Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Pigtail Twist

by M J H Simmonds

  A moment later a young, fresh-faced lad appeared, his new uniform still slightly stiff from lack of wear. “Take this immediately to a post office. The details are all there, charge the wire fees to Inspector Gregson,” he ordered. The young constable blushed but took the handful of sheets and left at speed.

  “Are you planning to share your deductions with me, Holmes?” I asked, resigned to a negative response.

  “Why, of course Watson. But not here and not right now. I must speak briefly to friend Gregson, then we shall return to the Inn for supper. I observed the local butcher leaving the Inn as we arrived and, judging by the fair being taken from his cart, I would wager that fresh suckling pig is on the menu.”

  Holmes did indeed speak to Gregson for several minutes and they agreed that the gathered witnesses could all return home. I overheard Gregson suggest that a plain-clothes man should be stationed by the outsiders’ residences. Holmes agreed, rather reluctantly though, I thought.

  We returned to the village in one of Harrison’s dogcarts. The evening was warm and the sun had not quite set, its rays still sending out a warm golden glow that enveloped the trees and surrounding countryside. The hills and valleys appeared alternately pools of light and dark until we descended into tree-lined tunnels of darkness and finally into the village itself just as the sun dipped below the gentle hills.

  An hour later, we were dining on delicious young pork with local vegetables, simple food but, in all honesty, as fine as many of the meals we were later to partake of in far more celebrated eateries.

  “This is rather good actually, Holmes, don’t you think?” I asked, trying to start a conversation.

  “What was that, Watson?” Came the rather uninterested reply. “Oh, the food, yes, most pleasant, if a little plain.” He returned almost immediately to his thoughts.

  “Well, I am going to discuss the case, with myself if necessary, but please feel free to join in at any time,” I declared, somewhat moodily. Holmes simply raised an eyebrow before continuing to poke at his meal, eating little.

  “Is there anyone we can discount from suspicion? Or can we, at least, put them in some sort of order of probability?” I began, regardless.

  “Starting from least likely, I would first suggest the vicar, he had no motive and he seemed to be a genuine friend of the victim. Then the Banks-Wells’. Again, there is no motive I can see, they already have considerable wealth and seem to lack any sort of ambition or imagination whatsoever. The Doctor and his wife do not seem capable of physically carrying out such an assault, neither the Professor. As for the Magistrate and his wife, I really cannot see them being killers, although I think we need to take a closer look at some of the Honourable gentleman’s records, to determine whether he has ever crossed paths with Harrison in a legal capacity.”

  “The Professor seems to be a bit of an eccentric but otherwise harmless, hardly killer material,” I continued. “Now we get to the ones that I believe demand further inquiry. The Colonel himself, of course, must be a suspect, he knows the house better than anyone else - but what does he gain from Harrison’s death?” Then a sudden thought hit me. Embarrassingly, it was one that really should have occurred much earlier.

  “Who stands to gain, who inherits the estate? Have the police located Harrison’s will? Of course! Once we have the will we should have a much better idea of motive.” I sat back, satisfied that I had made some progress, albeit by a somewhat circuitous route.

  “Very good, Doctor, I commend you for finally imparting something of interest.” Holmes finally broke his silence, rather acerbically. “A copy of the will has not yet been found in the house but we will have access to the original tomorrow when it arrives with Harrison’s solicitor from London.”

  “I must also take issue with some of your reasoning. It is not generally a bad idea to rank suspects in order of probability, but only after you have gathered as much information as you possibly can. For example, you dismissed Wulf Fessington, but had you noticed his finger and waistcoat?” Holmes asked.

  “No, I cannot say that I did,” I replied, folding my arms, already resigned to the inevitable, but mild, humiliation that I knew would follow.

  “The smallest finger on his left hand had a faint but visible band of lighter coloured skin where a signet ring had once sat. The third button on his waistcoat hung much lower than its companions, the thread having previously been stretched by the presence of a heavy gold Albert watch chain. What could these two observations imply?” he asked.

  “That he had some sort of financial difficulties, and fairly recent ones at that, for the waistcoat has not yet been repaired.” I was glad to add at least one observation of my own. “So, I agree, we cannot exclude him at this moment.”

  “Indeed, but I think you are probably right about some of the others.”

  Holmes was clearly enjoying this game of carrot and stick. I was more than happy to play along after seeing the manifest change in him, both mentally and physically, since leaving Baker Street.

  “The Banks-Wells, unless actors of the highest calibre, have neither the wit nor the need to attempt such a complex crime. And as for the vicar, despite their well-known differences of philosophies, I have to agree with you, Watson, the friendship with Harrison appears to have been quite genuine and is backed up by all of the local witnesses.”

  “Unless we discover that he has unexpectedly left all of his estate to the church,” I added mischievously.

  Holmes smiled. “We will know for sure tomorrow.”

  After our meal, we retired to our rooms. We had secured adjoining rooms opposite a small upstairs communal sitting room. There we retired to have a last evening smoke, settling into the old but comfortable armchairs. As Holmes rubbed up some dark navy flake, I noticed an open file.

  “Is that a list of the possessions found upon each member of the party?” I ventured, leaning forward to take a closer look. “Anything of interest?”

  “There are certainly some points of interest.” He handed me the papers. “But before I answer your question, cast your own eyes across the report from Gregson.”

  The report was simply a list of names, each followed a number of items. There was little of surprise to be found here, various keys, coins, handkerchiefs, watches and cigar cases on the men, jewellery, purses and embroidered reticules on the ladies.

  “A strap of one of these reticules could have been used as a garrotte,” I observed. “But, sadly, they would all be far too slim to be our culprit.”

  “Quite right, Watson, but there is no doubt that you are growing in ability, as you have inadvertently stumbled across the solution to an entirely different case that I worked upon many years before we met. You must remind me sometime to recount the story of the Brighton Heartbreakers. I believe you will, now, find the method of dispatch distinctly familiar.”

  “Other than that, there is very little of interest,” I continued. “The vicar carried a small book of prayers and a rosary; the professor, a notebook filled with mathematical equations and a short pencil. Aha! What is this? It appears that you were quite right about Fessington. A chit from a bookie found in his pocket for five pounds, a wager on the Derby, the horse is Harvester. A good bet, from what I have heard, I have a little on him myself,” I admitted, slightly embarrassed.

  “Your knowledge of the turf may one day bring reward, but I fear that will not be today,” Holmes chided, gently. “Does anything else not strike you as unusual?”

  I flicked through the pages a second time. “Well, both Harrison and his friend the Colonel had almost nothing upon their person, just a couple of coins and rings, but that is hardly unusual as this was their personal residence, everything that they required would be close at hand, in fact I would suggest that it would be more suspicious if anything were to be found on them,” I concluded.

  “Once again, Watson, you sparkl
e with incandescent insights. But what about Wergeld, our visitor from far away climes?”

  “Wergeld? He had little, a small bone-handled pocketknife, an old silver watch and chain, and a pouch of tobacco. Nothing unusual there, surely,” I concluded.

  “Not at first glance, but do you remember the murder scene, the tobacco on the ground?” Holmes took a deep draught of his pipe and exhaled, the coils, twists and turns of the smoke providing an elegant backdrop to his revelations. I nodded my confirmation and he continued. “I decided that this warranted further investigation, so I spoke to Gregson and he confirmed to me that the tobacco in the pouch was the same tobacco that was found in the glasshouse. But this was only the second most interesting fact that he shared with me.”

  “And the first? Come on Holmes, don’t be a sphinx all the time,” I implored.

  “Wergeld’s tobacco pouch was unusually large and contained at least eight or nine ounces of tobacco, dark and all recently rubbed up.” Holmes sat back as if to let me absorb this revelation.

  I thought a while before answering, slightly cautiously. “I am sorry, Holmes, but I don’t see it. He is a sailor, they carry a lot of tobacco. They purchase it in bulk, often the cheapest available, for their long voyages. Surely he is just a creature of habit.”

  “Maybe if he were fresh off the boat or was living in less salubrious lodgings, but this is a man who claims an education and is staying here in a summer cottage while writing his memoirs. Why would he take a month’s supply of tobacco, broken up and prepared to smoke, with him to a single evening’s engagement?”

  Chapter Four - A Silver Disservice

  Tuesday 10th June 1884

  The beds at the Inn were comfortable, so sleep came easily and after a dream-filled sleep I awoke, dressed and descended to the saloon bar for breakfast, only to discover that Holmes was already there supping upon a cup of dark coffee.

  “Good morning, Holmes. I see you were up early. Let me see, by the look of your boots you have been examining the outside of the house and the gardens.” I announced, rather pleased with myself.

  “Quite right, Watson. And despite the local constabulary’s best efforts, they haven’t completely obliterated everything of interest.”

  I sat down and ordered rashers and eggs. “So, what did you find?” I inquired.

  “Just what I expected. Nothing at all.”

  “Nothing?” I asked, rather surprised. “If you were expecting to find nothing, how is this of any help whatsoever?”

  “Because, it confirms what we have been told. The windows and doors were all secured and there were no footprints in the flower beds, other than those of the gardener and these were faint and mostly obscured by the rain which fell the day before the murder.”

  “So, we can count him out,” I agreed. “But what about the rest of the household, we have yet to hear from them?”

  “Aside from the gardener there is Greaves the butler, two maids, a cook and a footman. A couple of girls and a lad from the village help out part time but none were present on the fateful night. We will interview the staff this morning. It is not a large household, so it should not take long, which is fortunate as I have to return to London this afternoon to follow up on some research.”

  “Sounds like you have other plans for me,” I replied, as a large plate of bacon, eggs and local sausage was placed enticingly before me.

  “Well, if you ever finish that feast, I would like you to remain here and keep an eye on things. Try to talk again to the witnesses, or, as we should start calling them, suspects. Make it seem casual, unplanned if you can. In a less formal setting they may be more open, forthright and willing to share. And, of course, make a note of any interesting or unusual behaviour.”

  I finished my breakfast and we took a police carriage up to the house. We arrived just as Harrison’s solicitor was bidding farewell to Gregson. The Inspector held a manila folder, which must be Harrison’s will.

  “Good day, Inspector,” greeted Holmes. “I see from the brevity of your meeting that Harrison’s solicitor had little to tell you.”

  “Quite right, Holmes,” replied the tall blonde Inspector as we entered the house.

  “Mr Williams, the solicitor for Mr Harrison, has supplied me with the original will,” continued Gregson. “Williams was at pains to point out that he only met Harrison twice, once to draft the will and then again to sign it. He says that he knows nothing more of the matter and therefore begged that he could be excused to return to urgent business back in London.”

  “Most interesting,” Holmes whispered, almost imperceptibly, before quietly adding, “I think I may have to pay another visit while in London later this afternoon.”

  We entered the living room, where Fauwkes was waiting, perched on a leather-backed armchair, leaning forwards in anticipation.

  “The will itself is a simple document,” the Inspector explained. “Apart from a generous donation to a seaman’s charity, the entire estate of Mr James Harrison is to be left to you, Colonel Fauwkes.”

  Gregson waited for a moment to let this sink in. “Were you aware of the contents of the will, Colonel?”

  “No, not at all. I had no idea.” The Colonel seemed genuinely stunned and struggled to find words. “I knew he had no family, but I never expected - I never wanted, I certainly never asked,” he stammered.

  “Very good. Inspector, are the staff assembled for questioning, as I requested?” Holmes asked.

  I think everyone present was surprised by this sudden change of tack, but Holmes had clearly already moved on from this revelation.

  “Why yes, they are waiting in the kitchen. But do you not wish to pursue this matter further?” Gregson asked, subtly waving the will towards Fauwkes.

  “Thank you, Inspector, Watson and I will be in the kitchen.” Holmes smiled politely, left the living room and headed for the heart of the Hall.

  “Well, Holmes, I thought there was more there to be investigated,” I suggested, as we passed through the hallway and into the servants domain.

  “Indeed there is, Watson, but not now and not here,” he replied, enigmatically. “We have other business here to occupy us.”

  The kitchen was certainly light, a large range of windows illuminated a room painted white, giving the impression of almost clinical cleanliness. A large oven sat in a bricked arch at one end of the room and two white ceramic sinks lined the right hand side, just below the windows. A table for the preparation of food butted up to the white painted wall on the left. The black slate floor was a welcome relief from the, otherwise, uniformly bright decor.

  The six regular staff were waiting patiently in a row. The Butler, two maids, the cook, footman and gardener. The interview was straightforward and surprising brief. The servants, apart from the butler, were housed in a separate building, about fifty yards from the main house, cleverly hidden by the slight drop behind the Hall. The maids and the cook were dismissed shortly after dinner. The gardener and the footman were already in their quarters, the footman waiting alongside the other guests’ drivers for the order to take the guests home.

  Holmes quickly established that each member of staff was alibied by at least one other, all within the servants’ quarters. The maids and cook were still awake and chatting over a late night hot toddy in their small kitchen. The gardener, footman and the others were playing cards in the parlour. All were in the company of others until the alarm was raised.

  As for the butler, Greaves, he swore that he was never in the glasshouse at all that evening but had left the dining room after serving the port and handed out cigars. The ladies back in the drawing room had confirmed that he arrived there not long after themselves and spent the next hour or so attending to their needs.

  “Nothing to be learned there then,” I declared, as we walked the short distance back to the Hall. Greaves followed a f
ew yards behind. He was of medium height and carried himself well, his bearing a sure sign of his military past. He was perhaps in his late forties, but it was hard to tell as his face was mostly expressionless and ageless, his hair still thick and dark. His eyes were grey and seemed to stare mostly into the distance.

  “Quite wrong, Watson,” Holmes contradicted. “I learned a great deal though, sadly, I do not believe any of this new information will help us in our investigation.”

  “Come on, old chap, what on earth can you have learned?” I challenged.

  “Greaves,” Holmes turned to address the butler. “I take you are aware of the engagement between the footman and the maid, the younger, dark-haired girl, Mary, I think was her name?”

  “Why, yes I do, but how could you possibly know, sir? They only announced it a week ago.” He replied, quite stunned by Holmes’ disclosure.

  “I am afraid I have bad news for the poor girl. The marriage will never happen. I hope her friends will rally round to comfort her when this becomes apparent,” Holmes declared, grimly.

  “Holmes, whatever do you mean? This is really in rather poor taste, explain yourself,” I demanded.

  “Calm down, Watson, it is perfectly straightforward.”

  Greaves looked utterly bewildered, too shocked to speak. Holmes paused a moment before continuing.

  “Did you observe the footman’s shirt?” he began.

  I nodded, “Yes it was rather dirty as I recall, but what of it? Nobody stays perfectly clean for long when dealing with horses and carriages all day. I just supposed that he had been working on a cart and wiped some oil on his shirtfront.”

  “So you did see it, Watson, but once again you failed to observe. What about the maid’s dress?”

  “What about it? I saw nothing unusual,” I admitted.