade waited until the replacement physician arrived and then left in a Black Maria with the suspect. They interrogated him overnight but he never once strayed from his story. He was an innocent doctor who was simply helping a sick old man to get some much needed sleep.”

  “A ghastly tale of a learned man gone badly wrong,” I sighed, sadly. “But surely Lestrade has his man, what is the problem?”

  “The problem, my dear fellow, is what raises this case from the mundane, though unpleasant, to the singularly intriguing.” Holmes’ eyes twinkled with excitement.

  “At three o’clock the following afternoon, the victim awoke from his sedation, seemingly none the worse from his ordeal. At around the same time, confirmation was received that the drug administered to the victim was nothing more than what Wormwood had claimed it to be, a standard tranquiliser, used the world over. The house was carefully examined and nothing of value was found to be missing. A thorough search of the doctor and his medical bag revealed nothing out of the ordinary and, more significantly, nothing that might be used as a poison. What’s more, even after his house had been almost torn apart in a search for the items that had been stolen previously, the police found nothing at all to show for their efforts.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” I began, hardly able to take it in. “I see now exactly what you mean. Poor Lestrade, he must be desperate. But, for the sake of fairness, I must ask, could this man actually be innocent? Could it all just have been a series of improbable coincidences?”

  “Much as I hate to admit it, it is a possibility. It is certainly not impossible, so it cannot be ruled out entirely. But every fibre of my being cries out in protest against this hypothesis. Coincidence? If coincidence it ultimately proves to be then, my dear Watson, I will retire immediately to the South Downs, where I shall keep bees!”

  I could not help but release a roar of laughter at this totally unexpected outburst of humour.

  “Watson, really, this is a serious matter,” scolded Holmes, but he could not completely hide a subtle smile.

  I recovered enough to give voice to a thought just occurred, “What if he knew that the Police were onto him? Maybe he had realised that he was being surveilled. I mean Lestrade is one thing, but how do we know that the other officers were as discreet in their pursuit?”

  “Again, Watson, you make a good point, but Lestrade was adamant. He had used only his very best men, those with prior experience of surveillance operations. He also swears that the doctor appeared to be genuinely shocked when interrupted and certainly panicked when they rushed in to arrest him. The doctor also then increased the pressure upon the syringe to ensure the complete transfer of its contents into the patient. No, we must proceed under the assumption that he was not expecting such an intervention.”

  “Then we have reached an impasse.” I stretched, then inhaled and tamped at my pipe, reinvigorating its burning heart.

  “Not quite. Would you care to join me in a brief sojourn?” asked Holmes. “I would like you with me when I question the doctor.”

  We flagged down a Hansom in Baker Street and set off through the busy lanes towards the river. I was surprised to hear Holmes give our destination as Kennington Lane, Vauxhall.

  “I thought we were going to see Wormwood?” I asked.

  “I said we were to interview the doctor, you concluded too quickly as to which doctor,” Holmes corrected.

  Our cab made its way along the fine avenue that formed the border of Westminster and Pimlico until we reached the Vauxhall Bridge, the first iron bridge to be built over the mighty River Thames. We continued for a further fifteen minutes or so before finally alighting on a pleasant side street in the shadow of the great Oval Gasometers. Holmes paid the driver an extra shilling to wait for our return.

  A small, white haired lady of advancing years i
n a grey dress, wrapped in a white apron, answered the door and led us silently to a small sitting room where we waited to see the doctor. The room was furnished with good quality matching mahogany furniture, several decades old judging by the style, but all in excellent condition. On the walls were various paintings of landscapes from around Europe. I recognised the Matterhorn and what looked like the Swiss or Italian lakes. After a few minutes, a distinguished looking gentleman entered the room.

  “Doctor Armoise, delighted to meet you,” Holmes began. “I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague Doctor John Watson. We are currently helping Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard with his inquiries regarding the Belgravia incidents of the past few weeks,” Holmes continued quickly, before the Doctor could reply.

  “We wondered if you might take a few moments from your understandably busy schedule to answer a few simple questions?” He sounded almost casual. “Splendid,” he announced, again before Armoise could answer. “Do you mind if we take a seat? Excellent.”

  Holmes sat down on the nearest chair and gestured that I should do the same. The now puzzled looking doctor moved behind his desk and seated himself in front of us.

  “How can I help you, gentlemen? I have told the Inspector all I know which was, quite frankly, not very much.” The man was approaching his sixtieth year but straight-backed with a healthy looking, slightly olive, complexion. His hair had once been black but was now streaked with grey and high at the temples where it had begun to recede. He wore it quite long, swept back until it reached down several inches below his collar. He was dressed in a dark morning jacket and grey trousers. Around his neck, he wore a rather exuberant cravat of multi-coloured silk held in place with a gold tiepin bearing a simple but unfamiliar crest.