More From the Deed Box of John H. Watson MD

by Ashton, Hugh

  “Indeed I will,” smiled Holmes, rising, and seeing our visitor to the door. “Well, Watson, what do you make of this?” as the door closed behind Father Donahue.

  “I know not,” I replied. “I can make nothing of it other than what has already been mentioned and what I observed for myself.”

  “Your observations on the paper and printing, if you will allow me to say so, were of a particularly high order and display a true understanding of the subject. Where, if I may ask, did you acquire that knowledge?”

  I explained my previous experience in the field. “Although I was not responsible for actually setting the type, or for the operation of the presses, I learned enough to be able to direct the printers in their task,” I concluded.

  “You never fail to amaze me, Watson. Hidden depths, hidden depths. I congratulate you on your observations, and your analysis, as far as it goes, is excellent. It seems to me, though, that the direction of your thoughts may be the wrong track for us to follow. Fascinating as those details may be, I think that the paper and the peculiar Continental printing are dust thrown in our faces to confuse us. Whoever has prepared this has done his work thoroughly, it must be admitted.”

  “What do you suspect?”

  “I have to think about the matter and consider it more deeply. The matter may be more complex than the worthy son of Erin who visited us just now believes.” He paused. “Would you be averse to dinner at Alberti’s tonight, Watson? Or will Mrs Hudson’s simple English fare be sufficient.”

  “That sounds like an excellent plan to me. As the reverend gentleman remarked, the weather continues to improve, and the walk to Alberti’s will do us good and enliven our appetites.”

  As we took ourselves to the restaurant that evening, Holmes maintained a silence as we strolled through the wet streets. I guessed that he was thinking of the problem that had been presented to us earlier in the evening, but in the restaurant, as we were tackling the soup, he started to discourse on medieval manuscripts, and the methods used by the monks of that era to produce the fantastical decorations that adorned their work. To hear him talk, one would have believed him to be a scholar who had devoted his life to the study of the subject, rather than an amateur who had only recently taken an interest in the matter. From that, he passed to a discourse on the art of violin manufacture in the eighteenth century, and a comparison of the glues used by the various craftsmen of Cremona.

  “Holmes,” I expostulated at last. “You are, without a doubt, at the same time both the most fascinating and the most infuriating man of my acquaintance. This afternoon we were presented with a problem, on whose solution apparently hangs the life of a man, and you prattle of fiddles.”

  “It is not wholly without relevance,” he admonished me mildly. “A detailed knowledge of antiquarian matters would seem to have some application to this case. In any event, since these messages have been appearing over the past four weeks, I feel there is no need for me to act with any urgency in this matter.”

  -oOo-

  Holmes was not often mistaken in his reasoning, and he usually felt it as a grievous blow when his foretelling of events failed to come to pass. So it was in this case of his predictions regarding the mysterious messages sent to our visitor’s parishioner.

  The next morning saw the arrival of a telegram, followed shortly after this by the delivery of the morning newspapers.

  Holmes ripped open the telegram eagerly, and I observed his face turn pale with rage as he read it. “Damnable fool that I am, Watson! Arrogant, conceited fool, and worse than that!” He flung the telegram down on the breakfast table and rose to his feet. “If I ever do such a thing again, have the goodness to stand behind me and whisper ‘Holy Rood Church’ in my ear. The old Roman emperors celebrating their triumphs had more wisdom and self-knowledge than do I!” So saying, he stormed out of the room to his bed-room, slamming the door behind him with a bang that rattled the very dishes on the table.

  I picked up the telegram and read the ominous words, “Faulkes murdered last night mysterious circumstances. Request you come to Watford soonest. Patrick Donahue.”

  I understood the reason for Holmes’ chagrin – only the previous evening, he had lightly dismissed the idea of any further developments, and now, a matter of hours after that confident assertion, he had been proved wrong, in the most tragic way. I knew from experience that there was little in my power to bring him to a better frame of mind. Only action was capable of restoring his spirits, and that was a course to be chosen by him alone, and which could not be forced upon him by me or by any other.

  I therefore scanned the newspapers, looking for reports of the case, discovering that the Morning Post gave the fullest account.

  “Read it to me, Watson,” came Holmes’ voice through the bed-room door. It took no great skill on my part to deduce that he had perceived my current actions, aided by his acute hearing, which had picked up the sound of the rustling newspapers . I refrained from further comment and commenced reading.

  “This is from the Morning Post,” I began, by way of introduction. “‘We regret to inform our readers of the tragic death late last night of Mr Francis Faulkes of Watford, the well-known collector and connoisseur. Mr Faulkes was seemingly struck down by an unknown hand in his Church Lane house. Mr Faulkes had apparently locked himself in the vault beneath his house where his collection of artistic artifacts and curios was stored for safe-keeping, and was discovered by Albert Simpkins, his servant, following a summons via the house’s internal telephonic system. The door to the vault was unlocked and opened from the outside by Simpkins, who discovered his master in a state of collapse, having sustained a severe injury to the head. A doctor was summoned, but was unable to save the unfortunate victim, who succumbed to his injuries within the hour. The police were also summoned, and based on their findings, which have as yet to be revealed to the Press, foul play is believed to be suspected. The celebrated private detective Mr Sherlock Holmes is currently reported to be in Watford, assisting Inspector Tobias Gregson of Scotland Yard, who is leading the case.’ There is a little more about Faulkes’ acts of recent charity, and a little about his collection. Do you wish me to read these to you?”

  “If their information regarding those is of the same standard of accuracy as my supposed whereabouts in Watford, you may forego the pleasure,” was the reply from behind the door. “Forgive my vile mood, Watson, if you are able to extend the effort. I am aware that you know me well enough to ascertain its cause, and hope that in this instance tout comprendre est tout pardonner.”

  “Of course,” I replied, and continued to scan the other papers. “There is nothing more of the case in any other of the dailies.”

  “Gregson’s being on the case is a definite positive point. He is far from being the worst member of the Scotland Yard detective force, and he has the almost unique distinction of being willing to learn from others as well as from his own mistakes. If I dare show my face to the Reverend Patrick Donahue in Watford, would you be willing to accompany me?”

  “Why do you bother asking me such a question, Holmes?” I asked. “And, if you will excuse me mentioning it, conversations such as this are best held otherwise than through closed doors.”

  “Very good,” remarked Holmes, opening the bed-room door and re-entering the room. I examined him closely, fearing that he might have resorted to his former debilitating habit of injecting himself with cocaine, but was relieved to detect no traces of his having succumbed to the temptation. He noticed my observations and smiled ruefully. “This time, Watson, my vice consisted of no more than mental self-flagellation. I am still cursing myself for an arrogant prideful fool. The least we can do to redress the balance is to take the first train to Watford and lend what assistance we can in the matter. Before we depart, please have the goodness to look up this Mr Faulkes in Who’s Who.”

  I retrieved the volume and discovered the entry. “Here we are. Mr Francis Bosforth Faulkes, eldest son of... born... educated Stoneyhurs
t... served in Grenadier Guards... What information do you wish me to obtain from here, Holmes?”

  “Is there any clue as to how he may have acquired his wealth?”

  I scanned the page. “He has retained the directorship of several City banks, as well as of a Burmese teak importer, and it would appear that his line, though a cadet branch of the family, has retained possession of a considerable fortune. As the eldest son, he would have stood to inherit most, I would venture.”

  “Anything out of the ordinary there?”

  “I do not know if it is relevant, but he is listed here as being a member of two Catholic orders of chivalry – the Knights of Malta, and the Order of the Holy Sepulchre.”

  “Neither of those, to the best of my knowledge, has any connection with the name of Paradol, which is still unknown to me.”

  “Would it be connected with Freemasonry?” I asked.

  “That, of course, is a possibility, but it has no place in the Grand Lodge of either England or Scotland – I may say this with certainty, given –” Here Holmes gave me details of the involvement of members of his family with Freemasonry at a very high level, after first swearing me to lifelong secrecy as to the details. Suffice it to say that his source was unimpeachable. “There are, of course, other such movements, unknown to me, where the name may have significance. But come, let us to Watford, and brighten Gregson’s day.” It was clear that the thought of a problem on which to sharpen his wits, no matter how distressing the circumstances which had led up to it, was proving sufficient to lift Holmes’ spirits somewhat.

  On our arrival at Watford, we had no difficulty in finding the house in Church Street where the tragic event had taken place. On giving his name to the constable standing guard outside the door, we were admitted to the dining-room of the house, where Inspector Tobias Gregson was seated at the table, examining a pile of papers. A large ledger also graced the table in front of him.

  “Mr Holmes,” he greeted my friend, with what appeared to be genuine pleasure. “I am glad to see you here. This case is one of the more difficult ones I have seen in some time, and your assistance would be most welcome. And Dr Watson, too. I fear you will not have much to do in the medical line, Doctor, but it is always good to see you.”

  “It is always a pleasure to work alongside you, Inspector,” replied Holmes courteously.

  “What do you know of this case?” asked Gregson.

  “My sole knowledge has been gained from what I learned from Father Patrick Donahue yesterday, together with the report in today’s Morning Post which, given that it reported me as being having already arrived in Watford, I take with a very large pinch of salt.”

  “The Catholic reverend? How did you come to meet him?”

  Holmes outlined the previous day’s meeting, during which the police inspector made notes.

  “That’s a strange business, to be sure,” he commented at the end of Holmes’ recital. “So the old man was suffering from some persecution mania?”

  “With some reason,” replied Holmes, withdrawing the paper that he had been given by the priest and presenting it to Gregson.

  “Well, this is pretty solid,” replied Gregson, examining the paper from all angles. “Nothing of imagination about this, is there? Strange paper, and it appears to be an uncommon type of printing to me.”

  Holmes informed him of what we had deduced of the paper’s origins, finishing with, “I think that the origin of this paper may be closer to home, however.”

  “Who or what is this Paradol Chamber?”

  “Alas, I have no information there. Maybe, though, since I have given you the few facts I possess regarding the case, you might be induced to return the favour?”

  “That seems like a fair bargain,” chuckled Gregson. “I will give you the facts as I have them. Mr Francis Faulkes appears to have been a wealthy man who invested much of his wealth in artistic objects – statues, paintings and the like, most of which are of a religious nature. I cannot pretend to be any kind of expert on these matters, but I believe that some of these are extremely valuable, and some are in excess of five hundred years old. To house his collection, Faulkes converted the cellar of this house into a species of bank vault, with sophisticated locks and alarms.

  “It seems that he was accustomed to spend much of his time there, especially in the evenings, examining and cataloguing his collection, and last night was no exception. At eleven o’clock, his usual time for retiring, he had not emerged from the cellar, and Simpkins, his personal servant, communicated with him by the telephonic apparatus installed in the house.”

  “Ah yes,” replied Holmes. “The newspaper mentioned this, and I fear I failed to thoroughly grasp the full meaning.”

  “It is unique in my experience,” replied Gregson, “at least in a private house such as this. Since the door of the vault is so thick, when it is closed it is impossible to hear any sound from outside once inside the vault, and vice versa. Accordingly, Faulkes had caused a telephonic apparatus to be installed, whereby the servants could communicate with him should a visitor chance to call, or should any other matter requiring his attention arise. On occasion, he had been known to fall asleep while in the vault, and the sound of the telephone bell in there, as activated by one of the servants, was then used to rouse him.”

  “And in this case, it did not?” asked Holmes.

  “That is correct. According to Simpkins, the bell should have rung for at least a minute, and since Faulkes was apparently a light sleeper, that would ordinarily have been ample time to rouse him. Simpkins therefore descended to the vault and proceeded to open it.”

  “One moment,” interrupted Holmes. “How is the vault secured?”

  “By a combination lock. There is no key. The door can be locked from the inside, and Faulkes commonly did so while he was working on his collection. It was so secured last night, according to Simpkins.”

  “And Simpkins was in possession of the combination?”

  “So it would appear. He freely admits to the knowledge.”

  “Do any of the other servants possess the combination?”

  “Besides Simpkins, the household consists of a cook, a kitchen-maid and a house-maid. There is also a gardener, but he is employed by the hour, and does not live on the premises. The resident servants have been questioned, and all deny any knowledge of the combination.”

  “Well then, Simpkins entered the vault, and next?”

  “He beheld his master lying on the floor, with his head in a pool of blood and a fearful wound that had smashed the right temple like an eggshell. A fallen statue was by the body, with the arm broken off and lying by itself nearby.”

  “The arm had been used as the weapon, presumably?” asked Holmes.

  “Now, Mr Holmes, this is one of the matters in this case that has me puzzled. No, the arm was not the weapon. The statue is that of an angel, constructed of some sort of plaster or other material, and with a solid octagonal stone base – granite or some such. To judge by the blood and hair and so on coating it, one corner of the heavy base had been used to strike the blow. But I am running a little ahead of myself in my recital of events. Faulkes was not dead, but he was unconscious. With considerable promptitude and presence of mind, Simpkins roused the two maids, and dispatched one to the doctor, and one to the Catholic priest who visited you yesterday. He and the cook stayed with Faulkes in the vault, not wishing to risk further injury by moving him, but attempted to make him comfortable. The priest and doctor arrived within the half-hour, but Faulkes was sinking fast. Both did what they could, but the end was near, and the Catholic rite of Last Unction was administered, the dying man being unable to form the responses. In the meantime, one of the girls had been sent to summon the local police, who immediately contacted the Yard. Hence my involvement.”

  “A pretty puzzle,” remarked Holmes grimly. “We have a man in a locked room, with the sole method of entry known to himself and only one other, so far as we can determine at present. The man is str
uck down by an unknown assailant, who lets himself out of the locked room and locks it behind him again. Tell me, does the lock require the combination in order to unlock it from inside the vault or to re-lock it?”

  “That is something we have yet to discover,” replied Gregson. “I take your meaning. If the assailant was locked in the vault with Faulkes, could he have let himself out and re-secured the entrance? An excellent point, Mr Holmes.” He made a note in his notebook.

  “Is the body still in the place where it was found?”

  “No, we felt it should be moved, and it is now in the morgue at the hospital. But,” Gregson smiled, as Holmes started to raise a warning finger, “I have profited by my association with you. Before the body was moved, I adopted your excellent suggestion of using chalk to outline its position and attitude, as far as could be ascertained. The doctor had moved the arms and so on to compose the body for death, but I questioned him closely and I am satisfied that I have an accurate representation of the body as it was originally.”

  “I am glad to see that my teaching has not fallen on stony ground.” Holmes smiled. “You will go a long way, Inspector. I foresee a bright future for you if you continue in this way. And the statue?”

  “That has remained untouched.”

  “Excellent. Now to the dramatis personæ. What of this Simpkins? How long has he been in his present position?”

  “He appears to be utterly reliable in his testimony. He has been with Faulkes for over thirty years now.”

  “I will want to question him, with your permission,” said Holmes. “If I may see your records of your preliminary questions to him, I will avoid duplication, and we may save some valuable time.”

  “Naturally,” said Gregson, pushing a sheaf of papers towards Holmes, which my friend started to peruse. “I thought, however, that you would prefer to see the scene of the murder before anything else.”

  “Since you have moved the body already,” replied Holmes, “there is little advantage to my examining that area immediately. Little will change, after all. On the other hand, the memories of witnesses fade very fast, and it is important to retrieve all those impressions as soon as possible after the event.”