Prelude to a Partnership

by Miss Roylott

  To prevent them from talking, I rose from my chair and tried to have a word with Holmes privately, drawing him towards his chemical laboratory in the corner. Holmes resisted me, as though he feared I were taking him into a bedroom to make advances upon his person. That was not my intention of course, and I whispered urgently, "No, Holmes, about 'Mrs. Sawyer,' the ally—"

  We were still in the middle of the room, making no progress, and attracting the increasing curiosity of the two detectives, when there came a tap at the door. I turned and saw young Wiggins, the oldest of the army of street Arabs, enter the room.

  Holmes broke from my grasp and went to the boy.

  "Please, sir," Wiggins said, touching his forelock, "I have the cab downstairs."

  "Good boy." Holmes went behind his desk and took a pair of steel handcuffs from a drawer. "Why don't you introduce this pattern at Scotland Yard?" he said blandly to the officials. "See how beautifully the spring works. They fasten in an instant."

  "The old pattern is good enough," Lestrade snapped impatiently, "if we can only find the man to put them on."

  "Very good, very good," said Holmes, smiling. "The cabman may as well help me with my boxes. Just ask him to step up, Wiggins."

  The scruffy boy had noticed the deceased dog upon the cushion and had bent down to peer at it. He looked up at Holmes's command.

  "Wiggins," I interposed, "would you please carry Mrs. Hudson's dog down to her? Tell her that Mr. Holmes has put the poor thing out of its misery."

  "Oh. It was sick, Doctor?"

  "Yes." I wrapped the stiff body carefully in a small rug to make the bundle a little less disturbing. "She'll probably want to have it buried somewhere, but take it down to her sitting-room and let her say good-bye to it first."

  "Yes, sir," Wiggins gravely took the bundle in his arms.

  Holmes cleared his throat, his hands upon his hips in an irritated fashion. He scowled at me. "Wiggins, before you give the creature to Mrs. Hudson, just pop your head out the door and send the cabman up for my boxes. I'm in a hurry."

  "Yes, sir." The boy carried his bundle down the stairs.

  "Boxes?" I looked at Holmes with bewilderment.

  There had been a portmanteau behind his desk, and Holmes pulled this out, beginning to fasten the strap. He acted as though he were about to set out on a journey, without telling me the least about it. I feared suddenly that he meant to move out because of last night, and I could not say anything with Gregson and Lestrade still in the room.

  "Remind me, Holmes, how long will you be gone?" I asked, feigning knowledge of his departure. Maybe it was only temporary; maybe he would tell me where he was going.

  Holmes did not answer me, and the suspicious glare of the Yard men made me think they would now ask me for an explanation.

  The cabman arrived then, while Holmes still knelt over his portmanteau. "Just give me a help with this buckle, cabman," he said, never turning his head.

  The fellow came forward with a somewhat sullen, defiant air, and put down his hands to assist. At that instant Holmes snapped his metal handcuffs onto the man's wrists and sprang to his feet again, looking triumphant.

  "Gentleman, let me introduce you to Mr. Jefferson Hope, the murderer of Enoch Drebber and Joseph Stangerson."

  We and the cabman were as stunned as statues for a moment, taking in what had just occurred. Then Holmes's prisoner turned savage, wrenching himself free from Holmes's grasp and hurling himself irrationally through the window. Before he crashed completely through the woodwork and glass, Gregson, Lestrade, and Holmes caught hold of him and dragged him back into the room. I joined the raging conflict, but the handcuffed criminal appeared to have the convulsive strength of a man in an epileptic fit. His face and hands were terribly mangled by the glass he had broken through, but he shook us off again and again.

  Finally, Lestrade succeeded in getting his hand inside the man's neckcloth, and half-strangled him into giving up the struggle. Still we did not feel secure until we pinioned his feet. That done, we rose to our feet breathless and panting.

  A horrified cry from the doorway drew our attention to Mrs. Hudson, who had come upstairs and entered at the sounds of struggle. Young Wiggins was by her side, speechless.

  In surveying the damage that we had done—the broken window, the overturned furniture, and the shattered bits of china—I realised that the landlady's reaction was mild.

  Holmes explained quietly, "I am sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I'm afraid there's been some violence. We shall clean this up and pay for the damage, of course."

  "Yes, sir," she said, a little dazed. "But what happened here? Who are these men?"

  "You remember Mr. Lestrade, of course? This is his colleague at Scotland Yard, Mr. Gregson, and this gentleman on the floor is a criminal they have just caught. We shall take him down to the police-station right away and endanger your household no further."

  "I see." Mrs. Hudson swallowed, her eyes still wide. "Thank you."

  "Wiggins, would you?"

  "Blimey," the boy finally let out in a whisper.

  "Wiggins," Holmes spoke sharply.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Would you take Mrs. Hudson downstairs, please?"

  "Yes, sir." The boy tugged at the landlady's skirts, and the two of them turned and departed back down the stairs.

  Holmes turned to us with an air of decision now, rubbing his hands together. "Now, gentlemen, we have reached the end of our little mystery, and you are welcome to put any questions to me along the way. We have his cab. It will serve to take him to Scotland Yard. Come, lift him."

  "Wait, Holmes," I interrupted. "We cannot just take him out into the street like this. He's mangled and bleeding; I must treat him and clean him up before we go. In fact, all of us could do with a little tending to, to make sure that none of us has been injured seriously."

  "I agree, Doctor," said Gregson, rubbing his bruised arm. It was possibly the first time he had noticed and addressed me.

  Holmes protested, "I hardly think, Watson, that you shall be able to treat such a fierce, violent man, after all his determined struggles. You only risk further injury and our prisoner breaking free from us again."

  "You had better ask me about that," said our rough-voiced prisoner from where he lay on the floor. His expression, such as it was under all that blood and glass, had turned from savage to rather amused. "I know I seem like an animal to you just now, a mad dog maybe, but I am a civilised man. If it's a doctor helping me, I shall respect him and do him no harm. If you don't trust me, of course, you can always keep a gun trained on me."

  Holmes raised an eyebrow at the change in our prisoner's demeanour. "I believe I will," he said. "Watson, where did you leave your revolver last?" When he had retrieved my pistol and checked that it was loaded, he returned from my desk and perched himself on a chair that allowed him an easy shot, should he need to fire. "Very well, Watson, go get your medical bag and begin administering to our prisoner. Gregson and Lestrade will have to sit and catch their breaths for now."

  I fetched my black bag from my bedroom. "Holmes, do you have any more iodoform?[17]" I said as I came back.

  "Yes, in my lab, near the plaster." He never shifted his eyes from Hope.

  I took the bottle of iodoform and then knelt down in front of the reclining prisoner. The once-savage man remained quiet and still while I treated his hands and face, even as I warned him that the iodoform would sting.

  "I know, Doc." He winced. "I've some experience with pharmacy."

  I cleaned his wounds, carefully tweezed out shards of glass, and then bandaged him pretty thoroughly. What struck me the most about our prisoner were his eyes, staring out of his dark, sunburned face in a strangely calm and docile way, as if he saw the futility in struggling anymore against his captors. "Doctor," he whispered pensively, "Dr. Watson, you are, with the ring yesterday. I should have known—" he broke off and laughed quietly to himself.

  When I finished my work, I rose to my feet and tossed my dirty r
ags into the bin.

  "Good, Watson," Holmes said, "now feel free to check on Gregson and Lestrade over there. I'll watch Hope."

  Moving out of view of Jefferson Hope, I proceeded to look over the two Yard men and tend to their minor scrapes and bruises. Lestrade smiled at me as I treated him, evidently deciding that he knew now why Holmes had brought me along in the first place. "Splendid idea," he said, shaking my hand as if to welcome me. "You'll see much use in this business, if Mr. Holmes hasn't told you."

  Next I turned back to Holmes in the chair. "Now let me see you."

  "I'm all right, Watson. Lestrade, come take over for me. Gregson can help if he likes." He passed my pistol onto his replacement and then joined me by his desk, where I was ready with fresh bandages and iodoform. "No, stop inspecting me, Watson. Let me have a look at you. Your health is delicate since Afghanistan, remember?"

  I was somewhat embarrassed, worried that Gregson or Lestrade might turn and catch Holmes running his hands over me as if he were my surgeon. I flushed when his hand brushed my thigh, and he whispered faintly, "You did the same to them; it is nothing." He patched up a cut upon my brow and then withdrew to fix his own hurts, leaving me to recover my composure.

  Thus he gave me no chance to examine him, and I simply had to trust that he had found everything, and had sufficient medical knowledge to deal with it.

  Holmes took the revolver back from Lestrade and slipped it into his pocket, and together the three detectives gazed down upon their reclining prisoner. I returned to their side.

  Jefferson Hope remained in an affable mood, smiling and remarking to Holmes, "I guess you're going to take me to the police-station now. My cab's at the door. If you'll loose my legs I'll walk down to it. I'm not so light to lift as I used to be."

  Gregson and Lestrade exchanged glances at the boldness of his proposition, but Holmes, perhaps having observed the strange serenity in Hope's eyes, took him at his word and loosened the towel which we had bound round his ankles. Hope rose and stretched his legs, and I noticed as I saw him at his full height that he was a most powerfully built man.

  Our prisoner eyed Holmes with undisguised admiration. "If there's a vacant place for a chief of the police, I reckon you are the man for it. The way you kept on my trail was a caution."

  Holmes took the compliment in stride, taking Hope by the elbow of his sleeve and beckoning to the official detectives. "You had better come with me."

  Lestrade shook off his amazement and hurried to the door. "I can drive you."

  "Good! and Gregson can come inside with me. You too, Doctor. You have taken an interest in the case, and may as well stick with us."

  We all descended together in an oddly quiet procession, and Hope made no attempt at escape, stepping calmly into the cab with us while Lestrade mounted the box and drove us to Scotland Yard.

  When we arrived, a police inspector took us into a small chamber and noted down the names of our prisoner and the men he was accused of murdering. This anti-climax felt dull and mechanical, so that I wondered why I had come. The unemotional official informed us that Jefferson Hope would be put before the magistrates within the week, and then asked if Hope had anything to say.

  Our prisoner was quite eager to speak, despite the warning that it would be used against him in his trial. He said that he might never be tried, and turned his dark eyes to me. "Doctor, you'll know this."

  "Know what?" I asked, astonished.

  "Put your hand here," he said, with a smile, motioning with his manacled wrists towards his chest.

  I did so, and realised his meaning as I detected the extraordinary throbbing and commotion going on inside him. "Why, you have an aortic aneurism!"

  He nodded and said he had seen a doctor last week who told him that it was bound to burst before many days passed. He had done his life's work now and no longer cared when he died, but he wished to leave behind some explanation of what he had done, so that he would not be remembered as a common cutthroat.

  After some discussion between the inspector and the two detectives, they agreed to take down Hope's statement, and so he began his remarkable narrative.

  He leaned back in his chair and recounted in a calm and methodical manner how he had hunted Drebber and Stangerson for twenty years because he blamed them for causing the deaths of a girl and her father. Hope had planned his vengeance and dogged them year after year, in America and Europe, taking many odd jobs along the way in order to keep up with the rich men's travels. He had even prepared in advance two sets of identical-looking pills, one poison and one harmless in each box.

  Hope had never been able to get at either Drebber or Stangerson alone, for they always took precautions against their pursuer. In London he had found employment as a cab driver and used this method to stalk the two men for two weeks. On the night of the first murder Hope had seen Drebber foolishly return to the boarding house alone and had watched Arthur Charpentier kick him out into the street. Drebber had hailed Hope's cab to escape the young man and had given orders to drive to Halliday's Private Hotel, where Stangerson was awaiting him.

  Hope seized the opportunity, however, to drive the intoxicated Drebber to an empty house that he had access to in Lauriston Gardens. Hope had walked his disoriented victim inside and had lit the candle, making sure that Drebber recognised him as took out the wedding ring and berated Drebber for the death of Lucy Ferrier. Then Hope had offered the choice between the pills, and Drebber took the poison one, dying instantly. Hope's nose had been bleeding from his high emotion, so he wrote the word RACHE on the wall as a blind before leaving the house. When he later realised that he had lost Lucy's ring, he attempted to come back to the house, but the police had already arrived on the scene by then, and he had to play drunk to escape their suspicion.

  With Stangerson, Hope drove to his hotel and watched it for a day, but as Stangerson did not ever leave, Hope found out the man's room and used a ladder to get to its window. He broke in early in the morning and offered Stangerson the same choice of pills, but the secretary chose to fight and Hope stabbed him with his knife. He wrote RACHE above him too, washed his hands, and then descended the ladder.

  Having completed his vengeance, Hope had kept working as a cabby, hoping to earn enough for his voyage back to America. These plans were soon ended with his summons to Baker Street by an innocent-looking boy, resulting in his capture. Now Hope no longer cared what became of him and was content.

  Holmes tried to press Hope to name his secret ally, but the man only winked and refused to reveal any secrets other than his own. His friend had seen the advertisement and volunteered to fetch the ring, as Hope was watching Stangerson's hotel; the friend had smartly taken precautions against a trap, but had neglected afterward to mention to Hope the address he had gone to[18], to get the ring.

  Although Gregson and Lestrade were puzzled by these last remarks, they were happy to have their man at last, and seemed somewhat pleased to learn that Holmes had failed in a previous attempt to capture the formidable prisoner. Suddenly Gregson remembered that he still had Arthur Charpentier in custody, so he excused himself to see to the innocent man's release.

  But the police inspector halted him for a moment to warn us all that our attendance would be required Thursday, when Jefferson Hope would be brought before the magistrates. Then he released Gregson's arm and rang the bell to have the prisoner taken away.

  Holmes and I made our way out of the station and took a cab back to Baker Street.

  "A shame that he did not reveal his friend," I remarked.

  "I suppose it was also wise that I did not reveal to him that the ring his accomplice retrieved was not the real Lucy Ferrier's ring."

  "Probably for the best."

  "Still, I suppose that we might yet learn the identity of Hope's friend."

  "How?"

  "Well, Hope said that he had seen a doctor last week about his aneurysm. As Hope is a relative stranger to London, he very likely had help in finding this doctor. Possibly Hop
e's friend brought him to be treated, and if we could trace the doctor who examined him, we might obtain a name or at least a good description of the accomplice, provided that he was not in disguise again. Another possibility is that Hope's friend is a doctor himself."

  "But how could you trace the doctor in either case? There are countless private practices and hospitals throughout the metropolis."

  Holmes sighed thoughtfully, "It might take tedious searching by Wiggins and the boys again, plus ourselves at the more upscale practices, which would turn up their noses at the ragged lads. Yet Hope is impoverished and could not afford the bill of any truly exclusive doctor, unless such doctor was motivated to waive his fee. The unfortunate thing is, that if I advertise in the daily newspapers for the doctor, Hope's friend would invariably be tipped off into disappearing."

  "He would certainly not fall for another summons to 221B Baker Street."

  "No," Holmes agreed.

  "What if, while we are slowly combing London for the doctor, Hope's friend already decides to disappear to America or elsewhere?"

  "Ah, that is a distinct danger, indeed. I believe, however, that Hope's friend will not flee London until he knows what will become of Hope. We saw already that the accomplice risked his own capture to retrieve the ring for Hope; surely he has loyalty enough to see whether Hope shall be convicted at his trial, or else shall die in his cell? So the man will remain in town for some days at least."

  "Yes, but how much of London can you search in a few days' time? Is there no other way to trace the accomplice?"

  Holmes shrugged. "Perhaps he will come to observe Hope's trial, and I might be able to deduce his identity in the audience, but there is no guarantee that he will show up."

  "And he might be disguised again."

  "Indeed, though I'll be damned if he fools me twice!"

  "What sort of person would help commit two murders?" I wondered. "Did he feel justified in it, like Hope?"

  "Probably."

  "And all to avenge deaths from twenty years ago? I don't suppose you know of any criminal cases dating back to 1861 in America?"