More From the Deed Box of John H. Watson MD

by Ashton, Hugh

  “Very well,” replied the Italian, somewhat sullenly, crossing his legs and folding his arms as he waited.

  After a few minutes of writing, Gregson pushed a few sheets of paper towards Paravinci and proffered a pen. “Please read through this, and place your signature at the bottom of each page to show your agreement of this being a true and accurate account of our conversation.”

  The other took the papers, and scanned them rapidly, affixing his signature at the bottom of each page before rising to his feet, and pushing the papers back towards Gregson. “I may go now?” he asked once again.

  “You may indeed,” replied the policeman.

  As Paravinci turned to leave, Holmes called to him. “One moment, Signor Paravinci. You may wish to make use of this in the near future.” He extended one of his calling cards, engraved with his name and the Baker Street address, on which he had scribbled a few words. “Maybe ten o’clock tomorrow morning would be a convenient time for you to call?”

  The other, obviously slightly mystified by this, nodded. “I know something of your name and your reputation. I will endeavour to keep the appointment.” He bowed slightly, and left the room.

  Gregson regarded Holmes curiously. “The man may be in the cells by ten o’clock tomorrow,” he remarked. “You noticed, I am sure that he signed those papers with his left hand?”

  “And the deceased’s wound would appear to have been inflicted by another’s left hand? Yes, I did notice that detail.”

  “We know that he regularly handled money, and for all we know, valuable works of art on behalf of the dead man. He is an Italian and a printer by trade. Surely you have not overlooked the connection with the papers received by Faulkes?”

  “I have not,” replied Holmes, evenly,

  “We know that he was a regular visitor, and that by his own admission he was here last night. Simpkins identified him as last night’s visitor just before you arrived, by the way.”

  “And did you observe the reaction of both men when they were brought together?”

  “There was little to observe on the part of Paravinci,” replied Gregson. “However, I noted an expression that appeared to be almost one of sorrow on Simpkins’ face when he was led into the room and confronted the other.”

  “The case against him does indeed look somewhat strong,” commented Holmes.

  “I would say it is almost convincing,” replied Gregson. “I was close to arresting the man on the spot just now for the murder of Francis Faulkes.”

  “Then it is a very good thing that you did not,” retorted Holmes, “for if you had, you would have been making a blunder of the first order, which would have dealt your career a losing card.”

  “Come now,” exclaimed Gregson. “You cannot believe that he is innocent of the murder of Francis Faulkes?”

  “I am convinced of his innocence of that crime,” said Holmes. “And I would strongly advise you, for the sake of your future, if for no other reason, to stay your hand for the next twenty-four hours, within which time I am positive that I will be able to convince you, too, that whatever other crimes of which he may be guilty – and I am not as yet convinced of the exact facts concerning those – Antonio Paravinci is innocent of murder.”

  “We know who killed Francis Faulkes, do we not, and he has just left the room,” protested Gregson.

  “I believe the killer never left the vault,” replied Holmes calmly.

  Gregson had just opened his mouth to expostulate, but there was a knock on the door, and a middle-aged man entered the room in answer to Gregson’s summons, peering through his thick spectacles. He was shabbily dressed in a tweed suit, and his thinning dark hair was combed over his forehead. “Sergeant Wilkerson,” announced Gregson, and proceeded to introduce us. As Gregson had mentioned earlier, it was hard to associate the man’s appearance with his profession as a police officer. From his looks, he would have been more at home in a University, or maybe as the curator of a museum.

  “Inspector Gregson has already spoken of you,” remarked Holmes. “I had no idea until then that the Metropolitan Police Force included such a rara avis in its ranks,” he smiled.

  “I believe I am unique, at least in this country,” replied the other, returning the smile, “though some of the Continental forces employ specialists who perform similar functions to my own. Naturally I have heard of you, Mr Holmes, and you, Dr Watson, and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He spoke in a reedy voice, with a little of the academic specialist about it, matching his appearance.

  “How do the contents of the room downstairs tally with the catalogue?” Gregson asked Wilkerson.

  “I have been unable to discover any discrepancy. I was able to complete the task speedily, since both the catalogue and the collection are excellently ordered, making the task relatively simple. There is, however, a single point that excited my attention.”

  “That being?” asked Holmes.

  “The catalogue contains not only a full description of the items forming their collection, but also their provenance – in other words, the history of the item before it entered the collection, so far as it can be ascertained – and the price paid for the item. It is with regard to that last that my attention was drawn.”

  “In what way?” asked Holmes.

  “Mr Faulkes has been somewhat rash with regard to the payment for many of the items in the collection, in my opinion. It is impossible to fix the precise value of such items with any degree of exactitude, but by my estimate, some items have been purchased for over twice their true value.”

  “You say some items?” asked Holmes. “The others were purchased for a fair price, in your opinion?”

  “I would say that the prices paid for the other items were reasonable, or even under the price I would expect to see asked for them.”

  “Could this not simply be a matter of chance?” I enquired. “After all, connoisseurs have been known to be in error regarding these matters, have they not?”

  “I would agree that this would seem a likely possibility,” agreed the specialist, “were it not for the fact that all these purchases were made from the same dealer in Rome.”

  “The name of this dealer?” asked Holmes. “I fancy I can guess, but I would appreciate confirmation of the matter.”

  “Is this really of relevance?” asked Gregson. “I really fail to see how the name of an Italian art dealer can be of interest to us. Well, Wilkerson, indulge Mr Holmes’ curiosity.”

  “The dealers in question are called Paravinci Fratelli – that is in English, the Paravinci Brothers.”

  Gregson looked stunned. “You were correct in your surmise, Mr Holmes. This definitely does seem of relevance.” He noticed Wilkerson’s bewilderment, and hastened to explain. “The Italian whom we have just been interviewing is named Paravinci, and informed us in the course of our questioning that his uncles are art dealers. You now inform us that the money paid to these Paravincis was over double what it should have been on a number of occasions. This would seem to be of significance.”

  “This is merely my opinion, Inspector,” replied the other. “It might be that other specialists would interpret the pricing of these objets somewhat differently from my estimates.”

  “I hardly think it would be a significant difference,” remarked Holmes. “You are, after all, the James Wilkerson who published that definitive monograph on the varnishes used by Cremona violin makers of the seventeenth century, are you not?”

  A faint flush stole to the expert’s cheek. “Dear me, I had no idea that my fame had spread so far,” he exclaimed. “I suppose you are correct. Others might have opinions that would differ slightly from mine, but I do not think it would be a significant divergence.”

  “It makes the case against young Paravinci look even more damning, does it not?” Gregson said to us.

  “Possibly,” replied Holmes, with an abstracted air. “I think that one important fact has been imparted to us just now, though.”

  “That
being?” asked Gregson.

  “That there is no discrepancy between the entries in the catalogue and the contents of the vault. I suppose,” turning to Wilkerson, “that there is no possibility that any pages of that ledger have been removed?”

  “None whatsoever. Mr Faulkes was a very conscientious recorder of his collection. All pages and entries are numbered in sequence, and the removal of a page would be instantly detectable.”

  “Do you have any knowledge of the statues, one example of which was found near the body?” asked Holmes.

  “The catalogue marks them as being late thirteenth or early fourteenth century Milanese. They were probably made to stand inside a church or private chapel, given their relatively fragile nature and the type of colouring used on them.”

  “Were they purchased from the Paravinci brothers?” asked Gregson.

  “As it happens,” replied Wilkerson, consulting the ledger, “they were not, and he paid what I would consider to be considerably under the market price for them.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant, that is all we need from you at the moment, is that not so, Mr Holmes?”

  “I agree. But it may be that we will require Mr Wilkerson’s talents in the future. For now, I have a few further questions that I would like to ask of Simpkins.”

  Gregson passed the word for Simpkins to be summoned, and Wilkerson left us. The servant entered a few minutes later.

  “I have only a few questions for you,” asked Holmes. “Firstly, was Dr Addison usually consulted by Mr Faulkes as his medical adviser?”

  “Yes, sir. Dr Addison has been his physician for over fifteen years now.”

  “Did he ever consult any other doctors?”

  “About five or six weeks ago, he went up to London, and he told me that he was going to see another doctor in Harley Street.”

  “Do you know the doctor’s name?” asked Gregson.

  “I am sorry, sir. Mr Faulkes did not see fit to give me that information.”

  Holmes posed the next question. “Can you describe Mr Faulkes’ moods? Would you, for example, describe him as being a cheerful man?”

  “Up until about a month ago, I would have said that he was cheerful, sir. He was happy, and often smiled and joked about matters with me. But over the past weeks, he seemed to change and become more serious.”

  “Can you tell us whether this change took place before or after the visit to London that you mentioned earlier?”

  “As I recall, sir, this was after the visit to London.”

  “And what of his habits with regard to eating and drinking?” asked Holmes.

  “Again, he used to enjoy his food and drink. I don’t want to give the impression that he drank a lot, sir, but he did enjoy his brandy of an evening, and he dearly loved a good beefsteak. But after that trip to London, he went off his food, I’d have to say, sir.”

  “Did he appear in any way ill, in your opinion?”

  “I’m no doctor, sir, but I wouldn’t have said so. He was an elderly gentleman, and he wasn’t getting any younger, if you take my meaning. None of us is, come to that.”

  “Quite,” replied Holmes, shortly. “I think that answers my questions admirably, thank you, Simpkins.”

  The servant left us.

  “I think, Watson, it is time for us to return to London. Inspector, I think you now have all the facts in your possession. It is up to you to work on them and conclude the solution for yourself. If you would care to call on us tomorrow at about eleven o’clock, I think that we will be able to close this case satisfactorily.”

  Gregson looked at me and shrugged his shoulders as if questioning me. As for myself, I had no more idea than did Gregson as to the solution of the mystery. I therefore shook my head, and followed Holmes out of the room.

  -oOo-

  The next morning saw Holmes and myself waiting for Paravinci to show himself at Baker Street. Holmes had been irritatingly silent regarding the events at Watford during our return to London and throughout the previous evening.

  As soon as we had finished our breakfast, he slipped out of the house, promising to return before ten o’clock. Sure enough, a little before the appointed hour, he returned, bearing a small portfolio of papers. He regard me with a quizzical expression.

  “You are, no doubt, wondering whether Signor Paravinci will grace this room with his presence at ten o’clock?” he asked me.

  “I was indeed wondering that,” I replied. “How can you be certain that he will make the journey here?”

  “I think that the message I wrote on the card will be sufficient inducement to bring him to us.” As he spoke, there was a ring at the front door, and I could hear Mrs Hudson admitting a visitor. A minute later, Antonio Paravinci entered.

  “I had to come,” he started the conversation. “Please explain the message that you wrote on the card you gave me yesterday. ‘If you do not come, you will surely be hanged’ is not the usual kind of invitation that I am accustomed to receive. Is my life really in such danger?”

  “Signor Paravinci, I do not think you quite comprehend the situation in which you currently find yourself. I will lay certain facts before you in order to make my point clear to you. Mr Faulkes is dead through an act of violence. You visited him on the night he died and you are known to have been with him in the room where his body was found and where we are to assume he met his end. You are known to have had a disagreement with him on that very night. You seem unable to prove that you left his house when you claim to have done. Furthermore, you are known to have been entrusted by him with money, and your uncles’ business has received unusually large sums of money from him in the past. The average police detective would have no problem in putting these matters together and assuming your guilt. And Inspector Gregson, although his talents are superior to those of most of the detectives employed by the Metropolitan Police, sees no way at present to resolve the issue other than to assume your guilt.”

  As Holmes continued his recitation, the wretched Paravinci, forced to nod in agreement at every point made by Holmes, grew more and more pale, until I was moved to rise and pour him a glass of water. He accepted it from my hand and sipped gratefully.

  “And as a final conclusion,” Holmes added, “I am sorry to tell you that my countrymen who would be likely to form the jury in your trial would not look kindly on you, being, as you are, not a native of this country.”

  “My God!” replied our visitor. “I had not considered matters in the light you have just presented them to me. What am I to do?” he positively wailed.

  “You must listen to me, and tell me the truth. I will start by saying that I am positive you did not kill your father.”

  The effect of these words on the Italian was dramatic. He gave a gurgling cry and pitched forward, the glass of water falling from his hand, and spilling onto the floor.

  “Holmes!” I exclaimed. “The man has fainted.” I adjusted our visitor’s position, and employed the usual methods to revive someone in that condition. The act of loosening his collar and the use of sal volatile soon returned the patient to consciousness. He looked about him wildly, and fixed his stare on Holmes, who continued gazing at him cooly.

  “How… How did you know that Francis Faulkes is— was my father?” he stammered. “I will not deny it, since you already appear to have the knowledge.”

  “By the ears,” Holmes replied. “You may not be aware, but the shape of the ear, as I have remarked on other occasions, furnishes an excellent medium for confirming degrees of relationship. Your ear, my dear sir, is of a most distinctive shape, particularly the shape of the lower lobe, and the antitragus. I have only observed that particular configuration once or twice in the past, the most recent occasion being when I examined the body of Mr Francis Faulkes in the morgue. The similarity was too marked to be a coincidence.”

  The other ruefully rubbed the organ in question. “I had no idea I was so distinctive in that regard,” he remarked. “What more do you know?”

  “I act
ually know very little as a positive fact, but I can make some guesses, and you may care to confirm them. Indeed, I would strongly recommend that you do confirm them for me, or correct me if perchance I have failed to draw the correct inference. Watson here will tell you that I am not infallible,” he smiled, “and I appreciate others setting me on the right track on those occasions, admittedly rare, when I am mistaken.” He settled into his chair and continued. “I had guessed before this morning that you were born on the twenty-second day of July in 1873. I am sure that the official records will confirm this.”

  “You are a true magician, Mr Holmes. You are correct. How do you know this?”

  “It took no great skill for me to deduce this fact, given the vault under Mr Faulkes’ house and the door to it. Let me continue. My guess is that Mr Faulkes had paid a visit to Italy, specifically to Rome, some time late the previous year. Some nine months earlier, in fact.” He paused to let the full meaning of the words sink into the other’s consciousness.

  “I admit that Francis Faulkes is my natural father,” cried the other. “He was visiting Italy when he met my mother, and they loved each other. He would have married her in an instant, but her parents – my grandparents – would not hear of her being married to any but an Italian. They drove her out of the house, shamed by her condition, but her elder brothers, who were at that time starting in business as dealers in antiquities, gave her shelter, and cared for her and her new-born child – myself.”

  “Could your father not have married your mother after your grandparents’ death?” I enquired.

  “My mother had been made to swear a solemn oath that she would never contemplate marrying anyone except an Italian man. And my mother is a woman of honour – she would never ever break such a promise. But my father – for I can now acknowledge him as such to you, and I may tell you that it is a blessed relief for me to call him by that name at last – continued to love her, and to look after her and me by sending money from England at regular intervals. He also visited Italy regularly, and let me understand, as soon as I was capable of such understanding, that I was his son, and he regarded me as such in every way, short of marriage to my mother.”