Nearing the neighborhood where Toby resided, my father cautioned, “Prepare yourself for a strange sight.”
“Are you referring to the dog, or its kennel?”
“Both.”
Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby, two-storied brick houses, all of which faced the street. My father had to rap repeatedly on the door to number 3 before a blind on the second floor parted and a face looked out.
“Go away!” a voice cried down. “Whatever you are selling, I do not want any.”
“I must speak with you,” my father called up, only to watch the blind close. Again he knocked loudly and added, “It is of utmost importance.”
“Begone or I will call the police on you, I will,” the voice threatened.
My father yelled, “I wish to talk to you for the purpose of hiring a dog.”
“None are available.”
“It is Toby I am interested in.”
“Then you must go to dog heaven, for that is where she now resides. Old Toby passed on nearly five years ago.”
A sense of dejection crossed my father’s face, but it quickly faded. “I require a dog with a keen sense of smell,” he requested. “Like the one that served Sherlock Holmes so well.”
“And who are you to mention Mr. Holmes’s revered name?”
“Dr. John Watson, his close associate.”
“Dr. Watson! Why did you not say so from the start?”
Moments later the door to number 3 was unbarred and opened. Before us appeared an odd-looking man. He was lanky and lean and very old, with a heavily lined face, stooped shoulders, and a humped back. His arms seemed too long for his body.
“Ah, Dr. Watson!” Mr. Sherman said warmly, squinting through blue-tinted glasses. “It has been many a year, has it not?”
“Too many,” my father replied.
“And sorry I was to hear of Mr. Holmes’s passing.”
“It was a sad day.”
“Indeed it was. But I will wager that some of London’s nastiest criminals danced at the news.” Sherman flicked a wrist, as if waving away the memory and got down to the business at hand. “So, you require a real sniffer, do you?”
“The best you have,” my father requested. “I need one whose skills rival those of Toby.”
“Well then, you might just be in luck. For in her later years, Toby took a real fancy to a bloodhound and they mated to produce a litter, all of which I have sold, save for one. I have named her Toby Two. Would you care to see her?”
“I most certainly would.”
“Then step in, sir,” Sherman welcomed. “But keep clear of the Scottish wildcat. He appears tame enough, but every now and then he pounces at moving targets. That is bred into him, I would guess.”
We gave the wildcat a wide berth. Larger than a house cat, it had a bushy tail and long legs, and it uttered a foreboding hiss as we walked by. Sherman showed us the way past a line of cages that contained a variety of animals, including cats and dogs and a mean-looking badger that clawed at its wire enclosure. Even the rafters held partially hidden fowl that silently glared down at us, as if they were sizing up intruders. The heavy, unsanitary smell of unwashed animals filled the air.
“Toby Two lives at number 15 on the left here,” Sherman said, and pointed to the cage at the very end.
Suddenly from on high, a gray owl with large wings swooped down and by us, and a moment later flew back clutching a rat in its talons. The rat squealed briefly before becoming a tasty meal. My father and I watched with fascination, while the kennel keeper paid it no attention at all.
“Hey, old Toby Two,” Sherman said affectionately, as we came to her cage.
Toby Two proved to be a most peculiar-appearing animal. She had many features of a long-haired spaniel, but the drooping, floppy ears as well as the snout were those of a bloodhound. Upon reaching the floor, the dog immediately sniffed our shoes but, finding little of interest, sat on its haunches and stared up at us. Mr. Sherman handed my father a lump of sugar, which Toby Two accepted after the briefest of hesitations. The alliance between the dog and my father was sealed, and Toby Two eagerly followed us out and into our waiting carriage.
The return trip was uneventful except for Toby Two who, for the entire journey, stuck her head out the window to sample the air and savor the aromas contained in it. Every so often she would yelp pleasantly, giving the impression of having detected something familiar. My father told me that Sherlock Holmes had once commented that dogs had a sense of smell a thousandfold greater than that of man, and could easily discriminate between a hundred different scents at the same time. If true, I thought to myself, a dog that was half Toby and half bloodhound could follow the steps of Benjamin Levy as if they were lighted with torches.
On reaching the Athenian Club we found our way blocked by a very indignant Jonathan Cole.
“Dogs are never allowed in the club under any circumstances,” he rebuked. “The animal will wait outside on a leash and well away from the front entrance.”
“The hound comes with us,” my father said firmly. “She is an important part of the investigation and you will not interfere. If you choose to do so, there may be consequences that you will find very unpleasant.”
“But we have rules here, sir!”
“And you also have a very dead body.”
Lestrade appeared at the entrance and said, “Here, now! What seems to be the problem?”
“They wish to enter with this dog, which I cannot allow,” Cole argued. “The laws of the club are very strict on this matter and the members will undoubtedly stand with me.”
“What say you, Dr. Watson?” Lestrade asked.
“I say Mrs. Blalock wishes to employ the dog to retrace the steps taken by Mr. Levy last night,” my father said, even-tempered, although the look in his eyes told of the little regard he held for the club manager. “This will prove beyond any question the accuracy of Mr. Levy’s movements just prior to his death. Thus, any qualms on what might have occurred will be put to rest.”
Lestrade gave our request only a moment’s thought before saying, “That seems reasonable to me. The dog will be allowed in.”
“Most irregular,” Cole protested, determined to have the last word.
“The dog, or the death?” I asked bluntly.
Mr. Cole wisely chose not to answer.
“This way then,” Lestrade said, and accompanied us down the long corridor. When we were well out of Cole’s earshot, he asked, “Has Mrs. Blalock found something noteworthy?”
“So far not,” my father replied. “But a few things bother her a bit.”
“Such as, may I ask?”
“Such as why Mr. Levy slept on an uncomfortable couch rather than a nearby comfortable bed.”
Lestrade shrugged. “I suspect Mrs. Blalock has not had much experience with those who are tipsy. Men under the strong influence of alcohol are known to sometimes sleep on sidewalks in winter.”
“Even when a warm bed is close at hand?”
Lestrade cocked his head, obviously not impressed with my father’s argument. “But surely, Dr. Watson, that is not a major point in the investigation.”
“It may not be important, but it seems out of place, at least to her,” my father said. “And good detectives never leave the out of place unexplained.”
“That sounds like something Mr. Sherlock Holmes would say.”
“She is under the influence of Sherlock Holmes.”
Lestrade stopped in his tracks and stared at my father. “Pray tell how so?”
“First, I must have your oath that what I am about to tell you will go no further,” my father said solemnly.
“You have it,” Lestrade said at once.
I could not believe my ears. After demanding my secrecy, would my father now divulge Joanna Blalock’s hidden and incredible lineage to a person who, despite his promise, was certain to speak of it? I was very tempted to interrupt.
“Not a word of this story is to be repeated either to Mrs. B
lalock or anyone else,” my father insisted. “Are we absolutely clear on this?”
“Indeed,” Lestrade said, his ears pricked so as not to miss a syllable.
“Some years ago when Joanna Blalock was in her late teens, a case Sherlock Holmes was investigating brought him in contact with the young woman,” my father said as he began a fabrication. “Holmes was impressed by Mrs. Blalock’s mind and insight into crime, and took her under his wing, he the teacher, she a willing student.”
Lestrade raised his brow. “Her family allowed this?”
My father nodded. “Under the guise that she was being trained to be a novelist, which accounted for my presence at the teaching sessions. You see, her family trusted me absolutely. I was their physician. In any event, this went on for several years, until Holmes’s retirement. He taught her a great deal of what she now knows.”
“Was all the teaching done orally?”
“Oh, by no means. At her disposal was a soon-to-be-published text entitled The Whole Art of Deduction, which was written by Holmes himself. Joanna Blalock read and digested every line, for she has a most remarkable memory. The end result is that we may well be looking at a young Sherlock Holmes. So, it would be to our advantage for you to allow her the most latitude possible.”
“And so I shall,” Lestrade vowed.
“I will hold you to your word as a gentleman not to utter a word of Mrs. Blalock’s connection to Sherlock Holmes,” my father said.
“You have that as well.”
“Such a connection might prove awkward to the Blalock family.”
“The story you have told is already forgotten.”
It now became clear why my father had fabricated the tale of Joanna Blalock’s training under Sherlock Holmes, whom Lestrade held in such high regard. Joanna would immediately be given freedom to do whatever she wished during the course of the investigation. She would be treated as if she were, in fact, Sherlock Holmes.
Straining at her leash, Toby Two leaped ahead and ran directly into the lounge where Joanna was waiting. The dog hurried over to her and sniffed her shoes at length, then wagged her tail briefly and sat on her haunches. She stared up at Joanna Blalock as if instinctively anticipating her commands.
“Her name is Toby Two,” my father said and quickly summed up the dog’s background. “Thus, she is the mix of Toby and an amorous bloodhound, the end result of which should be well suited for our purposes.”
“Excellent,” Joanna said, and showed no particular affection for the dog, much as Sherlock Holmes would have done. After all, they were both about to go to work.
Joanna walked over to the soiled cashmere scarf on the couch, then came back for Toby’s leash. They strolled down the corridor to the empty gaming room where Joanna rubbed the scarf under the dog’s nose and gave it ample time to detect the various scents. The dog raised her head and licked her lips, savoring the aroma as though it was a favorite dish. Joanna next threw the scarf into the gaming room, then closed the door and pulled Toby Two back down the corridor. At the entrance to the lounge she released the leash and commanded Toby, “Go, girl! Go!”
The dog raced into the lounge nose down and went directly to the couch, sniffing it voraciously from end to end. She seemed to favor an armrest where I surmised Benjamin Levy had laid his head. Nose to the floor, Toby Two moved quickly into the washroom and chose the stall nearest the entrance. Joanna quickly shut the door and stepped back. “Shortly, we shall see the exact route Mr. Levy took.”
In under a minute Toby Two began scratching at the door. Joanna motioned everyone aside, then opened the door. The dog raced out and again went directly to the couch where she busied herself with one of the cushions.
“Wait,” Joanna said patiently.
Toby Two soon grew tired of the couch and its various scents, and once more placed her nose to the floor. The dog was clearly in no hurry, for now she moved much more slowly and took a circuitous route back to the entrance to the lounge. Then abruptly Toby Two stopped and made a gradual reversal, and broke into a half run for the nearest bedroom.
“Tallyho!” Joanna cried out, and led us into a small, windowless bedroom.
The dog tried desperately to leap up onto the bed, but its legs were too short. Joanna hurried over and gave Toby Two a lift, before stepping back to observe. The dog sniffed the entire mattress, but seemed most interested in the pillow. With her snout she moved it aside and smelled at the sheet for a full minute. Seemingly satisfied, the dog jumped off the bed and onto a sturdy chair nearby. She tried her best to push the seat cushion away, but it stayed firmly in place. Out of desperation, the dog let out a pitiful bark for help.
Again Joanna came to the rescue and lifted the cushion up. Toby Two stuck her snout deeply in and yelped happily at some newly discovered object.
“Hello!” Joanna said, and reached down for a narrow strip of flexible rubber tubing that was two feet in length. “What do we have here?”
Lestrade stepped in for a closer look. “Perhaps it is some lining in the chair that became dislodged.”
“There is no rubber lining remaining behind on either the cushion or chair,” Joanna observed. “So it must have another source.”
“Could the chambermaid have left it?” Lestrade asked.
“For what purpose would a chambermaid use rubber tubing?”
“None that I can think of, madam,” Lestrade had to admit. “What do you make of it?”
“I have no answer,” Joanna replied as she studied the narrow tubing more carefully. “But there is something familiar about it, yet I cannot place my mind on what.”
“Well, it is of little matter,” Lestrade said. “At least we have solved the puzzle of why Mr. Levy did not rest in the bedroom, for in fact he did.”
“Yes, he did,” Joanna said, and deliberated over the matter further. “But how did he end up on the couch?”
Lestrade considered the question at length before nodding to himself. “I would say he was asleep in here and awoke to use the washroom. On his way back, because of illness or drowsiness, he chose to rest on the couch.”
“That is a possibility,” Joanna said, but the tone of her voice indicated she was not convinced.
“Do you have another explanation?”
“None that I could prove.”
Lestrade eyed Joanna suspiciously. “Madam, I have the distinct feeling that you are holding back information.”
Joanna gestured with her hands. “Inspector, I saw only what you saw, nothing more, nothing less.”
“I trust you will make me aware of any new developments you might come across.”
“I shall,” Joanna said, but as Lestrade was walking to the door, she called after him, “Inspector, since both of us are a bit uneasy over the man’s sudden death, it might be wise to leave yourself a little latitude on cause.”
“How so?”
“You and the coroner will list the cause of Mr. Levy’s death as being asphyxiation. Correct?”
“That is correct. Even Dr. Watson states that may well be the diagnosis.”
“But we have no solid proof,” Joanna told him. “So I suggest you place the word suspected in front of asphyxiation, just in the event new evidence comes to the surface.”
“I shall give that my consideration.”
“Excellent,” Joanna said. “And thank you again for allowing me to participate in your investigation.”
Lestrade tipped his derby and departed.
Joanna waited until the inspector was out of hearing range, then wrinkled her face in total disbelief. “You place the evidence directly under his nose, and he ignores it. Good old Toby Two informed us that Benjamin Levy spent considerable time in the bedroom, which contradicts Moran’s story, yet Lestrade makes nothing of it.”
“But it only tells us that Moran was lying,” I said. “Nothing more.”
“You miss the point, John,” Joanna said. “When a fact contradicts a long train of deductions, you must find another line of rea
soning to fit the fact. The bedroom is the contradiction here. By dismissing it, Lestrade has ignored the place where the crime occurred.”
“And if the crime did take place in the bedroom,” I said, following her train of thought, “then the scene on the couch in the lounge was a setup by Moran.”
“Of course it was,” Joanna concurred. “He could not dispatch Levy in the lounge. It is wide open, with a fair amount of foot traffic coming and leaving the washroom. The chance of being seen was too great. He could not risk it.”
My father joined in as he envisioned the murderer’s every move. “So Moran plied Benjamin Levy with drink. Levy suffers the gastrointestinal consequences of too much alcohol. His stomach sickness requires a visit to the washroom, and it was a simple task for Moran to lure Levy into the bedroom for a rest. And there the evil deed was done.”
Joanna nodded her agreement. “And that, John, is how the train of deductions now fits the facts.”
“A physician!” my father spat out. “A distinguished doctor with aristocratic bearing, and he commits blatant murder.”
“Looks and social standing never stood in the way of crime,” Joanna said.
“So true,” my father concurred. “Sherlock Holmes once told me that one of the most winning woman he ever saw was hanged for poisoning three little children for their insurance money.”
“All well and good,” I said. “But proving that Moran killed Benjamin Levy requires solid evidence, and we have none. We do not even have a notion of how the deed was committed.”
“It cannot be blunt force,” my father opined. “That would be too easily noticed.”
“And a knife or gunshot wound is out of the question, for obvious reasons,” Joanna deduced. “The noise and blood would be certain giveaways.”
“Then how?” I asked.
My father began to pace back and forth across the lounge, lost in thought. But he soon stopped in his tracks and exclaimed, “Poison! That would be the weapon of choice for a learned physician.”
The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes Page 10
