More From the Deed Box of John H. Watson MD

by Ashton, Hugh

  “I understand your reasoning,” replied Gregson. He asked the constable standing at the door to call Simpkins for questioning.

  The man who entered was an elderly man, apparently sixty years or over in age, but still of an upright and sprightly appearance. He was neatly dressed in servant’s black, and I noticed that he had already secured a mourning band around his right sleeve.

  “This gentleman here is Mr Sherlock Holmes,” Gregson said to him by way of introduction. “He is here to ask you a few more questions which may not have occurred to me when I talked to you earlier.”

  The elderly servant addressed my friend. “I have to confess, sir, that it is an honour for me to be conversing with the celebrated Sherlock Holmes, whose exploits I have admired when I have read about them. However, I sincerely wish that this meeting was under happier circumstances than the ones in which I find myself at present.”

  Holmes smiled benignly. “Thank you, Simpkins. I will try to make the process of questioning as painless as possible for you. My first question is with regard to the locking of the door of the vault. Is it necessary to use the combination to unlock the door from the inside?”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “And is the combination also needed when the door is to be re-locked, either from the inside or from the outside of the vault?”

  “Yes, sir, from both the inside and the outside.”

  “Inspector Gregson has informed me that your master vouchsafed the combination to you. Has this combination been in your possession for a long time?”

  “No sir, he only gave me the combination just over one month ago.”

  “Thank you. To the best of your knowledge, are you the only member of this household other than your master who had knowledge of the combination?”

  “Yes sir, I am certain of it. I had been aware for several years, though, because he had informed me of the fact, that a copy of the combination had been lodged by Mr Faulkes at his bank, and was to be made available to the executors of his will in the event of his untimely death.”

  “A very laudable precaution,” observed Holmes. “Would you care to give us the combination?” The other hesitated. “There is little merit in your keeping it a secret now. As you have just told us, the executor of the will has full access, and it would be a simple matter for the Inspector here to obtain a court order to release it from the bank’s custody.”

  “Very good, sir.” Simpkins seemed to be speaking with some reluctance. “The combination is 22-07-18-73.”

  “Thank you,” replied Holmes, as Gregson wrote down these numbers in his notebook. “Inspector Gregson has already informed me of your prompt and meritorious actions following the discovery of your master. Is there anything that you would like to add to those observations? Did your master have any enemies of who you are aware?”

  The aged servant shook his head. “No sir, I think that I have provided as full an account as is possible under the circumstances. Please rest assured, sir, that if I recollect anything further that would seem to further the inquiry I will immediately inform the police.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Simpkins,” said Gregson. “Do you have any more questions, Mr Holmes?”

  “Indeed I do. Simpkins, can you recollect any visitors who called on your master frequently?”

  “Other than the Italian gentleman, you mean, sir?”

  Holmes, Gregson, and I exchanged glances. “You never mentioned this Italian gentleman earlier,” said Gregson sternly. “Perhaps you should tell us a little more about him.”

  The other was obviously flustered by this request. “Well, sir, I would hardly describe him as a gentleman, if I were to be completely honest with you. Mr Faulkes was always at home to him, however, and he and Mr Faulkes spent many hours together in the museum.”

  “Which museum is this?” asked Holmes.

  “My apologies, sir,” replied Simpkins. “We servants often described the master’s collection as ‘the museum’ in jest. What I meant by my last remark was that Mr Faulkes and his Italian visitor would often spend time with the collection.”

  “Do you happen to know if this Italian is connected with the antiquities trade?” asked Holmes.

  “I have no knowledge regarding that, sir,” replied the other.

  “When was the last time that this Italian personage came to call?”

  “Why, sir, last night.”

  Gregson started to his feet, his face contorted with anger. “Pardon my language, Mr Simpkins, but blast you, you never provided us with this information when I asked you about the events of yesterday evening earlier. Why did you omit this from your report?”

  “I was not completely convinced that it was of immediate relevance, sir,” replied the servant.

  “You will permit me, Simpkins, to decide what is relevant and what is not relevant in this case,” retorted Gregson, subsiding into his seat.

  The other looked abashed. “I am sorry, sir,” he replied at length.

  “If I may?” interjected Holmes. “Simpkins, did you admit this Italian visitor, and did you show him out, and at what times did he arrive and did he depart?”

  “He arrived at the house at eight o’clock precisely,” replied Simpkins. “I opened the door to him, and showed him into the drawing-room where Mr Faulkes was waiting for him.”

  “He was expected, then?” Gregson asked.

  “Yes, Mr Faulkes had informed me previously that he was expected. He was a reasonably regular visitor to the house. He started visiting the house about four years ago, making his visits approximately once every month, until about a month ago, when he started to visit on an almost weekly basis.”

  “And what time did he depart last night?” enquired Holmes. “Were you the one who showed him to the door?”

  “As far as I could tell, he left the house a little before nine o’clock. I was not the one who showed him to the door, you should understand.”

  “You are sure that he left the house?” asked Gregson.

  The other replied a little stiffly. “I heard Mr Faulkes and the visitor walking through the hall towards the front door together, engaged in conversation. I heard them bidding each other a good night. I heard the front door open and close, and I heard a single set of footsteps walking through the hallway, and descending the steps to the cellar. I am therefore as positive as I can be that Mr Faulkes himself let his visitor out of the house and returned alone to the vault. I heard the sound of the vault door opening and then closing.”

  “And you never heard the door open again?”

  “No, sir, I did not. The door makes a somewhat distinctive sound when opened, and I am convinced I would have heard it, had it been opened again.”

  “A most astute set of observations,” remarked Holmes. “Did you, by any chance, happen to remark the nature of the conversation that they might have had before bidding each other good night?”

  The servant’s sallow face took on a faint flush. “I am sorry to say, sir, that I did. Their conversation was in the nature of a disagreement.” He paused. “Is it necessary for me to report this to you?”

  “It is your duty, man,” replied Gregson, sternly.

  “I do not know the nature of the disagreement. Believe me, I am not concealing anything in this regard. However, I heard my master saying, ‘I must do it tonight. I have no choice.’ And the Italian visitor saying, ‘It shall not happen tonight, and if I could, I would move heaven and earth to prevent it.’”

  “And your master’s response to this?” asked Holmes.

  “He replied, ‘You cannot frighten me further. In any case, my mind is made up.’ Following this, he and Mr Paravinci went outside the front door. I assume that they bade each other a good night before Mr Faulkes re-entered the house and closed the front door before going downstairs to the cellar.”

  “Ha! The mysterious gentleman’s name is Paravinci, then?” said Gregson. “Does this personage have any other name, and is there any other information you can g
ive us about him?”

  “I am reasonably certain that his Christian name is Antonio. I heard Mr Faulkes address him as such on several occasions in the past. He lives in London, at an address in Whitechapel, which I will recall in a minute, if you will permit me.” He paused, obviously in thought. “Yes, number 42, Greatorex Street was the address on the letters to him from Mr Faulkes that I conveyed to the post.”

  Gregson was scribbling furiously in his notebook. “And his age?”

  “I would guess he is in his late twenties. Maybe a little over thirty years of age, but only a little.”

  “Can you describe him?” Gregson demanded.

  “There is no need for that, Inspector,” Holmes chided gently. “I am sure we will be speaking to the man himself before too long.”

  Gregson nodded in agreement, and turned back to Simpkins. “This information should all have been given to us earlier.” It was obvious that his anger had only abated slightly. “You are fortunate, Simpkins, that I have not had you arrested for obstruction of justice.”

  “Come now, Inspector,” soothed Holmes. “Mr Simpkins is naturally in a state of some confusion following last night’s tragic events.” He turned to the servant. “What words would you use to describe the tone of voice that you heard?”

  “Although the two were obviously in disagreement, there was no anger on either side. If I were to describe the tone of voice of both parties, I would say it was closer to a form of resignation rather than anger, sir.” Simpkins was obviously relieved at not having to face Gregson’s wrath further.

  “If you had to make a guess as to the meaning of the words you overheard?” Holmes prompted.

  “I would not like to hazard any such conjecture,” said the other.

  “Very good,” said Holmes. “I have no further questions at present. Inspector?”

  “Nothing at present,” echoed Gregson. “Well, Simpkins, I hope that if anything further occurs to you, you will have the kindness to inform me or one of my officers, regardless of whether you consider it relevant to the enquiry or not.” His tone was heavily sarcastic, and the unfortunate Simpkins shuffled his feet, and muttered some sort of apology, his eyes downcast. “You may leave us,” added Gregson.

  “Well, Watson,” said Holmes to me after the servant had left the room. “You were silent throughout the whole of that conversation, if I may term it such. What are your impressions?”

  “He is hiding something.”

  “By Jove, without a doubt he is hiding something,” agreed Gregson, angrily. “And I am willing to lay money that he and this Italian devil Paravinci were blackmailing poor Faulkes over some petty misdemeanour that took place long ago.”

  “Blackmail seems to be a likely possibility to me,” I concurred. “Holmes, what is your opinion?”

  “I agree with you both that Simpkins is concealing something from us. However, I disagree with your conclusion that it is blackmail, though I am at present unable to assign a precise reason for my belief. I am certain that we will never be able to extract the hidden information from Simpkins. He strikes me as being one of the bulldog type who, once in possession of a secret, will never surrender it unless it is dragged out by force. The other servants, what of them?” he asked Gregson.

  “You may see their statements here,” replied the Scotland Yard detective. “I have no reason to doubt them, but we may summon them for further questioning if you think this would be of value.”

  “At this point in the enquiry, I will forbear. I think now would be a suitable time to view the scene downstairs. If we could arrange to speak with Father Donahue,” he pulled out his watch and consulted it, “in about ninety minutes’ time, I would appreciate this. Do you think you could instruct one of your men to arrange this?”

  “Certainly we can do that. I fail to see what information he will be able to provide, though, since he was not present immediately after the attack on Faulkes. I will also send orders for this Italian Paravinci to be brought in for questioning. Does it not seem a coincidence to you that the papers of which you spoke, and a sample of which you showed me earlier are also from Italy?”

  “No coincidence at all. But beware of the obvious, Inspector. It can often be deceptive,” was Holmes’ only comment, as we rose from the table and made our way out of the room towards the cellar.

  -oOo-

  The descriptions of the cellar both as a “vault” and as a “museum” certainly had much to commend them. The entrance to the cellar was guarded by a solid door, some six inches in thickness, and secured by a complex combination lock. Once inside the cellar, I was astounded, as was Holmes, insofar as I could judge by his reaction, by the works of art contained therein.

  Three of the walls were lined with glass cases, containing small paintings, works of art, illuminated books from a bygone age, and gold and silver ornaments, most of them with a religious origin. A few weapons, mainly jewelled daggers and the like, also graced the cases. Larger paintings of a primitive medieval style hung above the cases, and though I would not pretend to expertise in the field, they seemed to me to be of Italian origin. The fourth wall facing the door had no cases arranged along its length, but was lined by a row of some dozen statues depicting angels playing musical instruments, each about four feet in height. There was a gap in the middle of the line of statues, and I immediately guessed that this space had been filled by the statue responsible for Faulkes’ death.

  Holmes stopped in the doorway, and looked around him.

  “It is quite a sight, is it not, Mr Holmes?” said Gregson, smiling.

  “Indeed it is,” he replied. “I am not surprised at the servants’ name for this room. This is an impressive door, is it not?” He swung the heavy door closed, and as gently as it closed, there was a distinctive thud as it swung ponderously into its frame. “Let us open it again,” he said, tugging at the handle. As the door swung open, there was a loud creaking sound from the hinges. “As the good Simpkins remarked, it is a most distinctive sound, and I am reasonably certain that he would have noticed it had the door been opened again after Faulkes had returned here.” He walked slowly about the room, examining the display of curios, his hands clasped behind his back. “Has anything been removed, do you know?”

  “I see no obvious gaps in the cases,” replied Gregson. “All are locked, and none has been forced. I detect no sign of any object or painting hanging on the wall having being removed.”

  “You would rule out robbery as a motive, then?” asked Holmes.

  “I cannot be completely certain as yet. The ledger upstairs appears to be a meticulous record of all the objects contained in this room. I will naturally have a check made of the contents of the room and compared to the lists in the ledger. I will be surprised, though, if there is any discrepancy.”

  “I too,” remarked Holmes. “However, I commend your attention to detail in making such a check.” He broke off suddenly. “How is this room ventilated?” he asked Gregson. “I take it that these gas lamps have been burning continuously since the body was discovered, and therefore since yesterday evening?”

  “We have not touched them,” confirmed Gregson. “If you will take the trouble to look upwards, you will see a sliding grille in the centre of the ceiling communicating with some sort of vent leading to the outside. It appears that the grille can be opened and closed by this cord here,” pointing to a loop of stout sash-cord suspended from the ceiling. “We have not touched this, either. And before you start to go off on one of your theories, Mr Holmes,” he smiled, “the vent is a mere nine inches in diameter. I think it is most unlikely that the murderer could have entered and exited the room by that route. There are also two ventilation grilles above the door, leading to the cellar proper. Those are likewise too small for any entry or exit.”

  “I agree with your conclusions,” Holmes replied, apparently not at all offended by Gregson’s gentle chaff. “The ventilation has hardly dispersed the smell of ether, though.”

  “Ether?” exc
laimed Gregson. “I confess that I am suffering from a slight cold, and had failed to remark any such odour.”

  “I can also perceive a slight smell of ether,” I confirmed. “Undoubtedly it is ether, Inspector. No doubt left behind from the doctor’s examination of the body.”

  “No doubt,” answered Holmes, absent-mindedly. By this time, he had arrived at the spot in the centre of the room where a chalk outline marked the position of the body as the police had outlined it in the way Gregson had described. A large dark stain marked the floor at the point where the head had lain. “The injury was to the right temple, you say?” he asked. Gregson confirmed this. “So the body was lying face uppermost, if the evidence of the bloodstain is to be believed?” The policeman nodded. “So we may conclude that the blow was struck with the left hand.”

  “I had remarked that. Simpkins, by the way, is right-handed, as are all the servants in the house.”

  “Well done, Inspector. Such an early elimination is always of value. Even though you and I still suspect Simpkins of being somewhat less than straightforward, we do not suspect him of the killing, do we? Never fear, we will soon discover whatever it is that he feels he must keep secret from us. There is a considerable amount of blood, is there not? We must assume that a major blood vessel was damaged by the blow. And this,” he went on, bending forward, “is the angel of death, if we may term it such.”

  A shiver went over me as he pronounced this description, and even Gregson, whom I had imagined to be immune to such feelings, appeared to shiver at the words.

  “With your permission, Inspector, I would like to remove a sample of the hair and tissue attached to this?” Gregson signified his assent, and Holmes delicately removed a small sample of the gore that was attached to the base of the statue. I drew closer and examined the object more closely. Obviously one of the set of statues by the wall, this particular angel had been in the act of holding a trumpet aloft. The arm holding the trumpet had broken away from the body, and now lay some distance from it among the bloodstains. I examined the arm as closely as I could without touching it, and discovered it to be hollow, and apparently composed of some sort of earthenware, somewhat similar to terracotta, which had been decorated with paint, as could be discerned from the chips of material surrounding it. I returned to the main body, and examined the base of the statue which, as we had been informed, was composed of stone, in the shape of an octagon.