The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes

by Leonard Goldberg

  Joanna Blalock went to the typewriter and examined the note that had been typed on Charles Harrelston’s personal stationery. It read:

  I have disgraced my family and cannot bear to live with the shame. God forgive me and have mercy on my soul.

  CH

  “And there you have it,” Lestrade said with finality.

  “It has been typed,” Joanna Blalock said disdainfully.

  “But signed,” Lestrade countered. “And we made inquiries to determine if he signs all his correspondence with initials, and he does—or rather did. And that is his handwriting as well.”

  “His initials are written quite clearly,” Joanna Blalock observed.

  “He had good penmanship,” Lestrade agreed. “We can say that for him.”

  Joanna Blalock smiled ever so slightly to herself. “Remarkably good, under the circumstances.”

  We heard footsteps behind us and turned. A tall, well-built man entered. He was in his middle years, with sharp features and a firm jaw. His hair was a reddish-blond color that seemed to emphasize his Teutonic blue eyes. He was very finely dressed with a black frock coat and pearl-gray trousers. In his left hand was a silver-headed walking stick.

  “Ah, Dr. Moran,” Lestrade said and formally made the introductions. He did not mention that Joanna Blalock was taking part in the investigation. She was only described as being a concerned friend of the Harrelston family.

  “I have a most pressing engagement and wondered if my further presence will be required,” Moran said.

  “We are just tidying up a few last matters, Doctor,” Lestrade replied. “We shan’t delay you much—”

  “I have a question or two,” Joanna Blalock interrupted.

  “Of course,” Moran said easily, but his eyes narrowed into a frown.

  “As I understand it,” Joanna Blalock recounted, “you and Charles Harrelston were in this very room playing one last hand of poker for a thousand pounds. Correct?”

  Moran nodded. “I tried to persuade him otherwise, but he persisted. I had no choice.”

  “And he lost?”

  “He lost.”

  “What was his response?”

  “He was badly shaken,” Moran replied. “After all, he was now two thousand pounds in debt. He seemed to lose color and, appearing quite faint, requested a glass of water. I hurried out to my secretary, who was unfortunately away from his desk. I went for the water and when I returned Charles had disappeared. At first I thought he was playing some sort of prank. Then I saw the note and the open window. I dashed over to the window and looked down at the sidewalk. To my horror I saw the body of dear Charles, with a group of people gathered around him.”

  “And the housekeeper, Mrs. Lambert, can attest to this sequence of events,” Lestrade added. “You see, she had come up to the parlor to inquire if the gentlemen required any refreshment. It was at this very moment that Dr. Moran rushed into the hall and, spotting Mrs. Lambert, asked that she go downstairs for a glass of water while he went to fetch his medical kit. Before rushing off, Dr. Moran called into the parlor and insisted that Charles Harrelston remain on the couch until he and Mrs. Lambert returned. Mr. Harrelston replied in a weak voice that he would adhere to the doctor’s orders. The good Dr. Moran and his housekeeper were gone only a minute or so, and came back to find the room empty. I believe the rest is known to you.”

  “Oh, yes, I can assure you I know the rest,” Joanna Blalock said, her face hardening for a brief moment. “Might I know the very last words Charles Harrelston spoke?”

  “To what purpose?” Lestrade asked.

  “He may have uttered a phrase or two that his family would cherish,” Joanna Blalock said. “Perhaps some word of farewell.”

  “Indeed,” Lestrade said, with a nod. “You are very kind to think of that, madam.”

  “Not at all,” Joanna Blalock replied.

  Turning to Moran, Lestrade asked, “Do you recall the last words of Charles Harrelston?”

  “Only that he would be fine until I returned,” Moran said.

  “Are those the same words Mrs. Lambert heard?” Joanna Blalock inquired.

  “I believe so, but I have no objection to you asking her directly,” Moran offered.

  “Thank you,” Joanna Blalock said. “We shall do so on our way out.”

  “I am afraid that will not be possible,” Moran informed. “Mrs. Lambert was so badly shaken by the event that I deemed it best to send her home to recover and rest for the next several days.”

  “How thoughtful of you,” Joanna Blalock said without inflection. Her eyes caught Moran’s and held them for a moment before she continued. “Charles Harrelston’s death must be very trying for you as well, for I am told that you two were good friends.”

  “Better than good,” Moran said. “We served together in the Second Afghan War and have been close ever since.” He shook his head sadly. “And now this. Had I known this tragic event might occur, I would have gladly forgiven the debt.”

  My father stepped forward. “I too was in the Second Afghan War. But I must say you look rather young to have fought back then.”

  “I volunteered on my twentieth birthday, while in medical school,” Moran explained. “Much to my parents’ dismay, I should add.”

  “I would imagine,” my father said. “Might I ask what regiment you were assigned to?”

  “I was attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,” Moran said proudly.

  “Why, so was I!” My father extended his hand and shook Moran’s vigorously. “But I am afraid I do not recall you.”

  “I was there at the beginning of ’78,” Moran said.

  “And I in late ’78,” my father reminisced. “When I arrived in Bombay the regiment had already moved out and were pushing into the mountains, where the rebels were soundly defeated.”

  “We won,” Moran said without emotion. “But at a terrible price.”

  “All wars are fought at a terrible price.”

  Moran nodded gravely and then reached for the gold timepiece in his waistcoat. “I hope you will excuse me, but I must be on my way.”

  “I should like to continue our conversation at another time convenient to you,” my father said amicably.

  “That would be my pleasure,” Moran said, turning for the door.

  “Before you leave, Dr. Moran, there are several points I need clarified for my final report,” Lestrade said. “Might I impose a bit more on your time?”

  “Certainly,” Moran consented, but he looked at his timepiece again, as if to encourage Lestrade to hurry along.

  “Some of my questions may have already been asked, but you will have to bear with me, for we must leave no doubts as to what happened here.”

  “Of course.”

  “To the best of your knowledge, did Mr. Charles Harrelston exhibit any erratic behavior in the past?” Lestrade asked.

  “Not that I know of,” Moran replied.

  “Did he ever show a tendency to self-destruct?”

  “Never.”

  “Or speak of wanting to end his life?”

  “Not in my presence.”

  “In your professional opinion, would you say he was emotionally stable?”

  “Quite so.”

  “Were you aware of any death threats he may have received?”

  “None were ever mentioned.”

  “Had he enemies?”

  “Not that he spoke of,” Moran said. “I should tell you, Inspector, that Charles was well liked by all and his list of friends seemed endless.”

  “Was Mr. Harrelston in debt to any of these friends?”

  Moran hesitated briefly. “That was possible, for he enjoyed gambling. But he never confided such information to me.”

  Lestrade opened a small notepad and studied it for a moment, then asked, “Were you aware that Mr. Harrelston had taken out a life insurance policy for five thousand pounds?”

  “I was not. But surely Charles would not kill himself over such a modest sum
.”

  “Desperate men commit desperate acts at times,” Lestrade said.

  Joanna asked, “When was the life insurance policy applied for?”

  “Two years ago, with Mr. Harrelston paying all the premiums,” Lestrade answered, then revisited his notepad. “Two years and two months, to be exact.”

  “In that case, his family may not be able to collect,” Joanna informed. “Many life policies have a clause that states no payment shall be made if death by suicide occurs within three years of establishing the policy.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Harrelston was unaware of such a clause,” Lestrade said, then came back to Christopher Moran. “While you and your housekeeper were scurrying about downstairs, were the doors to the house secured?”

  “Front and back,” Moran replied. “They are kept locked at all times and no one enters without Mrs. Lambert’s permission.”

  “Were any of the first-floor windows ajar?”

  “They were tightly closed and latched.”

  “And you say that you and Mrs. Lambert were downstairs for only a minute or so?”

  “It was surely under two minutes.”

  “And you, Mr. Harrelston, and the housekeeper were the only ones in the house at the time. Correct?”

  “There were no others.”

  “Not even your secretary?”

  “He had departed for lunch and to attend to some errands.”

  Lestrade closed his notepad and said, “Well then, I have all the information I need for my final report. Now, Dr. Moran, if you will accompany me downstairs, I will require your signature on the eyewitness account you provided.”

  “Of course. But we must hurry, for I have patients waiting at St. Bartholomew’s.”

  “It will only take a moment for you to read and sign the document.”

  As the two men were departing, my father called after Moran, “I look forward to reminiscing about our days with the Northumberland Fusiliers.”

  “As do I,” Moran said, and led the way out.

  The door closed behind them.

  “Liar!” Joanna Blalock spat at the door. “Every other word out of the doctor’s mouth was a lie.”

  My father looked at Joanna Blalock with a stunned expression. “Surely you do not doubt his war record.”

  “It is the murder I am referring to, Dr. Watson.”

  My father’s brow went up. “Do you think Moran is involved?”

  “Up to his teeth. Why else would he lie?” Joanna Blalock stepped over to the open window and pointed to the sill. “Please note the thick layer of dust and soot on the sill.”

  “So?” My father was still confused.

  “So, for the past three days the air in London has been fresh, with no pollution, and there has been no rain,” Joanna Blalock went on. “Thus, this layer of grime has been on the sill for at least three days.”

  “And it is undisturbed,” I observed.

  “Precisely,” Joanna Blalock said. “That is the important fact. It is undisturbed.”

  My father leaned over and examined the sill more carefully. “Why is the undisturbed dirt so noteworthy?”

  “Because it is so revealing,” Joanna Blalock elucidated. “We know that the grime on the sill has been there for at least three days, which means it was there when Charles Harrelston fell. Since the sill is over a foot in breadth, there is no way anyone could have jumped from this window without touching the sill and disturbing the soot.”

  My father nodded slowly. “Which proves that Harrelston did not go through the window.”

  “Which makes Dr. Moran a liar,” Joanna Blalock concluded.

  “I’m surprised that Lestrade did not make that observation,” my father said. “It seems so obvious now.”

  “There is a great deal more that Lestrade did not observe,” Joanna Blalock continued. “For example, Dr. Moran did not lean out the window and gaze down at the sidewalk, as he stated he did.”

  My father asked, “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Would you be kind enough to look out the window and locate the spot where the victim landed?” Joanna Blalock requested.

  “Of course.” My father leaned out the window and stared down at the curb. “I can see it quite clearly.”

  “Excellent,” she said. “Now could you show me your hands?”

  My father held up his hands, palms out. They were covered with black soot. “By Jove!”

  “By Jove, indeed. Had Moran leaned out the window, he too would have disturbed the grime on the sill,” Joanna Blalock reasoned. “And since the grime was undisturbed, we can conclude he did not gaze down at the curb.”

  “Which makes Moran a double liar,” I noted.

  Joanna Blalock moved quickly to the typewriter on the desk. “And then there is the suicide note. It is so amateurish it is hardly worth our consideration.”

  “But it is written on Charles Harrelston’s personal stationery,” my father argued, brushing the soot from his hands.

  “Stolen,” Joanna Blalock responded.

  “His initials, in his own handwriting,” my father countered.

  “Easily forged.”

  My father wrinkled his brow as he tried to think through the problem. “But these are suppositions.”

  “Indeed they are,” Joanna Blalock said. “But tell me, Dr. Watson, is it not odd to find a typewriter in the parlor rather than at the secretary’s desk and, even odder yet, for a gentleman to bring his personal stationery to a game of poker? And what kind of man would type a suicide note, take the note out of the typewriter to initial it, then return it to the typewriter?”

  “Perhaps he initialed it while it was still in the typewriter,” my father suggested.

  “I do not think so.” Joanna Blalock carefully removed the suicide note from the typewriter and inserted a blank sheet. Next she picked up a pen from the desk, dipped it in the inkwell, and gave it to my father. “Please sign your initials on the sheet in the typewriter.”

  My father did so and said, “There.”

  “Notice how uneven your handwriting is compared to that of Charles Harrelston’s,” Joanna Blalock pointed out. “That is because your hand was in an awkward position when you wrote. That would be the case with anyone who attempted to write a note while the paper remained in the typewriter. Thus, it is fair to assume that the note was taken out of the typewriter before it was signed, then returned.”

  “Also,” I interjected, “a man about to commit suicide would be highly distraught. His writing would never be so even. In all likelihood, his penmanship would be little more than a scribble.”

  “Well put, Dr. Wat—” Joanna Blalock stopped in mid-sentence and said, “It is very awkward working with two Dr. Watsons, and having to address both the same. Would it be permissible for me to call you John and your father Dr. Watson?”

  “Only if I am allowed to call you Joanna,” I replied.

  “That is my name,” Joanna said, and gave me a warm smile, which I must admit almost caused me to blush.

  My father added, “Let us not be so formal with my name. I too shall refer to you as Joanna and you must call me Watson, just as Sherlock Holmes did too many years ago.”

  We all nodded in mutual agreement.

  “Now that we are on such informal terms, I must say I have major reservations regarding Christopher Moran’s guilt,” my father said frankly. “Despite the obvious misinformation the man gave us, there is no proof he actually committed the murderous act. Indeed, we cannot dismiss the housekeeper’s eyewitness account, which would appear to clear Moran of any involvement.”

  “I am not dismissing it,” Joanna said.

  “But it points in every way to Moran’s innocence.”

  “Only if one assumes the housekeeper’s version of the event is accurate.”

  “But why would she lie?” I interjected.

  “I did not say she lied,” Joanna responded. “I simply said we have to verify her account, for it represents Moran’s only solid ali
bi.”

  “But you are inferring that the housekeeper’s testimony will differ from that given by Moran.”

  “I am inferring that Moran is a liar and only the housekeeper can provide us with the truth, and that is why it is so important we ascertain the veracity of her statement.” Joanna glanced over to my father and said, “Please obtain Mrs. Lambert’s address from Inspector Lestrade, but do not reveal the true purpose of our pending visit.”

  “What if Lestrade insists on joining us?” my father asked.

  “I doubt he will bother,” Joanna predicted. “Lestrade only sees what he wishes to see and for the moment considers this death to be straightforward suicide. Nevertheless, should he show any interest in joining us, we must dissuade him by promising to share any information we may gather.”

  “Surely he will not interfere with the interview.”

  “But he might unintentionally prompt the woman and it is her words we want to hear, not his.”

  In the next instant, Joanna returned to the business at hand, with the brain behind her lovely face shifting back into high gear. She rapidly looked around the room, then up at the ceiling. “Now, how did Moran move the body onto the roof?”

  “There must be stairs up to the roof in another part of the house,” I surmised. “Perhaps he used those.”

  Joanna shook her head. “He would not carry the body through the house on the chance the secretary might see him.”

  “The secretary might be in on it,” I said.

  Joanna shook her head once more. “I think that unlikely. Moran is not the type to trust his future to a servant. It would open him up to all sorts of unpleasant things, such as blackmail. I very much doubt that the secretary is involved here.”

  “That being the case,” my father said, “why not simply ask the secretary where the stairs to the roof are located?”

  “Not a good idea, Watson,” Joanna said at once. “The secretary may not be an accomplice, but he is a servant and thus would report anything we say or do to Moran. And at this point in the game, it is best the fox not know that the hounds have picked up his scent.”

  “It is still difficult for me to believe that Moran is involved in this nasty business,” my father remarked. “Doctors are usually not murderers.”

  “But when a doctor goes wrong, he is the best of criminals. He has the nerve and he has the knowledge.” Joanna’s eyes went to a closed closet at the opposite end of the room. She walked over and peered inside. It was empty and contained no clothes, hooks, or hangers.