“Both,” admitted Armoise. “Firstly, I had devil of a time breaking into a small wooden chest, which turned out to be reinforced with iron rings. Then, unexpectedly, I had to justify my presence in the deceased’s office. My explanation, that I was looking for some ink with which to complete the death certificate, was perfectly plausible and was accepted without question, although it did take a while for the elderly butler to search the office and finally locate some.”
“And so we come to the final irony. A plot born from decades of resentment and planned meticulously over many years was thwarted for a lack of the one thing that you seemed to have in spades. Patience.” Holmes now looked triumphant, as energised as I had ever seen him. “You had waited months for the right set of circumstances to fall into place. A late night call was received and your plan went ahead, flawlessly. How could you have imagined that, just two weeks later, the exact same set of variables would again slip into perfect alignment?”
“This one time you chose greed over caution. You were so confident from your earlier success that you failed to see the one thing that would cast suspicion on your whole pernicious plan. Coincidences in life are rare. Coincidences in crime are a shining beacon of suspicion. If you had left it another six months, I am certain no one would have ever made a connection, but two weeks? Even the simplest observer could see that something foul was at work here.”
“Well that’s quite remarkable, Mr Holmes,” remarked Lestrade, finally. “But what about the occupant of the third cell? What should we do with her?”
“Her? Who is this, Holmes, another associate?” I asked.
“Sometimes, even I make erroneous assumptions, Watson. What we took for a servant at Armoise’ house was in fact someone much closer to him.”
“Do you mean a relative, like an aunt perhaps?” I guessed.
“Possibly even his mother. But Lestrade can ascertain that little detail. What is important is that I believe that she is the key to finding the lost jewellery - find the property that I am sure she owns and there you will find the stash.”
Holmes stood up. “Well, I think we can leave the rest to you, Inspector. Come, Watson, we must return you to your rooms, you look like you could do with some rest,” he grinned.
By the time we arrived back at Baker Street the sun had almost set. Just a few red veins of wan light traced the underside of the low-lying clouds as the inky blackness descended upon London. We ate a light supper then settled down for a quiet smoke before we took to our beds.
“Holmes?” I asked, breaking the silence. He looked up, accepting the interruption. “Can you explain these paths that you had to choose from? And how could you have chosen both?”
“Oh, that is quite straightforward, my good fellow. I had just learned, at that point, that the two doctors were related but I had yet to decide upon which one to concentrate, Wormwood or Armoise, who was the most likely to be the killer?”
“So what did I do to help, exactly?” I asked, still somewhat perplexed.
“Not did, Watson, said,” Holmes answered with unusual warmth. “You admonished me for not sharing my theories and suspicions. This formed a connection in my mind. What if the two doctors were themselves sharing? Could they be working together? Then, like an avalanche, the rest of the evidence fell into place. Therefore, I had to pursue them both equally, I had to take both paths.”
Despite Holmes’ best efforts, both doctors were found guilty of premeditated murder, conspiracy and theft and thus sentenced to hang. Their mother, as the old lady indeed turned out to be, escaped the rope, but I am still not sure if sparing her might, in fact, have been the cruellest punishment she could have received.
Case 6: The Unfortunate Bookmaker or The Wrong End Of The Stick
Saturday 17th May 1884
I was woken by a bright shaft of light, which seemed to be aimed directly at my face. I could see nothing, save for its glare, searing my waking eyes, until I had moved sufficiently away from its blazing rays. I looked up, gingerly, to see that my bedroom curtains had been partially and, it seemed to me, deliberately opened.
A gap had been precisely left, but not in the middle where one might have expected. The left hand drape had been bunched up so that it covered only the first twelve inches or so of the window. Then there was the wretched gap, no more than two inches wide. The right hand curtain was stretched as far as it could be, further even, for there was an inch or two of glass on the right hand side that was now uncovered. This was clearly of little importance, as the sun breaking through here lit up nothing more than my dull walnut wardrobe. I sighed as I realised who was undoubtedly responsible and dressed resignedly for the day.
“Seven o’clock and 10 minutes,” declared Holmes, as I entered our sitting room. “A little off, but a reasonable effort given the tools I had to work with.”
“Did you really calculate the path of the rising sun with such a degree of precision that you used it to wake me at a predetermined hour? How on earth did you determine where the gap in the curtains should be? To be honest, Holmes, I was rather irritated at first, but now I must confess to being rather impressed, old man.” I smiled and sat down at the breakfast table.
“A field compass and a few simple equations were all that I required,” Holmes explained casually, and with more than a hint of false modesty. “If I hadn’t been working in the dark at the time, I believe I could have done better.”
“The Sherlock Holmes Patent Silent Alarm Clock!” I chuckled. “Fascinating and ingenious, but not much of a market for it outside of 221B Baker Street I would wager.”
“But anyway, Holmes, why the early réveille?” I inquired as I poured myself some dearly needed coffee. “You already look exhausted man, this marathon crime-solving mission that you insist upon is doing you real harm. When did you last sleep or have a decent meal?”
“That is of no relevance, Watson, what matters now is the work.” Holmes sipped at his coffee, his eyes dark and deep-set, his face cadaverous and his lips all but devoid of colour. “And anyway, in this case we literally have no choice but to act immediately.”
“What is so pressing that it cannot wait until Monday? At least take the weekend off, for the sake of your health, and mine too for that matter!”
“We must visit the morgue this morning Watson. The body is being released to the family at midday. I estimate that we can reach Scotland Yard, once you have had an adequate breakfast, before nine, so that leaves us about three hours in which to examine the corpse and question the officers involved.”
“The morgue? What body? I am sorry, Holmes, but we have dealt with so many cases this week that I am afraid I simply cannot recall which crime it is that you are currently referring to. I had hoped, in all honesty, that you had solved the lot of them by now and we could finally take a day off.” I made no attempt to hide my petulance.
“I am not expecting this to be a difficult case so fret not, Watson. Why, we may even be finished in time for a late luncheon in town.”
Holmes moved to his armchair, lit his nasty black clay with a twig from the fire and waited for me to finish eating. I am slightly ashamed to admit, now, that from that moment I was deliberately somewhat more than leisurely in consuming my repast.
The journey to Scotland Yard was unremarkable. Holmes was unprepared to speculate about the case, so my complete ignorance of the circumstances continued as we passed through the quiet Saturday morning streets. The sun was bright but the air was still chilly and we appreciated the blankets provided in the open-fronted Hansom.
After about twenty-five minutes, we pulled up outside the familiar building, standing upright and sturdy as always against the ever-rising tide of London crime. We entered and headed straight for the morgue.
“The Inspector will meet us there as soon as he can,” informed Holmes, when I asked why we had not first stopped at Lestrade’s
office.
The room was whitewashed and brightly lit, a welcome change from the dark horrors of the charnel houses I had endured whilst in service. The body had been laid out on a mortuary table awaiting our inspection. This was a man in his mid-forties, I would estimate, average in height and of a stocky build, rather heavy around the waist. His hair was dark and slick, combed back from the temples and held in place by the heavy application of pomade.
Holmes got to work straight away, examining the body closely, at first with his naked eye, then after with his magnifying glass. After only a few minutes, he stopped, stretched his long, lean frame and moved his attention to the victim’s clothes and belongings, which were strewn untidily upon the adjacent table. I now had my first close look at the body.
Even from a distance, it was clear that the poor man had been beaten viciously to death. His body was covered in ugly dark welts and bruises, and it was clear that several bones in his arms and legs were fractured, along with numerous ribs. Up close, the injuries were nothing less than horrific. His head and face that had been subjected to the most sustained and brutal assault. The nose was smashed flat, cheekbones shattered and all of his front teeth were missing. His left temple had been hit so violently that it was now a three-inch concave depression. Undoubtedly, this was the blow that had killed him.
“A frenzied attack with a heavy blunt weapon,” I stated, finally breaking the silence. “A monstrous assault. This was vicious, Holmes. It must have been personal or otherwise the work of a madman.”
“Very good, Watson, but I think in this case your first instinct is the more likely.”
Holmes turned to address me directly.
“This is a refreshing challenge, Watson. Almost a blank sheet, nothing for us to work with but physical evidence. We know but two things. The victim was a bookmaker and that he was beaten to death. However, both are facts and indisputable. No unverifiable and unreliable witness statements, no crime scene trampled by over-eager constables. Just what we have here, before us.”
“Well I am glad that you are happy, but I see nothing but a poor victim of a terrible assault, a pile of his clothes and a few sad belongings,” I countered.
“So, what do you make of his clothes and belongings then, Watson? What do they tell you?”
“The suit is of a very good quality tweed, traditional country style but recently tailored. His boots and gloves are of similar quality and vintage. This was a successful man, as is attested by the contents of his wallet, no less than forty pounds in notes. Well at least that means we can eliminate robbery as a motive for the murder.”
Holmes nodded his silent approval.
“He was also carrying a few coins in change, a fine gold half hunter pocket watch, two keys and a silver hip flask with a matching cup, also of silver. These usually sit upturned on top of the flask, a stirrup cup I believe it is called. These last two seem to have taken a fair few blows. The cup has been beaten almost flat.”
Holmes smiled, “Well said, and now, I think, I hear the unmistakable approaching footsteps of our good friend, the Inspector.”
A moment later, Lestrade appeared looking flustered and impatient.
“Make it quick please, Holmes. If you somehow know the identity of the killer, please share it with me.”
Lestrade paused, composed himself and took a deep breath before continuing.
“No, I am sorry, I apologise. After all, you have done for us this week I have no right to make such demands of you. But what am I thinking, I haven’t even shared the details of the case with you.”
To my astonishment, Holmes casually announced, “Do not worry Inspector, I already have the solution. But I’ll leave the minor details, such as the murderer’s identity, up to you to ascertain.”
Lestrade was understandably flabbergasted, as was I.
“Come on, Holmes, this is no time for your twisted sense of humour. A man has been horribly murdered and our friend here needs your help,” I admonished.
“A thousand apologies, my dearest friends, but I meant no joke,” Holmes declared, most earnestly. “I merely wish to pass onto friend Lestrade that which I have discovered.”
Lestrade sighed, and then smiled. “Even if what you now recount is fevered nonsense brought on by overwork and lack of sleep, it will not change the fact that you have helped us in solving five cases in as many days. I am ready to listen, Mr Holmes.”
I nodded in agreement, already regretting my outburst.
“We thought that the killer had left no trace of himself, nothing to identify him.” Holmes had clearly been unaffected by our doubt-ridden interruption and continued his summation untroubled. “On closer inspection of the evidence, I have determined that this is not the case.”
“Look at the victim’s belongings. Watson listed them as well as any casual observer might have,” Holmes continued. “I, however, examined each of them in as much detail as, is here, possible and I discovered something curious.”
“Well, go on, Holmes, don’t keep us in the dark now, for heaven’s sake. The victim’s family will be here shortly and the morticians still have to dress and make the body presentable,” Lestrade entreated.
Holmes moved to the table where the poor man’s clothes and chattels lay. “The answer lies here amongst the sad detritus of this poor man’s life. At first impression, it appears to be a collection of goods that any well-to-do man might have carried. I had closely inspected all of the items, but kept being drawn back to the silver stirrup cup. Something about it troubled me. Once, twice and finally a third time I studied the flattened silver cup with my glass. Then, I finally saw what had subconsciously raised my suspicions.”
“Go on, Holmes, what was it?” I urged.
“The hallmarks Watson, the hallmarks.” he declared, triumphantly.
“What about the blessed hallmarks, Holmes?” Lestrade pleaded, fatigue again wearing at his patience.
“They do not match!” Holmes declared. He picked up the battered silver flask and motioned us to come closer.
“This flask was manufactured in Birmingham, the anchor is quite clear, by Josiah Holt and Co.” Holmes held up the flask. “The year was, let me see, lower case ‘d’, ah yes, eighteen seventy eight, some six years past.” He lowered the flask to the table and picked up the flattened cup. He took out his pocketknife, opened the shorter blade, and began to prise apart the sides of the battered object where it had become folded flat.
“Ah yes, that’s better,” he said, after having worked the little cup into a more three dimensional state. “Now we can see the hallmark, here. London, capital ‘A’, eighteen hundred and seventy six. The maker’s mark is unclear to me due to some damage sustained in the attack, but I believe an expert could still identify it from what remains.”
“But what does that mean?” I asked.
“It means one of three things, gentlemen. One, the flask and cup were matched together by the retailer, who then sold them as a set to the victim. Two, the victim himself came across the items separately and combined them himself. Or three, the two items do not belong together at all.”
“But that would surely be an unimaginable coincidence, would it not? A man dropping his own silver cup at the scene of a crime where he himself has battered his victim’s silver hip flask? That cannot have happened, it is incredible, preposterous even.” Lestrade shook his head, clearly disappointed with Holmes’ reasoning.
“Almost, Inspector, but not quite. You see, now that I had suspicions about this cup, I examined it in minute detail with my pocket lens. Two things became apparent. Firstly, the lip of the cup is rather rough for a drinking vessel. It would not cut you, but you would certainly notice its slightly uneven edge against your lower lip when drinking from it. Secondly, it has two very small indents, one on either side, about three quarters of the way up the side. These are too small, a
nd too even, to have been formed during the assault.”
“So, what does this mean, Holmes?” I asked. “Are you suggesting that the cup may not actually be a cup after all? If so, then what on earth could it be?”
“The answer is in the hallmark. Once you have found an expert to identify the manufacturer, Inspector, then you will have definite proof, but I think I can be confident in my prediction of what that answer will be.” Holmes was now smiling.
“This is not a cup at all, you are quite right, Watson,” he announced with considerable swagger. “This is a ferrule from a walking stick. A stout and heavy stick, almost certainly freely adorned with silver decoration. Ebony would be my guess, the weight of which would certainly account for the destruction it inflicted. During the furious attack the ferrule was dislodged.”
“Do you mean the metal fitting at the bottom of a cane?” asked Lestrade, incredulously. “Well it is the right shape, and if the bottom of the stick was stout enough it would closely resemble a small cup.”
“The lip of which would not need to be as fine or smooth as a cup,” Holmes furthered. “The marks on the side are from where a blunt nail has been hammered in to help fix the ferrule in position.”
“It would be a very expensive stick to have had a silver ferrule fitted. There cannot be many manufactured in London and, of course, we know the year it was made. If we can ascertain the maker’s name we might be able to track down the very man who commissioned it,” I added excitedly, finally realising where Holmes’ deductions had been leading.
“Can we leave this with you now, Inspector? I am sure you will feel happier now that you can inform the victim’s family, when they arrive, that Scotland Yard is hot on the trail of his killer and close to making an arrest.”
Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Pigtail Twist Page 6
