More From the Deed Box of John H. Watson MD

by Ashton, Hugh

  “Let us try the weight of one of these,” remarked Holmes, standing up and moving to the wall. He grasped one of the statues around the middle and lifted. “The weight is concentrated in the base, as you might expect,” he observed. “In fact, the whole thing is somewhat like a large hammer.”

  “Somewhat clumsy and ill-shaped, though, as far as any practical purpose is concerned,” I pointed out. “Why, the merest blow would shatter the ‘handle’.”

  “Indeed it would, Watson.” The idea appeared to give him pause for thought and he strode back to the centre of the room where he stood, gazing up at the ventilator, and down at the chalk outline and the statue and its detached arm. Gregson watched with amused puzzlement.

  Holmes returned to the line of statues, and examined them closely. “This one has been broken and repaired,” he noted. “See here, Watson.”

  I examined the artwork in question, noting that its arm had become detached in much the same way as the one by the body, and had been repaired by a very unskillful hand. “Why, Holmes,” I exclaimed, “it seems that the glue used to piece this together is hardly dry.”

  “Indeed,” said Holmes. “Without knowing the exact composition of the adhesive, we cannot tell the exact date at which the repair was carried out, but my impression that it was within the last few days at most.”

  “I have seen enough here for present. Can you give orders that nothing is to be touched or moved, Inspector?”

  “Certainly.”

  We returned upstairs to the dining-room to find that Simpkins, maybe to make amends for his earlier reticence, had, without being asked, laid out an excellent luncheon of cold meats and salads. We thanked him, and the previous gory scene notwithstanding, fell to with good appetites.

  When we were almost finished, and Simpkins had brought in coffee, there was a ring at the front door.

  “Ah, the priest,” exclaimed Holmes. “I had almost forgotten about him.”

  Father Donahue was ushered into the room, and persuaded to take coffee with us.

  “A tragic business,” he intoned, wagging his head.

  “And I owe you an apology, Father, for not acting more promptly,” replied Holmes contritely. “If I may borrow the words of your Church, with all due sincerity, I pronounce mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.”

  “There is nothing for which you can blame yourself, I feel,” replied the priest. “There was no way that you could have foreseen this.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have done the deed?” asked Holmes.

  “I cannot say,” replied the cleric.

  “I understand,” my friend replied, pensively. “To change the subject, Father, you were with the unfortunate man when he died. Did he utter any words to you before he passed away?”

  The other shook his head. “Nothing. He was unconscious when I arrived and was incapable of speech. Thanks be to God, he was at least alive, and I was able to administer Extreme Unction to him. There was no thought of my hearing his confession or his performing Penance or taking the Eucharist. I am certain, though, that he died in a state of grace, and that his soul’s stay in Purgatory will be a short one.”

  Such a discussion of religious matters made me uncomfortable and uneasy, as it would the majority of Englishmen. I noticed that Gregson appeared to share my discomfort, but Holmes appeared to be unaffected by this Romish show of piety.

  “And as far as you are aware, the doctor likewise noted no words from Faulkes before he died?” he asked.

  “Not that I am aware of. He said nothing to me, if he did. Not that I would expect him to,” added the priest, not without a certain humour. “Dr Addison, like so many of his profession, saving your presence, Dr Watson, is a so-called freethinker – in other words, an unbeliever.”

  “Are you aware,” my friend asked suddenly, “of the name Paravinci? Does it mean anything to you?”

  “I believe I may have encountered the name,” said the priest. “I have worked with Italian immigrants in the East End of London, and the name is not an uncommon one.”

  “Antonio Paravinci?” pressed Holmes.

  Donahue shrugged. “Possibly. Antonio is likewise a common Christian name. I do not have any special recollection of anyone by that name. May I ask why you are enquiring?”

  “You may certainly ask, Father, but I am under no obligation to provide you with an answer. Like you, I have my professional secrets.” Holmes smiled at the cleric, and the priest, obviously taken with the conceit, smiled in return.

  “If you have no more questions,” said Donahue, “I must away to my flock. More mundane matters, but ones, I assure you, of equal importance to this affair in the eyes of God.” He took his leave and departed.

  “A strange fellow, that,” remarked Gregson.

  “But sharp, for all that,” Holmes replied.

  “Even though he knows nothing of this matter?”

  “He never said that he knows nothing,” countered Holmes.

  “Did he not? I rather fancied that he did,” answered the police detective.

  “Consider his exact words to us. Be that as it may,” replied Holmes, “I would like to view the body at the mortuary, if I may receive your permission to do so.”

  “Granted without reservation,” said Gregson. “Dr Watson, I take it you will want to be present?”

  “Naturally,” I replied.

  “Good.” Gregson scribbled his signature on a piece of paper from his notebook and handed it to Holmes. “Between you and me, Doctor,” turning to me, “the police surgeon here strikes me as somewhat of a fool, and I do not altogether trust his conclusions. Your observations would provide me with a more reliable view of the situation.”

  At that moment, there was another ring at the door, and a constable was admitted.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” he addressed Gregson. “We’ve just had a wire from Scotland Yard in at the station. They have located the Italian party in question, and can be bringing him here within an hour if you wish, or if you prefer, they will hold him in London to wait for your return.”

  Gregson turned to Holmes.

  “I would strongly recommend bringing him here,” said Holmes. “If nothing else, he can be positively identified by Simpkins, and we can observe their reactions when confronted with each other if it appears desirable to do so.”

  “That would seem to be good sense,” agreed Gregson. “Ask London to send him up here as soon as possible, in the company of a pair of constables. Also ensure that Sergeant Wilkerson comes here at the same time,” he said to the local policeman, who acknowledged the order and left us.

  “Who is this Sergeant Wilkerson?” asked Holmes. “The name is unfamiliar to me.”

  Gregson smiled. “He is a new addition to the strength of Scotland Yard, and something of a rarity in our ranks. He is a graduate of Cambridge University, and acts as the Force’s expert when it comes to questions of an artistic nature, such as forgery or theft of paintings and the like. His rank of Sergeant is a somewhat honorary one. He is no-one’s idea of a Metropolitan Police officer, to be sure.”

  “You intrigue me,” replied Holmes. “I look forward to the pleasure of his acquaintance.”

  “He will be with us within the hour, I hope.”

  “Then, Watson, let us make haste to the mortuary,” suggested Holmes. “We will return in about an hour, or a little more, Inspector, and inform you of our findings.”

  -oOo-

  Upon our arrival at the hospital, Holmes seemed relatively uninterested in the body of Francis Faulkes after the first inspection, concentrating his attention on the contents of the deceased’s pockets, which had been sorted and labelled by the mortuary staff.

  I occupied myself with examining the body, concentrating my attention on the right temple, where the ghastly wound gaped. It was a little lower down and to the front than I had been led to believe, and the bone around the hole formed by the angle of the statue’s base was obviously crushed. I was surprised, given the
nature of the wound and the obvious force with which the blow had been delivered, that Faulkes had survived and had not been killed outright. I had borrowed one of Holmes’ lenses to examine the details more closely, and as I moved the glass over the dead man’s face, I noticed some tufts of what appeared to be cotton-wool adhering to the inside rim of the nostrils.

  “Have you cleaned or plugged the facial orifices?” I asked one of the attendants.

  “No, sir,” he replied. “The body is in exactly the same state as it was when it was brought in to us a few hours ago. No-one has touched it, by police orders.”

  I drew Holmes’ attention to the detail. “Excellent, Watson. I had somewhat suspected that we would find something of the sort. See here.” He displayed to me a number of cotton-wool pads which had been found in the dead man’s possession. “Not that these are necessarily significant in themselves,” he remarked, “but taken in conjunction with this,” holding up a small bottle, “I feel that there may be some answer to the problem before us. Note that this pad, especially, has been soaked in liquid at some point in the recent past – the same liquid, I feel certain, that is contained herein.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Precisely what I expected to find,” he replied, unstoppering the bottle and holding it under my nose.

  “Ether!” I exclaimed. “As we noted in that cellar. But what does it mean? If we had discovered that cotton-wool on the floor, or elsewhere, I would say that Faulkes’ assailant had attempted to anaesthetise him. As it is, would he attempt the same on himself?”

  “Inhaling or even imbibing ether is popular as a recreation among certain classes of society, it is true,” admitted Holmes. “It is possible that Faulkes would have indulged in this way, but I have my doubts as to that. I noticed in the dining-room a goodly supply of fine liqueurs, and those who appreciate good wine and brandy are, in my experience, unlikely to resort to ether as a solace. I may, of course, be wrong, but I feel that I am now close to a solution here. I am confident that the mysterious Signor Paravinci will supply a few of the missing pieces, and then I will be in a position to confirm my suspicions when we return to London.”

  I must confess that I was completely in the dark. Before we left, I made a sketch of the deceased’s ear at Holmes’ request, but I could make no sense of his wishes, as indeed, of the whole business, which continued to be a mystery to me.

  We returned to the Faulkes residence to find Gregson still seated at the dining table. A young man, by his looks and dress a workman of some kind, was sitting in the corner, flanked on either side by a burly constable.

  “Your sense of timing continues to be excellent, Mr Holmes,” Gregson greeted us. “Mr Paravinci has arrived not five minutes ago. Sergeant Wilkerson is downstairs with the catalogue, ensuring that the collection is complete and that there is nothing missing.” He turned to address the Italian. “We wish to ask you a few questions. First of all, I wish to know whether you are happy for us to speak in English, or whether you wish an interpreter to be provided for you.”

  “I am happy to speak in English,” replied the other, with a very faint foreign accent. “I anticipate no problem in understanding you, and I trust that you will have no difficulty in understanding my replies to you.”

  “That is a relief,” said Gregson. “I dislike working through an interpreter. I must also warn you that this is an official interview, and anything you say will be taken down in writing, and may be used against you in formal criminal proceedings. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly clear,” replied the other. “Am I under arrest?”

  “No, you are not. You are free to leave at any time, but I have to tell you that this will probably be interpreted as evidence of guilt, and you will then be arrested.”

  The other shrugged. “I understand.”

  “Please come here and sit facing us on the other side of the table. I am Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard, and the gentlemen on my right and left are the private detective Mr Sherlock Holmes and his colleague Dr John Watson who are assisting me.”

  The Italian stood, and it was obvious that he was a strong, powerfully built young man, who would have had no difficulty in wielding the statue identified as the murder weapon. He had none of the swarthiness we usually associate with the Italian race and indeed, could easily have passed for a certain type of Englishman.

  “You are Antonio Paravinci?”

  “I am,” was the steady reply.

  “How long have you lived in England?”

  “A little over four years.”

  “And you have known Mr Faulkes all that time?”

  “I have known him since before I arrived in England. Mr Faulkes has been a friend of my family in Italy for many years.”

  “How do you earn your living?”

  Here Holmes interrupted. “My dear Inspector, it is superfluous for you to ask that question. It is obvious that Signor Paravinci earns his living in the printing trade, spending most of his time as a compositor, as is evidenced by his thumb, and the ink under his fingernails.”

  Gregson flushed, and the Italian smiled faintly. “Yes, I work at a small printing shop, owned and operated by a fellow Italian,” he acknowledged. “Fallini and Company, in Whitechapel. I have been with them since my arrival in this country.”

  “Did you visit Mr Faulkes regularly?”

  “I used to visit him monthly, until just over one month ago, when I started to visit him more frequently.”

  “Would you explain to us why you changed your habits?”

  “I would prefer not to answer that, if you have no objection.”

  Gregson raised his eyebrows, but continued his questioning. “We have been told that you visited this house last night.”

  “That is so.”

  “We were also informed that you and Mr Faulkes engaged in a dispute as you were leaving the house.”

  “It was more in the nature of a disagreement than a dispute,” countered Paravinci.

  “And perhaps you would care to tell us of the nature of this disagreement?” suggested Gregson, laying what I felt was an unnecessary emphasis on the last word.

  “May I refuse to tell you?”

  “If you wish to keep silent on the matter, you may do so.” replied Gregson. “I have no authority to compel you in this matter – as yet. After your disagreement, you left the house?”

  “I did,” the other replied.

  “And then?” Gregson sighed. “I hope that you are aware that you are not being very forthcoming, Mr Paravinci.”

  “Very well. I will tell you what I did. I left the house and walked to the station. I caught the 9:32 train to Euston. From there, I walked to Euston Square station and took the railway to the Whitechapel station. From there I walked to my lodgings in Greatorex Street. I arrived home between a quarter before eleven and eleven o’clock, I guess.”

  “Did anyone see you either on your journey home, or when you arrived at your lodgings?”

  “I am sorry that I am unable to supply you with an alibi,” replied the other calmly. “Of course I saw many people on my journey, but none known to me personally. It is possible, I suppose, that the ticket collector at this station or even at Euston or Whitechapel might remember me, but otherwise, I am unable to provide proof of my actions. May I go now? I have work waiting to be completed.”

  “I have only a few more questions, and then you will be free to leave. First, what is your relationship with Albert Simpkins, the late Mr Faulkes’ servant?”

  “I hardly know him. He lets me into the house, he shows me to Mr Faulkes. He has served me with food and drink sometimes. Sometimes he lets me out of the house, sometimes Mr Faulkes performs that office himself. I know nothing of him as a person.”

  Gregson wrote in his notebook. “Do you know Father Patrick Donahue of Holy Rood Church?”

  “I know that he is the priest here, and that Mr Faulkes sometimes mentioned him in conversation.”

  “I suppose it is useles
s to ask you to describe the content of your conversations with Mr Faulkes?”

  Paravinci smiled. “Not entirely useless, Inspector. As you might imagine, we discussed personal matters that I would sooner not mention here. However, much of our conversation revolved around his collection. My uncles in Rome are art dealers and restorers. It is through his dealings with them that Mr Faulkes became acquainted with my family and with me. Very often I acted as an intermediary in some business dealings when he wished to purchase some item for his collection.”

  “Did you handle money in connection with these dealings?” asked Gregson.

  “Yes, he used to entrust me with the money for the purchases on occasion. I was able to remit the money to my uncles through my employer, Fallini, more easily than Mr Faulkes was able to do himself.”

  “Did you receive a commission for your services?”

  The other flushed. “I did not seek any reward in this regard, but Mr Faulkes insisted that I take something for my trouble. This money I did not keep for myself, but gave to St Anne’s church in Whitechapel. The priest there can confirm this. Am I now free to go?”

  Gregson sighed again. “You are free to go, Mr Paravinci, if Mr Holmes here has no questions?” Holmes shook his head. “But I would advise you to cooperate a little more freely when you are questioned next time about this matter.”

  “You think I will be questioned again?”

  “I am certain of it. I must ask you to wait here for a few minutes only while I complete my account of this conversation, following which I will ask you to sign it.”