“A cheat!” my father roared.
“Which was a mere sideline to a murderer like Moran.”
Morris returned carrying a tray laden with a tea service. As he poured the tea he said, “I am sorry for the delay, but I had to locate, then remove the cups and saucers from their wrappings. The tea is Earl Grey, which I trust you will find to your liking.”
“It is my favorite,” Joanna said, sipping tea and looking over the cup at Morris. “And perfectly brewed.”
“Thank you, madam.”
“There are a few more questions I wish to ask, but you will have to remember back to the dreadful day of Mr. Harrelston’s death,” Joanna said, smoothly resuming the interrogation. “Will that present a problem?”
“Not at all.”
“Excellent. Let us return to Mr. Harrelston’s arrival. Were you at your desk when he first arrived?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Was he in good spirits?”
“So it had seemed.”
“Did Dr. Moran and Mr. Harrelston begin gambling shortly thereafter?”
Morris thought back briefly. “I cannot be certain because I left immediately upon Mr. Harrelston’s arrival. Dr. Moran had instructed me to take a prolonged lunch for my presence would not be required.”
“How long did he instruct you to stay away?” Joanna asked pointedly.
“For an hour and a half, which was most unusual. On most occasions, Dr. Moran was very strict that I be absent from my desk for only an hour to partake of lunch.”
Joanna and I exchanged knowing glances. Moran wanted the secretary well away from his desk. He also wanted the extra time that might be needed to murder Charles Harrelston.
“Every now and then, however, my lunch hour was extended to attend to various errands.”
“Such as?”
“To pick up office supplies or to purchase rats for Punch to train with.”
“Ah, yes. Punch was the terrier that had the makings of a good ratter.”
“Not the makings, madam,” Morris corrected. “He was already a champion that had won several important contests.”
“Yet he was bitten and poisoned by a rat, you say.”
“That is exactly so.”
“Is it not somewhat unusual for a champion ratter to be bitten by a rat?”
“Very,” Morris concurred. “But I believe old Punch may not have been well. Some sort of illness may have been upon him.”
“Was he listless and lying about?” I asked. “Or perhaps showing a lack of interest in food?”
Joanna nodded at my deduction, clearly pleased with my question. I was raising the possibility that Moran was testing small doses of a toxin on the dog, like the one used to kill Benjamin Levy.
“No, nothing at all like that,” Morris replied. “It was his strange behavior. Some weeks ago, while Dr. Moran was visiting relatives in the Midlands, the house was broken into. A window was smashed for entry and the office searched. Desks and file cabinets were opened, with their contents strewn about the floor. Even the chairs and couch were overturned and searched. All of this occurred while I slept in a room on the second floor, which I consent to do when Dr. Moran is away. Yet the dog did not bark or raise a ruckus as he always does when a stranger enters the house at night. I could only conclude that poor old Punch was ill, or perhaps that his senses were diminished for some reason.”
“He made no sound at all?” Joanna asked.
“Not a sound that I heard, and I am not a deep sleeper.”
“Curious,” Joanna uttered to herself, then asked in a louder voice, “Was anything missing?”
“Nothing. I did a complete inventory, and could not discover anything absent.”
“I suspect Dr. Moran was very upset about this break-in,” Joanna queried.
“Not to any great extent,” Morris replied. “And that surprised me, for I expected a major outburst similar to the ones I described earlier.”
“Perhaps he was relieved that nothing of value had been stolen,” Joanna said.
“He could not have known that, for I had not yet completed my inventory.”
“Then he may have been pleased to learn that neither you nor Punch had been injured.”
“That is a possibility.”
“With our final question answered, we must be on our way,” Joanna concluded, and rose to her feet. “Thank you for your time and assistance.”
Heading for the door, I almost stepped on the open map that Joanna had paid so much attention to. “I hope you have safe travels to Barcelona, Mr. Morris.”
“How were you aware that my destination is Barcelona?”
I gestured to the map beneath me. “You have your route carefully lined in black ink.”
“I am not well traveled, sir,” Morris said. “As a matter of fact, I have never been to the Continent. Thus I thought it best to clearly delineate my route of travel.”
Joanna smiled at me ever so sweetly and I again reminded myself that I must learn to observe more carefully. She gave Moran’s secretary a final wave, but I had the distinct impression that he had not seen the last of us.
Outside the air was foul, with a thick, yellow fog that covered everything like wet snow. The sun was hopelessly trying to break through the thick mist that held the smell of burned sulfur. I thought the chances of Martin Morris leaving London without experiencing another asthmatic attack were poor.
In our waiting carriage, Joanna remarked, “More and more of the pieces come together, do they not, Watson?”
“They show Moran to be a very methodical killer,” my father replied. “He lured Charles Harrelston in to gamble, and knew full well he would win, for the cards could be dealt secretly in his favor. He of course made certain his secretary would be away for an extended lunch, so he could take his time with the killing.”
“And he allowed Harrelston to gaze upon the fortune in his safe,” Joanna added.
“How did you reach that conclusion?” I asked.
“From two observations. First, there was blood on the floor in front of the safe. Secondly, the blow to the crown of Harrelston’s skull was struck from behind. Since Harrelston was nearly as tall as Moran, this could not be accomplished with Harrelston in a standing position.”
“He had to be kneeling down,” I envisioned.
“And deeply distracted,” Joanna said. “What better way to do this than to open the safe for Charles Harrelston and allow him to kneel down and gaze hungrily at the fortune?”
“And the story of a rat biting the dog is absolute nonsense,” Joanna went on. “The terrier was a champion ratter that on his good days could kill fifteen rats in under a minute. You can go to any ratting contest and see this for yourselves. Let me assure you that there has never been a rat that could outlast a champion terrier.”
“Do you believe the dog was injected with some sort of poison?”
“I have trouble with that notion. If you wished to inject a dog, you would not stick the paw where the dog is most sensitive, but rather on its backside where it would put up little protest. And I very much doubt Moran would test a toxin on a champion ratter since they’re difficult to come by. More likely, he would try it on one of the rats Morris purchased for him.”
“If the dog were ill, perhaps it would not resist having its paw injected,” I argued.
“The dog was not ill,” Joanna said firmly. “In the earlier interview, Morris told us that Punch was playful and his usual self before dashing into the parlor where the supposed bite occurred. In addition, Punch showed no illness at the time of the break-in.”
“So why did the dog not bark at the intruder?”
“Because the intruder was not a stranger,” Joanna deduced. “Terriers are among the most territorial of dogs and will bark or growl at any stranger who ventures into their home. Thus, the dog must have known the intruder from previous visits.”
“Charles Harrelston!” I exclaimed.
“Almost certainly,” Joanna said. “He would
have known that Moran was out of the city, and this would have given him the opportunity to break in and search for the fortune that he was somehow involved with. This also explains why Moran was not overly upset at the break-in. He had a good idea who the intruder was and the purpose of his visit. He also knew that his hidden fortune was still secure.”
“Charles Harrelston was driven by desperation,” my father thought aloud. “His family was in such dire need.”
“And his desperation hastened his demise,” Joanna said. “Moran could not risk Harrelston being pushed to even more desperate acts.”
I sighed heavily. “This Christopher Moran is very clever and always seems to be several steps ahead of us.”
“That is because he had a head start.”
“Is there a way to close the gap?”
“Of course,” Joanna said confidently. “We shall now focus on Derek Cardogan.”
“The fourth and last member of the quartet from the Second Afghan War,” I recalled.
“And the final piece to the puzzle.”
12
The Visit
We were making haste to prepare for the arrival of Christopher Moran. Miss Hudson was in the kitchen downstairs, putting the finishing touches on roasted pheasant, while my father selected a fine Bordeaux. The fire was burning nicely, with fresh logs having been recently placed.
“I must say it was no simple matter making this dinner arrangement,” my father grumbled.
“Oh?” Joanna asked. “Was Moran hesitant?”
“He was more evasive than hesitant,” my father said. “He always seemed to have some last-moment excuse to cancel or delay.”
“Your exchange of notes appears to have had a cat-and-mouse element to them.”
“I thought that as well,” my father agreed. “So I decided to press Moran a bit and told him I would soon leave for Italy where I planned to spend an extended visit with friends. Under those circumstances, I continued, it might be best for us to consider dining together in the somewhat distant future. I made certain there was no tone of anger in my note, but simply that of a man losing interest.”
“Nicely played, Watson!” Joanna congratulated. “You applied a gentle but well-directed push and got the desired effect.”
“But why the evasions?” I pondered. “Was he trying to avoid the possibility of disclosing incriminating information?”
“There is another, more plausible explanation for his change of mind,” Joanna said. “A clever man such as Moran would never be concerned with giving himself away. More likely, something has occurred that has emboldened him. He now wishes to know what we know, and he will attempt to glean that knowledge tonight. Thus, Watson, you must play him very carefully. Moran will be probing for details, and most interested in learning the progress of our investigation.”
“I shall give him a tidbit here and there, but nothing more,” my father said.
“Please keep in mind he is very much aware that we are on his trail and that he is a prime suspect. Do not attempt to mislead him. Only color a few truths.”
I suggested, “He may not believe he is such a strong suspect since he has covered his tracks so well. Recall that he has encountered us a single time during this investigation, and that was in the presence of Scotland Yard. That does not indicate great interest on our part.”
“But he has now received a definite signal that we are on the hunt and may be closing in,” Joanna said.
“From our visit to his former secretary?” I asked.
“I would doubt that was his source,” Joanna replied. “There is no affection lost between those two. Moran, in all likelihood, already has Mr. Morris and his goods on a ship bound for Spain. A stronger possibility is Mr. Cole at the Athenian Club. I can assure you he will share every detail of our visit with Dr. Moran. And Moran is far smarter than Lestrade. He will grasp the significance of Toby Two tracking the exact path he took with the inebriated Benjamin Levy.”
“I shall be doubly careful when our conversation turns to the Athenian Club,” my father said.
“You should make every attempt to avoid it,” Joanna advised. “Try your very best to guide the talk to the Second Afghan War, in which you both participated, for that will be most helpful in solving this puzzle. The quartet were close comrades during that campaign and some event occurred in that far-off land that is the basis for all we have witnessed thus far.”
“What so convinces you of that?” I asked.
“It is the one common denominator that bound them and kept them together,” Joanna replied. “And whatever that event was, it necessitated their constructing a secret code to conceal it.”
“It all appears to center around the contents of Moran’s safe,” my father opined.
“Which you must not mention,” Joanna cautioned. “That would surely raise his guard and we will learn nothing.”
There was a gentle rap on the door.
“Good Lord!” my father groaned. “He is early by twenty minutes. Everything is ruined.”
We remained perfectly still and tried our best to delay the inevitable, but we had neither the time nor wit to do so. There was yet another knock.
“You must answer,” Joanna whispered.
“But then we will not be able to carry out the script you devised,” my father whispered back quickly.
“We shall have to play it by ear. Now answer.”
“Yes?” my father had no choice but to call out.
The door opened partly and Miss Hudson, the housekeeper, looked in. “Dr. Watson, the pheasant is nicely done. Should I keep it warm for the present?”
“If you would be so kind,” my father replied.
With the closing of the door, Joanna breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Had that been Moran, the evening would have been a total waste. Now we must hurry and not get caught short. Watson, do you have that special solution Sherlock Holmes devised to detect the presence of human blood?”
My father walked briskly over to a long laboratory table against the far wall. It held scattered papers and textbooks off to one side, but most of the table was occupied by a microscope and Bunsen burner, as well as by various chemicals and reagents. My father reached for a small vial that contained a clear solution. “I dissolved the white crystals in water exactly as Holmes did many years ago. It is now active and will remain so for forty-eight hours.”
“Excellent,” Joanna said, and placed the vial in her purse. “Now I require some dust. Pray tell, Watson, where in your rooms am I most likely to find dust?”
“Atop the mantel,” my father replied. “For some reason, it is the only area Miss Hudson often neglects to run a cloth.”
Joanna rushed to the mantel and used a tissue to wipe up plentiful dust, then raced over to the door to Sherlock Holmes’s former bedroom. She applied the dust liberally to the doorknob and said, “Now the room will appear to be unused and unoccupied by anyone recently.”
“For what purpose is this necessary?” my father asked.
“As a sign to Moran, should he inspect,” Joanna replied. “John and I will presently retire to Sherlock Holmes’s bedroom. Under no circumstances should Moran be allowed to enter the room. It would be wise for you to leave the key in the lock to indicate the bedroom is empty. It will also inform Moran that no one is peeping out through the keyhole. These are important steps, Watson, so please follow my instructions.”
“Done!”
“Then light your pipe, sit by the fire, and appear totally at ease.”
“I have practiced that often enough since Sherlock’s passing.”
“Well then, let us resurrect a bit of Sherlock Holmes.”
I gave my father a firm clap on the shoulder and said, “Make Sherlock proud, Father.”
“With pleasure,” he said, and a happy twinkle came to his eyes.
Joanna took my arm as we hastened to the bedroom. As we reached the doorway our bodies pressed together, so we turned to make room for each to enter. Now we were very c
lose, face-to-face, our eyes fixed on each other. It was such an enchanting moment that I believe we both wished for time to stretch out and allow us to enjoy it even longer. But time was something we had precious little of. I placed my hand on the small of her back to guide her into the bedroom and received the warmest of smiles in return. It required all of my effort to take my hand away.
Sherlock’s bedroom was simply furnished, with a bed, dresser, and small night table. According to my father, Sherlock Holmes spent more nights sleeping on the couch in the parlor than in his bedroom. This was because he awakened so often with a new thought or question and had to apply himself to it immediately. The answer could be gotten at his laboratory bench or library, which were located in the parlor and not in his bedroom. Waste of time when concentrating, even minutes, was a cardinal offense to Sherlock Holmes.
“Thinking of Sherlock, are you?” Joanna asked.
“Do not tell me you are also a mind reader.”
“In a way,” she said. “I noticed your expression was that of a man who had entered a place of worship. Since we are not in church and the only deity whose presence you so obviously feel is our Sherlock Holmes, the answer is simple. You are thinking of Sherlock Holmes.”
“I was also wondering how Holmes would deal with Christopher Moran,” I added.
“He would do it very carefully,” Joanna said. “Moran is not only a clever killer who knows how to cover his tracks; he also has a very vicious side that is easily set off.”
“I do not believe my father is at great risk from physical harm this evening.”
“I do not either, but keep in mind that Moran has a vile temper that at times he must strain to control.”
“You raise a good point,” I said, and walked over to the night table where I retrieved a well-used pistol. “This is my father’s old service revolver, which we have kept in sound working order.”
“Are you a good shot?”
“Quite.” I checked the revolver to make certain it was fully loaded, but allowed the hammer to remain uncocked. “I take my father target shooting every two weeks, for he enjoys it so and it is one of the few pleasures left to him. He is a marksman from his military days, and insisted that I become one as well.”
The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes Page 13
