I was caught by surprise, and asked, “Did he mention the purpose of the visit?”
“He requested that I tell you that the game was afoot,” the clerk replied. “That was all he said, sir.”
“That was quite enough,” I said, and reached for my coat.
I rushed down the wide corridor of the pathology department, wondering what had now occurred in this almost unbelievable criminal maze in which I was involved. Was it another break-in or more murder that necessitated such an unexpected visit from my father? My best guess would be the sudden demise of Derek Cardogan, who represented the final piece of the puzzle. Before I could dwell further on the thought, I was intercepted by Professor Willoughby, who was his usual disagreeable self. Again his ill-fitting coat and stained tie were his most notable features.
“Leaving again before your time, I see,” Willoughby grumbled.
“The Charles Harrelston case still requires my attention,” I answered, with a half truth.
“Is there some new development?” he asked, suddenly concerned.
“There have been no significant changes, but a few loose ends need to be tied.”
“So my report stands?”
“Without contradiction thus far,” I replied. “But if anything of consequence comes to my attention, I shall bring it to yours.”
“Excellent. Be on your way, then.”
Hurrying along, I continued to think of Willoughby’s arrogance and how it colored everything he did. His autopsy findings of death by trauma to Charles Harrelston’s body were correct, but he repeated the word suicide over and over in his report. He should have only used the word fall, but his pomposity would not have allowed this. He had to show everyone how brilliant he was in determining not only cause, but motive behind Harrelston’s death. Of course when the truth came out and a new inquiry reconvened, Willoughby would again be questioned. I looked forward to watching him attempt to squirm his way around his mistake.
I jumped into the carriage and found Joanna and my father bundled up against the very chilly noon.
“You say the game is afoot?” I asked my father.
“Most assuredly.”
“What has transpired?”
“Moran’s secretary is dead.”
I let the unexpected news sink in and immediately wondered how and why. “And the circumstances?’
“Most suspicious.”
“Is it the method you refer to?”
My father nodded. “And the timing.”
Martin Morris had been bludgeoned to death late last night while returning home from a nearby pub. The obvious motive was robbery, for his wallet and personal possessions were missing. There were no witnesses to the crime.
“It is the work of Moran,” Joanna said.
“How are you so certain?” I asked. “Do you have evidence to confirm your suspicions?”
“No,” Joanna replied. “For I have not yet examined Morris or the crime scene.”
“Then, at this point, all we have is suspicion.”
“What we have here is very strong inference that cannot be easily dismissed,” she explained. “Remember the chain, John. Moran is at one end and the treasure at the other. Anyone who stands in between meets a most unfortunate death. And Martin Morris was definitely in between. His demise is not a coincidence, but a revealing fact.”
“Which is?” I asked at once.
“That Martin Morris was much more involved than we ever imagined.”
“Perhaps he just learned of something?” I argued.
“While he was in the midst of packing?” Joanna countered. “That would be most unlikely.”
“So you are saying that Moran wanted Morris dead, for his secretary knew far too much?”
“That is the only plausible explanation.”
As we rode along, the air became even more frigid and our exhaled breaths turned frosty. Joanna and I drew closer together to enjoy each other’s warmth and touch, which my father noticed with a brief smile before looking away. I pulled up my blanket to cover more of us and this provided an opportunity for our hidden hands to come together and hold. The pain from my stab wound, which had bothered me so much earlier, magically disappeared.
A half hour later we found Inspector Lestrade leaning over the battered body of Martin Morris. The victim’s head was bashed in, crown and back, with bone and brain exposed. There was a large pool of clotted blood that extended from his neck to the curb of the sidewalk.
Lestrade tipped his derby to me. “Nasty business here. We suspect that Mr. Morris knew his assailant, for the head wounds were meant to kill. The robber did not wish the victim to live and later identify him.”
“A rational line of thinking,” Joanna said. “But not correct in this instance.”
“And why not?” Lestrade asked.
“The position of the head wounds,” Joanna pointed out. “The vast majority of trauma is evident in the rear and occipital area of the skull, which indicates that the vicious blows were delivered from behind. I suspect that Mr. Morris never saw his assailant coming.”
“Perhaps the murderer walked by Mr. Morris, then turned on him,” Lestrade responded quickly. “That being the case, Mr. Morris would have surely seen him.”
“Perhaps, but unlikely. An assailant approaching a prospective victim late at night would cause alarm, which is the very last thing the assailant would want.”
“So you believe the assailant followed Mr. Morris home, then.”
“It is more likely that the assailant lay in wait for Mr. Morris. Following someone undetected late at night when the streets are empty is no simple matter.” Joanna turned and surveyed the nearby buildings. She motioned to a narrow alleyway between two rowhouses some twenty feet away. “That would be the ideal hiding place at night. It would be dark and nothing within could be seen from the street or sidewalk. I will wager that is where the assailant perched himself and waited for Martin Morris to pass.”
“You could never prove that in a hundred years,” Lestrade challenged.
“Let us have a look and see.” Joanna strolled over to the alleyway, but did not enter. She studied the mud-covered ground just off the sidewalk and counted to herself. “Six.”
“Six what?” Lestrade asked.
“Stubs of cigarettes,” Joanna answered. “Which strongly suggests our assailant waited here for at least an hour before his prey arrived. It requires ten to fifteen minutes for even an anxious smoker to finish one cigarette and light another. Thus, our murderer stood here and smoked for an hour or more.”
“Maybe there was more than one,” Lestrade said.
Joanna shook her head. “I see footprints in the mud made only by the same shoe. A size twelve, I would approximate, which indicates our assailant was a quite large man.”
“Blimey! Next you will tell me what the man looked like.”
Joanna moved into the alleyway and studied the footprint and cigarette stubs at length, then searched the brick wall behind the stubs. Standing on her tiptoes, she plucked a black thread from a jagged-edged brick. “The soles of his inexpensive shoes show he is a member of the working class, as do his cigarettes, which are of the cheapest variety. He is a large man indeed, for the depth of his footprint says he must weigh two hundred or more pounds. His height would be six feet as evidenced by the length of his stride and by the area of the brick wall he rested against while waiting. Here,” she said and held up a black thread, “is a thread from his coat that caught onto a jagged brick, where he leaned back. His coat was black and made of coarse wool. We know he was a very heavy smoker so we can assume he has a chronic cough, yellow teeth, and yellowing of his fingers where he grasps his cigarettes. Several of the stubs have a speck of blood on them so he may well have poor dental hygiene or an injured lip from a fall or fight. Finally, Inspector, you may wish to question the nearby pub and ask if a man fitting that description was in the establishment at the same time as Morris.”
Lestrade pressed a hand against his b
row and shook his head at the same time. “My brain is in a whirl, madam. How is it that you make so much from so little?”
“It is because I have observed, and you have only seen,” Joanna replied. “There is an obvious difference.”
“So I am learning,” Lestrade said. “Now please allow me to ask what makes you believe that our assailant was in the pub?”
“No thief worth his salt would wait in last night’s rain on the chance some worthwhile victim would pass by. No, that would never do. More likely, our assailant was in the pub, watching Morris, so he could set the time and place of his assault.”
“Then I shall inquire if such a man left the pub shortly before Morris departed.”
“Not shortly before, but at least an hour in advance of Morris’s departure,” Joanna corrected. “And do not forget that the assailant was a stranger in this middle-class neighborhood. He would stand out among the clientele that the pub usually served.”
Lestrade gaped in amazement at Joanna’s insight, while my father and I simply exchanged knowing glances. After all, we were thinking, one would expect nothing less from the daughter of Sherlock Holmes.
“Would you care to examine the body?” Lestrade asked, gathering himself.
“We should have the younger Dr. Watson perform the examination, for this is his area of expertise,” Joanna suggested.
“Very well,” Lestrade said. “But we must hurry because the body will soon be transported to a nearby funeral home in preparation for burial, the expense of which the good Dr. Moran has graciously consented to cover.”
A thin smile crossed Joanna’s face. “Moran, you say.”
“Dr. Moran himself, for Mr. Morris has no family left in this world. I had called Scotland to determine if the remains should be shipped north for burial. The officer in charge of the small town informed me there were no relatives and no funds, for the family has always been poor as church mice.”
“Did you inquire further about Morris’s past history?” Joanna asked.
“Oh, yes. The officer I spoke with was a long-term resident of the town and knew the family’s story well. Mr. Morris was an orphan raised by a couple who were always down on their luck. As a lad he was quite bright and eventually received a scholarship to a nearby college where he fell in with a bad lot. He was arrested several times for unlawful entry and thievery, and jailed briefly before being dismissed and leaving town altogether.”
“Never to return?” Joanna asked.
“Never, to the best of the officer’s recollection.”
“Then he shows up on the doorstep of Dr. Moran and becomes secretary to a distinguished physician.”
“So it would appear.”
“That is a rather strange route, would you not agree?”
Lestrade shrugged. “Sometimes the bad reform themselves. In any event, Dr. Moran had no complaints about Mr. Morris’s work habits and considered him a good employee who was liked by all. And he was trusted as well. For health reasons, Mr. Morris decided to retire and move to Spain where he would look after Dr. Moran’s house on the coast near Barcelona. From this we can conclude that Mr. Morris was a trusted employee indeed.”
“Inspector, does it not strike you as odd there are so many deaths surrounding Dr. Moran?” Joanna asked. “First, Mr. Charles Harrelston, then Mr. Benjamin Levy, and now Martin Morris?”
“All easily explainable, with no evidence of any connection,” Lestrade said, with a shrug. “Mr. Harrelston took his own life, Mr. Levy accidentally choked to death, and Mr. Morris met his end as a result of a brutal robbery. I see nothing to tie these unfortunate events to Dr. Moran.”
“Just a coincidence, then?” Joanna asked.
“In my professional opinion, yes,” Lestrade said authoritatively. “I would put it all down to coincidence, for there is no evidence whatsoever to implicate Dr. Moran in these deaths.”
“You have done a most thorough inquiry, Inspector,” Joanna said. “The details on Martin Morris are very helpful.”
“Thank you, madam.”
“There are one or two points I would like to be sure of, however. You say that Mr. Morris’s family was poor.”
“As church mice, I was told.”
“So there were no real estate holdings or other such assets in the family?”
“Most definitely not,” Lestrade assured. “The town had to take up a collection to bury the couple and prevent each from being laid to rest in a potter’s field.”
“And finally, when was Mr. Morris’s move to the delightful coast of Spain scheduled to occur?”
“That was a sad part of the story, madam. According to Dr. Moran, the movers had come for Mr. Morris’s goods several days ago, but refused to perform their work unless paid in advance. The shipment to Spain was of considerable expense, which Moran had graciously agreed to pay, as a parting gift I was told.”
“How generous,” Joanna said.
“Very generous indeed. However, Dr. Moran had unexpectedly been called away from the city and in his rush had neglected to leave a check for the movers. Thus, the move had to be rescheduled. Dr. Moran was most apologetic for this oversight, and vowed to rectify it. He was very distraught over his forgetfulness when he was at the crime scene earlier, for had the move proceeded as scheduled, Mr. Morris would still be alive today.”
“I would suspect that Mr. Morris was quite upset at the delay.”
“Not to any great extent, for last night Dr. Moran came by to drop off the check to the waiting movers, then the two went to a nearby pub for a farewell toast.”
Joanna’s brow went up. “Did they make an evening of it?”
“Oh, no. Just a pint and then Dr. Moran had to be on his way, for he had another engagement that very night. But the doctor assured me he left Mr. Morris in good spirits.”
“Very illuminating,” Joanna said, more to herself than to the inspector.
Lestrade took the comment as a compliment. “Thank you, madam.”
“You are very welcome,” Joanna said, then turned her attention to me and the corpse. “Have you found anything revealing, John?”
I arose from my kneeling position and brushed the dust from the knees of my trousers. “The head wounds were more horrid than we initially thought. They are massive, particularly in the occipital area, where the fractures extend down into the mid-brain. The blows were delivered with a blunt weapon, either a bludgeon or similar type sap, and were clearly meant to kill.”
“Delivered from behind, no doubt.”
“Most certainly, and with great force. In addition, I think we can safely conclude that Mr. Morris was no stranger to violence, for there is a well-healed scar on his neck that was poorly sutured and extends from his ear to his larynx. Someone with a terrible grudge once slit Mr. Morris’s throat.”
Joanna nodded and looked over to Lestrade. “This type of wound is not the sort that occurs to a petty thief.”
Lestrade had to nod as well. “There is a violent past here. I wonder if Dr. Moran was aware.”
Joanna smiled ever so slightly because to her the answer was self-evident. Then she came back to me. “Is there anything else noteworthy?”
“Nothing that I could see without stripping the corpse and performing an autopsy.”
“It would be no problem for us to postpone the burial,” Lestrade offered.
“No need,” Joanna declined. “Mr. Morris’s body has told us quite enough.”
“So you would agree that this portion of the investigation has been successfully concluded?”
“I do indeed. But there are one or two other matters that may be of some importance.”
“Such as?”
“I take it that the movers collected all of Mr. Morris’s goods last night?”
“They did and I suspect they have reached Southampton by now. His goods may in fact already be on their way to Spain. When they reach their destination, Dr. Moran will have an employee unpack the boxes and turn their contents over to a local charity. I
thought that that would—” Lestrade stopped himself in mid-sentence and blinked rapidly. “Do you believe we should have those boxes searched?”
“I think that would turn up very little, but I do recommend you thoroughly search Mr. Morris’s rooms.”
“That is presently being done.”
“Then let us go to the pub that Mr. Morris and Dr. Moran visited last night.”
“For what purpose, may I ask?”
“To discover the assailant, of course.”
We walked at a brisk pace down Edgware Road, with Lestrade taking the lead. The noise from passing cars and carriages was enough to drown out any conversation and I did not wish to talk above it, for my words were not meant for Lestrade’s ears. The inspector rounded a corner and now was completely out of sight and earshot.
I moved in closer to Joanna and whispered, “Morris is as big a liar as Moran.”
“But not nearly as deadly,” Joanna whispered back.
“How involved do you think Morris was?”
“Right up to his teeth.”
We entered the pub called the Rose and Lamb and found it very busy. The barstools were all occupied as were the tables and booths. A chubby, big-breasted barmaid was dashing about and shouting drink orders back to a rotund barkeeper whose most outstanding feature was a red, bulbous nose.
Lestrade showed the barkeeper his credentials and said, “We have questions for you regarding Mr. Martin Morris.”
“Ask away, guv’ner,” he said, showing no unease.
“Were you on duty last night?” Lestrade asked.
“I am on duty every night and every day, for I own this pub, you see.”
“Good. The lady here has some questions for you.”
As Joanna stepped forward, the barkeeper chuckled to himself and asked derisively, “Would you like a nice cup of tea before we begin?”
“See here,” Lestrade said sternly. “The lady is a consultant to Scotland Yard and you will show her the proper respect.”
“I meant no offense,” the barkeeper said, but he continued to grin.
“Let us be clear,” Joanna said, and pressed the point. “I would like the truth and, if it is not forthcoming, the inspector will march you out in handcuffs. No doubt you will wish to leave that peculiar smile on your face behind.”
The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes Page 20
