“Five seconds,” I reported.
“So my mathematics indicate that an object falling at thirty-two feet per second would drop one hundred sixty feet in five seconds,” Joanna Blalock calculated. “Thus, the building at 26 Curzon Street could have been fifteen stories in height and the gardener still would not have witnessed Charles Harrelston’s leap to his death. Which tells us the man’s testimony was a complete fabrication.”
“Why would the gardener invent such a story?” I asked.
“For public recognition, self-importance, and a dozen other reasons, none of which are relevant,” Joanna Blalock replied. “What is relevant is that we can discard the gardener’s account and trust my son’s. With that in mind, I believe we can conclude that Charles Harrelston did not jump to his death, but was pushed to it.”
“You do realize that this type of evidence will not hold up in court,” my father warned. “For example, the gardener will claim to have had on his glasses for distant vision at the time he viewed the fall. A good barrister would so prepare him and it would be most difficult to dispute.”
“It may not hold up in a court of law, but it will in a court of logical deduction,” Joanna Blalock responded. “And in this case, that is what will lead us to the solution. Solving a crime is similar to disentangling a ball of yarn. One must find the free end and untangle the first knot one comes to. We have by logic untangled our initial knot.”
We walked on silently toward 26 Curzon Street, but there were two questions that gnawed at me. “Pray tell, Mrs. Blalock, how reliable is this measurement that states a falling object descends at a speed of thirty-two feet per second?”
“It is quite reliable,” she answered. “It is a rule of physics that is based on gravitational pull.”
“How did you come by this knowledge?”
“I read it in a textbook of physics.”
“So, you are good at that science?”
“Hardly. I simply remember facts that may be of importance in solving mysteries.”
My father joined in. “I think the speed of a falling object you referred to is based on Newton’s law of gravity.”
Joanna Blalock shrugged. “Its discoverer is of little matter. Its accuracy is all that counts.”
“I have one further question,” I said. “What made you think beforehand that the gardener’s vision might be impaired?”
A faint smile came to her lips. “What makes you believe I had that in mind?”
“A number of things,” I replied. “But the newspaper article on Harrelston’s alleged suicide that you had in your purse was a major clue. Its presence required forethought. And I much admired the way you guided him into reading the small print.”
“I rather enjoyed that myself.” Joanna Blalock beamed. “And of course you are correct in that I did think of the device beforehand. But the original idea was not mine. I had read about it previously in a French mystery novel. The detective’s name was Delon and he too had to deal with an eyewitness in a murder case whose testimony did not fit the facts. He brought along a newspaper clipping so he could test the witness’s near and far sight.”
“But how did you know the gardener had such poor far vision? You seemed aware of this before the actual test.”
“I did not know until I watched him read the clipping without using his spectacles,” Joanna Blalock said. “Then it became a simple deduction. If a man has excellent near vision, yet carries around thick spectacles, he must have poor far vision.”
Remarkable, I thought. Absolutely remarkable. Here we have a highly trained surgical nurse who dabbles in physics and seems to have a knack for uncovering clues in murder cases. I could not help but wonder how deep the well went in this most attractive woman whom I could not help but gaze at in my peripheral vision. And then a Mona Lisa–type smile came to her face, but I had no idea to what or to whom it was directed. Was it simply a show of confidence or was there some hidden mystery behind the smile? As I forced my eyes away, I was left with the thought that a man could become lost in such loveliness and never find his way out.
4
Christopher Moran
On our return to 26 Curzon Street, Joanna Blalock immediately moved to the sidewalk in front of the house and plunged into a study of Charles Harrelston’s fall. With a careful eye she gazed up and down the building several times before focusing on the granite curb. Only after completing her scrutiny of the bloodstained curb did she stroll over to us and announce, “I was wrong. The body of Charles Harrelston was neither dropped nor pushed off the roof. It was thrown.”
“But your son said it floated down,” I argued.
“It did,” Joanna Blalock said. “But only after being thrown.”
“Where is the evidence for this conclusion?”
“Directly before our eyes.” She walked to the edge of the curb and paced off the distance to the front wall of the house. “It measures a good ten feet. What do you make of that?”
My father and I had no answer.
“Come now,” Joanna Blalock coaxed. “Look to the very top of the house and tell me what you see.”
We strained our necks to find the clue Joanna Blalock had discovered. My father even stepped back to enhance his view before saying, “At the utmost height is a stone parapet that blocks our vision from the remainder of the roof.”
“Which is an important observation I should have noted earlier,” Joanna Blalock told us. “If Harrelston’s body was simply pushed or rolled off the roof, it would have dropped straight down and landed only a few feet in front of the house. But in fact it came to rest a good ten feet away. Thus, some force had to lift and propel that body over the parapet for it to end up a distance from the building.”
“It had to be the murderer,” I concluded.
“So it would appear,” Joanna Blalock agreed.
“Perhaps there was some structure protruding from the building that altered the body’s flight,” my father suggested.
“There is no such structure, which is the second important observation,” she went on. “It is also worth noting that the murderer must be quite strong since it is no easy task to stand back and toss a grown man’s body over the parapet. I suspect he was tall as well to give his throw that much arch.”
It all seemed clear now that the essential clues were pointed out. I could even surmise how Joanna Blalock had discerned the murderer’s position on the roof when he threw the body. “And the perpetrator had to place himself well back from the parapet so as not to be seen from the street below.”
“Which tells us the perpetrator knew his way around the entire building,” Joanna Blalock said. “This was no spur-of-the-moment murder.”
“But if Harrelston was already dead, as the evidence indicates, why did the perpetrator bother to throw him off the roof?” I pondered.
“To conceal his crime,” Joanna Blalock replied. “Our assailant is not only tall and strong, he is also quite clever. He knows how to cover his tracks.”
“Much to the benefit of our friends at Scotland Yard,” my father added, with disdain. “They always search for the easy answer. And in this case, it would be suicide.”
“Did they not note the small amount of blood the terrible head wound left behind, as Mrs. Blalock did?” I asked. “This would be an obvious indication that the victim was dead before he fell.”
“If they noticed it at all, they chose to disregard the finding,” my father said. “You see, it did not fit with their preconceived narrative.”
“Surely they are not that shallow,” Joanna Blalock reproved.
“As Sherlock Holmes would say, they are bunglers,” my father said. “They depend almost entirely on paid informants to solve their cases. It is not that they have no brains. It is that they refuse to use them.”
“Ahoy, Dr. Watson!” a voice cried out.
As if on cue, Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard stepped from the front door and doffed his hat. I recognized him from a photograph in the newspape
r I had seen earlier in the week. He was a tall, middle-aged man, with a pleasant face except for his eyes that seemed fixed in permanent squint. Other than a fringe of hair above his ears, he was completely bald and kept his head covered with a worn brown derby. The aforementioned article had noted that he was the son of the well-known inspector chronicled by my father in the Sherlock Holmes mysteries.
“I heard that you had visited earlier this morning,” Lestrade said.
“And was refused entry,” my father said irritably.
“For that I must take blame,” Lestrade apologized. “An aristocrat’s suicide always brings out the crowds, you see. So I left instructions to keep the area clear and permit no one entrance. I would have certainly made an exception had I known you were involved.”
“Not to worry,” my father said, and then gestured to Joanna Blalock. “Lestrade, allow me to introduce Mrs. Joanna Blalock who witnessed the man’s fall. She has graciously agreed to reconstruct the scene for us. Next to her is my son, John.”
Lestrade tipped his derby and said to Joanna Blalock, “And a dreadful sight it must have been.”
“Yes,” she said flatly. “Dreadful.”
“I see no need to put you through that gruesome remembrance again,” Lestrade went on. “All the evidence gathered thus far indicates that Mr. Charles Harrelston took his own life.”
“So it was straightforward suicide, then?” my father inquired.
“I did not say that, for there are several features that do not fit here.”
“Such as?”
“I found it strange that a fine gentleman like Mr. Harrelston would choose to end his life in this manner, with everything on public display,” Lestrade said. “In my experience, the aristocracy prefer to do this sort of deed in private. And since Mr. Harrelston was once an officer in His Majesty’s army, he was certainly familiar with firearms and could have easily ended it all with a single shot. So there are some unusual aspects to this apparent suicide.”
“Indeed,” my father agreed, “for we have been told there are eyewitnesses who contradict one another.”
“Which is so on the surface,” Lestrade said. “A gardener a half-block away stated that Mr. Harrelston leaped from the third-floor window, with arms and legs flailing wildly, while a young lad of ten told us the man seemed to float down.”
“Which do you believe?” my father asked.
“Both,” Lestrade replied promptly. “The gardener no doubt saw the man jump from the window, at which time his arms and legs were thrashing about. The boy viewed the very end of the plunge, when Mr. Harrelston was bracing himself at the last moment for final impact. This I believe explains their differing accounts.”
“But there remains a contradiction that has not been explained,” my father said. “The young lad insisted the man fell from the roof, and not from the third-floor window as described by the gardener.”
“The inspector who questioned the boy did not consider his testimony to be reliable,” Lestrade elucidated. “You see, the little boy was only twenty-five feet or so away from the end of the fall. Being of such low stature, the child would almost be required to be lying on his back to have a clear view of the roof. And of course the lad’s story contradicts the other evidence we have at hand. Thus we concluded the gardener’s observation was the more accurate one.”
“Perhaps,” my father said. “But you must admit it does raise some doubts.”
“Oh, it did, Dr. Watson, but these doubts were swept away by the suicide note that was signed by Mr. Harrelston himself.”
“I should like to see the note,” Joanna Blalock said at once.
Lestrade’s eyes narrowed noticeably. “Might I ask why?”
Joanna Blalock quickly covered her seemingly inappropriate request by saying, “I am a dear friend of the Harrelston family and I am certain they would appreciate this tragic chapter in their lives being brought to a final conclusion. Knowing their son’s last words would do so and remove any unwanted speculation.”
“You are most correct, madam,” Lestrade agreed. “I shall allow you to see it.”
“I will tell the family of your kindness.”
Lestrade led the way inside and, talking over his shoulder, began to ascend the stairs. “You will have the opportunity to meet the gentleman who owns the house. He apparently was a close friend of the deceased.”
“What is his name?” Joanna Blalock asked.
“Dr. Christopher Moran.”
“A physician?”
“Of the highest caliber.”
As we climbed the stairs, I was glad to be behind the others, for fear of showing the deep concern on my face. Joanna Blalock and my father had demonstrated some remarkable deductive skill in overturning the notion that Charles Harrelston had committed suicide. The evidence thus far surely indicated it was premeditated murder. But all that evidence was circumstantial and would never hold up at an official inquiry. A signed suicide note on the other hand was powerful proof and could not be explained or ignored. Such a note was strong enough to whisk away our observations, as if they were loose dust.
We reached the second floor of the row house and entered a reception area. A short, balding secretary sat at his desk and busily sorted through papers. He was obviously distraught.
Joanna Blalock stopped to study the man. “I take it you are Dr. Moran’s secretary.”
“Only until the end of the day,” the secretary said. “For I have given notice. I do not wish to remain here longer.”
“Because of Mr. Harrelston’s death?” Joanna Blalock asked.
“That and other matters,” he replied.
“Tell me of these other matters,” she requested. “Please do not omit any details.”
Lestrade stared at Joanna Blalock with a most perplexed expression. He was clearly surprised by the manner in which she had taken over the investigation. Rather than object, Lestrade gestured to my father for an explanation. My father held up a finger to indicate an answer would be forthcoming shortly.
The secretary was glancing around to make certain no one was close by, then spoke in a low voice. “There are strange doings going on in this house, madam. Death seems to come from nowhere. Like in Mr. Harrelston’s and again in the case of Dr. Moran’s dog, Punch, a friendly Jack Russell terrier loved by all. Only a week ago he was playing by my desk when he went into the parlor through a barely opened door. A moment later I heard him cry out, then he came back to me, limping and licking his paw. Within minutes the paw was swollen and red, and within a few hours the sweet dog was dead. That was most unnatural, would you not agree?”
Joanna Blalock nodded. “Most unnatural indeed. What did Dr. Moran say?”
“He believed that an infected rat had bitten the dog,” the secretary replied. “On occasion I have been instructed to purchase several rats to be used for training the dog. Punch, you see, had become an excellent ratter.”
Joanna Blalock’s lips parted in the slightest of smiles. “A rat bite, you say?”
“So I was told.” The secretary hurriedly placed his belongings in a leather case. “And if an infected rat could do that to a dog, it might well do the same to a man. In any event, I have given notice. I shall go someplace where death is not lurking about.”
“Most interesting,” Joanna Blalock said. “Your description of prior events has been very helpful.”
“Then I shall be on my way,” the secretary said and reached for his hat.
Joanna watched the secretary depart, and then turned to my father and said, “Curious, is it not, Dr. Watson?”
“What is so curious?”
“The dog’s death.”
“With all due respect, madam,” Lestrade interceded, “a rat bite can be quite nasty and quite deadly.”
Joanna Blalock looked over to me. “Dr. Watson, you are a qualified pathologist, are you not?”
“I am.”
“Then tell us, in all your experience have you ever heard, seen, or read about a rat’s
bite causing death for man or animal within a few hours?”
“Never,” I answered. “It does not occur.”
“That is what is so curious about the dog’s death.”
The stunned expression that came to Lestrade’s face was indescribable. It clearly showed a man out of his depth. “Then—then what killed the dog?”
Joanna Blalock did not bother to answer. She walked quickly up the stairs to the third floor and entered a large parlor. Carefully she viewed the entire room, looking high and low for something to catch her eye. If it did, the finding did not register on her face. Next she busied herself gently tapping on the walls and listening for a returning sound.
Lestrade moved closer to my father and asked, “Who is this Mrs. Blalock?”
“It is not who she is, but what,” my father replied.
“What is she, then?”
“She is London’s first female detective.”
Lestrade’s jaw dropped. “Blimey!”
“Give her free rein,” my father suggested, “and you will be amazed at what she comes up with.”
“Well, let us give her a try.” Lestrade walked to a large window that was open and overlooked the street below. He turned to Joanna Blalock and said, “Here is the place he leaped from. Be so kind as to tell us something we do not know.”
Joanna Blalock went to the window and studied it at length. It was three feet wide at the most and perhaps five feet in height. There was a thick layer of dust and soot on the outer ledge.
She moved in closer and peered out. It was obvious something had caught her interest, and this enticed all of us to follow her gaze. The air was fresh and clean, so our view was unobstructed. Across Curzon Street we focused our vision on the third-floor window of the row house that was directly opposite us. Its drapes were open. A woman was speaking to someone.
“Well?” Lestrade pressed.
Joanna Blalock ignored the question and continued to study the house across the street.
“And here is the suicide note.” Lestrade broke into her thoughts. “It is in the typewriter where he left it, so it would be easily seen.”
The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes Page 4
