Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Pigtail Twist

by M J H Simmonds

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” He smiled broadly, as we made pleasant introductions. “Why Mr Holmes, what a terrible business, I am sure. The good Lord has taken home a fine man. Judge not, I say,” he paused, and for a second looked very old and very sad. “But an earthly judgement must come to the fiend who ended my friend,” he declared, waving a finger in the air.

  “But I know you will prevail, for I have read your accounts, Doctor Watson, and Inspector Gregson has since confirmed to me their veracity. I believe God himself has brought you here to solve this mystery.”

  “No pressure then,” I muttered under my breath. “Please share all you know with my colleague and I can guarantee that he will not rest until he has solved this terrible crime,” I added, most presumptuously. Holmes, though, refused to be riled and merely raised an eyebrow.

  The vicar talked at length of the evening, confirming all that Colonel Fauwkes had said, adding much local lore and gossip, but little actual detail, to the night’s events. He was affable, learned and on any other occasion, I would have genuinely enjoyed his company. The more he talked, the more evident it became that his unlikely friendship with Harrison was real and built on genuine respect and affection.

  Mr. & Mrs. J. Banks-Wells

  Once the Vicar had left the room, I stretched my limbs and awaited our next witnesses. Joseph Banks-Wells and his wife Eleanor were the local landowners, their marriage had united the east and west sides of the valley to create a larger and more efficient estate. This had led also to several workers losing their jobs and a sense of resentment in the village. We had learned all of this from the vicar, for the Banks-Wells’ proved to be dull, unimaginative and somewhat unreliable witnesses. Their accounts generally matched those we had heard so far, but they struggled to recount even the simplest detail. Holmes dismissed them well before they had finished their full account.

  “Well there we have it, old boy,” I chuckled as the door closed behind them.

  “Have what?” Holmes asked looking unusually puzzled.

  “They are clearly the culprits. They bored him to death,” I sneered, most inappropriately.

  Holmes stared daggers at me before breaking into a wide smile. “Watson, please remember where we are,” he scolded, with mock sincerity.

  Hon. R. & Mrs. Wulf Fessington

  The local magistrate and his wife were much more congenial. The Hon Rodney Wulf Fessington was a bright legal mind from one of England’s oldest Anglo-Saxon families. His wife was similarly interesting, a gifted musician and a member of the then nascent women’s rights movement. He was tall with wild black hair and beard, she was blonde, slim and elegant, her small frame in contrast to her strong, fiery disposition.

  They were most keen to discuss the case. They had managed to put together nearly as much information as ourselves, via the other guests and some less than discreet constables.

  “So, we are really dealing with two problems here, aren’t we?” Wulf Fessington spoke, but both he and his wife together leaned forward eagerly, hungry for any new information.

  “Who committed the murder and how it was done?” added Mrs Fessington. “The who I am sure you will determine, but how on earth was it done? Strangled with a rope or cord, which then disappears? Has everywhere really been searched thoroughly? What about the glasshouse? Has every inch been searched?”

  “Inspector Gregson assures me that it has and the search is indeed continuing over old and new ground, even as we speak,” Holmes confirmed, before adding, “There are actually three problems. You have overlooked the most important question of all. Why was he killed? Know this and everything else should simply fall into place.”

  Despite their keenness, the Fessingtons added little additional detail, save confirming the returning order of the men to the drawing room and adding a little more precision to the timings of each.

  After the Fessingtons had returned to the drawing room, Greaves the butler kindly appeared with a tray of cooked ham, cheese and bread followed by young lady bearing cups, milk and, of course, a steaming pot of tea. My face lit up, but Holmes was singularly unimpressed.

  “Watson, we have no time for interruptions, we must hear from all of the witnesses while their memories are still fresh and clear. Every hour that passes will blur and alter the witnesses’ recollections as surely as any bribe or threat.”

  Dr. E & Mrs G. Pace

  Grudgingly I put aside thoughts of refreshment and asked the serving girl to send in Doctor and Mrs Ernest Pace. Doctor Pace was in his fifties, below average height and slightly rotund. His face was quite large, a wide nose above a small mouth. His hair was brown but streaked with much grey, large side whiskers completed a three-sided frame that gave the impression that he was always peering out of a sort of window. His wife was petite, dark haired, with small, pale features and arrestingly black eyes. She wore her hair up, held tightly in place with myriad pins. Despite her elegant dress, she looked uncomfortable and sat nervously with her hands tightly gripped together.

  “Good afternoon Doctor Pace, Mrs Pace. I hope you can help us by answering a few questions and giving as fine an account of the evening as possible,” I asked as graciously as I could, despite having asked the same question numerous times already.

  “Well, myself and my wife, Grace,” began the doctor, “arrived shortly after seven. We were met by our hosts and shown to the parlour where we were offered a glass of champagne, Pol Roger I believe, a ‘78.”

  However, I heard little else he said, as I had, I am mortified to admit, been struck by a fit of childish giggles over the poor lady’s name. Grace Pace. I picked up a napkin to cover my mouth and attempt to pass it off as a bout of coughing. I was growing rouge and close to bursting when Holmes showed, again, just how gallant and charming he can be if needed.

  “Aha I see,” he exclaimed with apparent delight. “A match made in heaven if ever there was one. Ernest Pace married Grace, an inspired and most poetic sounding match.” He beamed at the couple, allowing me to regain such much-needed composure.

  Mrs Pace was quiet, nervous and shy by nature, and I am sure that she cringed internally whenever reminded of her unfortunate name, but Holmes’ seemingly warm and genuine compliments seemed to put her at her ease and defused an otherwise embarrassing situation.

  I silently vowed to gift Holmes an ounce of his choice for saving me, and sat back to listen to Doctor Grace’s account. He was a wonderfully precise witness and seemed to know everyone’s movements down to the exact minute, but despite this we learned little new except for the fact the all of the previous witnesses had told the truth and had been as accurate as they could. The doctor also insisted on engaging me on topics ranging from my military service to the latest developments in surgery, a subject where I, shamefully, had to bow to the knowledge of a much older man, a country GP at that. Once again, I pledged to work harder to catch up with my increasingly fast-moving profession.

  This left the last three suspects, the mysterious professor, but first, the odd couple, Wergeld and Fairchance. Unexpectedly, Holmes asked for them to come in separately, the widow first.

  Mrs C. Fairchance

  Mrs Clarity Fairchance was a fine, noble figure of a woman. Tall, spare and dressed in a dark, unfussy style. She was perhaps in her middle forties, her face was handsome, pale but unlined, giving the appearance of an ageless porcelain doll. Her eyes were a deep, dark brown, and this all added up to give her a rather stern appearance. It was impossible not to think of our own dear Queen when observing this lady, one also resigned to mourning in perpetuity.

  “After previously showing little interest in socialising, what made you suddenly wish to attend this particular gathering at the Hall?” Holmes began, with little tact. “I know that you turned down several similar invitations when Harrison was newly resident here. What changed your mind?”

  Mrs Fairchance looked visibly taken ab
ack by Holmes’ direct manner, and her face reddened as she replied. “You are very impudent, Mr Holmes, but in this case you are quite right. I live a solitary life, quite by choice, I must add. Ever since my husband passed I have felt no compunction to associate with the world, and I have no interests in its inhabitants. My husband left me his hard-earned, careful investments, which give me a modest, but comfortable income. There is also a summer house that I let from time to time.”

  “So, enter Mr Jude Wergeld.” Holmes almost whispered the words. “And what do you know about your summer guest?” he asked, more brightly.

  “I can see that you already know that it was he who convinced me to take up Mr Harrison’s open invitation. He was charming, witty and very persistent, almost insistent. He said that he was from humble stock and had long dreamed of dining in such a place as Bedhurst Hall. But I appear to be telling my tale in reverse, Mr Holmes.”

  “Yes, do start at the beginning and please know that I appreciate your candour so far,” Holmes replied, returning to his usual gallant and charming sincerity.

  “It was only two weeks ago that Mr Wergeld knocked upon my door for the first time. He was smartly dressed, as you have seen, but he wore a great grey beard which he has since trimmed back somewhat. He said he was recently returned from the sea and desired a quiet place to spend the summer before returning to the Far East where he had several interests. He offered to pay for three months in advance, and I could hardly turn that down, could I?”

  “Of course not,” I said gently, before adding, “How did he learn about the evenings up at the Hall?

  “Well, he started attending church and had spoken to the vicar, several times. I suppose that is where he heard of them.”

  “And what of his character? Was he ever angered, or of violent temper?” Holmes asked.

  “Not that I witnessed, but he was certainly physically strong. I once mentioned that a large tree branch had broken off in a storm and was obstructing access to the garden. He strode outside, hoisted it over his shoulder and carried it over to the shed, where he chopped it up as firewood. It must have weighed two hundred pounds, yet he lifted it as if it were a new-born baby.”

  “Most interesting,” commented Holmes, leaning forward, his hands now together, fingers pointed and arched. “Has he received any visitors or communication, post or telegrams, while he has been at the cottage? Did he take a newspaper or write a journal that you knew of?”

  “My, Mr Holmes, you do ask an awful lot of questions, I am very tired and my nerves are shredded by this terrible ordeal. However, I appreciate your good intent and will help as much as I am able. The answer is no, to all of your questions. I am sorry to report no visitors, mail or any behaviour that was other than helpful and courteous. He is a rough man by appearance, certainly uncultured, but always honest and straightforward with me. But, of course, I have to add a caveat, Mr Holmes. I have known him only a few weeks, so my opinion is of only limited value.”

  “Mrs Fairchance you have been an admirable witness and I thank you.” Holmes gracefully dismissed the witness, rose and led her out gently by the arm.

  Mr J. Wergeld

  The mysterious lodger was the next to enter. Tall, well over six feet, he stooped to enter the parlour and stood obediently before us before Holmes offered him a seat. His face was browned by the sun and struck with deep heavy lines from hard weather and hard work. His features were squashed and indistinct, eyes deep set and dark from years of squinting at bright sunshine. This made it almost impossible to estimate his age, the ravages of years spent in harsh climates meant he could have been anything from forty to sixty. His hair started far back from his temples, a grizzled mass of grey and white swept backwards reaching well below his collar. He wore a thick, but trimmed, grey beard around a dark mouth, lips cracked and scarred by heat and drought. His clothes were simple but of superior quality, recently purchased and surely made to measure, considering the width of his shoulders and girth of his arms. He held his hat rather tightly, squeezing it out of shape with his enormous but stumpy looking hands.

  “Mr Wergeld, good evening,” Holmes began, for it was now after six. “Recently returned from the sea, a successful and profitable trip by the look of you. Decided to summer here alone before returning to whence you came. Please elaborate on what we already know, for your presence here as an outsider is going to be of considerable interest to the authorities and I will only be able to help you if your account is complete and honest.”

  Once again, Holmes’ directness seemed to catch the witness unawares and Wergeld blinked in surprise, before quickly recovering with a barely concealed scowl.

  “There is little more to tell. I grew up the East End and I did not have a bad life until cholera took my folks when I was but twelve years old. I spent the next four years in an orphanage before I left for the sea, learning my trade on various routes before settling down in the Far East in ‘48. I spent the next thirty years out there in Malaya, invested well in a rubber plantation, sold up and returned home. Well, it was home a long time ago, Mr Holmes. I have no family left here and no friends I care to seek out. It took only a few days to realise that there is nothing for me in England. Damn place is cold, unwelcoming and joyless.”

  “I was of a mind to return to the East on the first available passage but I heard, quite by chance, of a cottage for rent in a picturesque village just an hour north of London. I may not look it sir, but I do have some education and I have often entertained a fancy that one day I would write an account of my life, my struggles, my,” here he paused, his gaze distant. “Ahem, my struggles and my eventual success.”

  “And you thought that a cottage in Bedden would be an ideal place for you to write this account,” I agreed, approvingly. “Well, as an amateur writer myself, I have to agree that this is the perfect setting, both attractive and quiet, there is certainly little around here to distract a budding author.”

  “And what made you decide to leave this bucolic isolation and socialise with the landed classes up at the Hall?” Holmes inquired.

  “Well, and this may well sound silly to the likes of you, but I have always hankered after attending a grand ball or feast at a real proper mansion or royal palace. Once I heard, at church, of Mr Harrison’s monthly dinners and the open invitation he had given to my landlady, then I knew I finally had my chance. It may not be Windsor Castle, but it was more than I could ever dream of. So, I shamelessly spent every moment I could trying to persuade the Widow Fairchance to accept Mr Harrison’s invitation, with myself as her guest.”

  The remainder of Wergeld’s statement matched that of the other guests in almost every detail. Once finished, he waited, sitting bolt upright, until Holmes politely dismissed him, raising his substantial bulk and shuffling out of the room.

  Prof. J. Seaworthy

  Our final witness from the dinner party entered briskly and told his account with great energy and enthusiasm. Professor Jacob Seaworthy was an almost perfect witness, he confirmed the order of events, their timings and added many details and observations, even including a theory of how the murder might have been committed.

  “Lianas!” he ventured, excitedly. “He grabbed a liana and strangled the poor fellow. Then he simply threw it into the fire, oh no that does not work, summer and all that, ah yes - he threw the liana back into the foliage. After all, what is it, a liana? Just more foliage to a searching police gentleman. Or, he buried it! Ha-ha! Have I got it Mr Holmes?” he positively beamed.

  “Professor, you certainly have an inquiring mind,” replied Holmes, “and your enthusiasm is commendable, although somewhat at odds with accounts of your character that I have previously received.”

  “Ah, Mr Holmes, I am a dry academic, more used to discussing Euclid than murder. I see a new puzzle rather than a dusty old equation of old. I cannot deny that it has, despite the sadness of the occasion, stimulated parts of my mi
nd long laid dormant. I hope I have given no offence.”

  “Oh, far from it, Professor, an active mind is a disciplined mind,” Holmes agreed. “However, I am sorry to say that I have to dismiss your theory, despite it being one that had also occurred to myself.”

  “Yes, I have to say that I also imagined this same scenario whilst in the glasshouse,” I interjected. “But before I put my theory forward, I had to have a good look around and it was soon apparent that there were no lianas, or indeed anything similar, growing anywhere in the building. I even imagined the possibility of roots being used, but the ground was hard and undisturbed. There were no signs of anything having been dug up.”

  “Well said, Watson, so nothing was buried either. I need add only one thing. The ligament used was at least half an inch in diameter, no less. No root or tendril present here is of the correct size or strength to have been used in the murder. Nor has any carpet been de-threaded, no tapestry sliced, no human hair woven to produce the killing rope. It is none of these things. The method of murder is, so far, unknown to me.” Holmes’ eyes were cold and dark with steely determination.

  I could see that Holmes’ mind had moved on to other things and after a minute or so I apologised to Professor Seaworthy for my friend’s sudden silence and said that he was free to return to the drawing room.

  Seaworthy looked admiringly at Holmes, but said nothing. The Professor appeared to be strangely satisfied with himself. He rose, nodded politely to each of us, smiled, and left without saying another word.

  Chapter Three - An Evening Inn

  We sat in silence for a good twenty minutes. I dare not interrupt Holmes, he was totally motionless, in another place, analysing, calculating, speculating and deducing. He alternated between studying the police notes and staring into space. Although the only sound present was the tick of an ornate gilded ormolu mantel clock, I could somehow feel the pressure in the room steadily rising. It reached a crescendo when Holmes suddenly moved, reaching for a pencil and his sheaf of notes. He scribbled furiously for a further ten minutes, covering several sides of paper before calling loudly for a constable.