Sherlock Holmes In Montague Street Volume 2

by David Marcum

  They made for the single window of the sitting-room at the back. It was an ordinary sash window, and was shut, but the catch was not fastened. Holmes examined the catch, drawing Mr. Bowyer’s attention to a bright scratch on the grimy brass. “See,” he said, “that nick in the catch exactly corresponds with the narrow space between the two frames of the window. And look,” - he lifted the bottom sash a little as he spoke - “there is the mark of a knife on the frame of the top sash. Somebody has come in by that window, forcing the catch with a knife.”

  “Yes, yes!” cried Mr. Bowyer, greatly excited, “and he has gone out that way too, else why is the window shut and the catch not fastened? Why should he do that? What in the world does this thing mean?”

  Before Holmes could reply the constable put his head into the room and announced that one Larry Shanahan was at the door, and had been promised half-a-sovereign.

  “One of the men who heard a shot,” Holmes said to Mr. Bowyer.

  “Bring him in, constable.”

  The constable brought in Larry Shanahan, and Larry Shanahan brought in a strong smell of whisky. He was an extremely ragged person, with only one eye, which caused him to hold his head aside as he regarded Holmes, much as a parrot does. On his face sun-scorched brown and fiery red struggled for mastery, and his voice was none of the clearest. He held his hat against his stomach with one hand and with the other pulled his forelock.

  “An’ which is the honorable jintleman,”he said, “as do be burrnin’ to prisint me wid a bit o’ goold?”

  “Here I am,” said Holmes, jingling money in his pocket, “and here is the half-sovereign. It’s only waiting where it is till you have answered a few questions. They say you heard a shot fired hereabout?”

  “Faith, an’ that I did, sor. ‘’Twas a shot in this house, indade, no other.”

  “And when was it?”

  “Sure, ’twas in the afthernoon.”

  “But on what day?”

  “Last Tuesday sivin-noight, sor, as I know by rayson av Ballyshiel fair that I wint to.”

  “Tell me all about it.”

  “I will, sor. ’Twas pigs I was dhrivin’ that day, sor, to Ballyshiel fair from just beyond Cullanin. At Cullanin, sor, I dhropped in wid Danny Mulcahy, that intintioned thravellin’ the same way, an’ while we tuk a thrifle av a dhrink in comes Dennis Grady, that was to go to Ballyshiel similiarously. An’ so we had another thrifle av a dhrin’ or maybe a thrifle more, an’ we wint togedther, passin’ this way, as ye may not know, bein’ likely a shtranger. Well, sor, ut was as we were just forninst this place that there came a divil av a bang that makes us shtop simultaneous. ‘What’s that?’ sez Dan. ’Tis a gunshot,’ sez I, ‘an’ ’tis in the brick house too.’ ‘That is so,’ sez Dennis; ‘nowhere else.’ And we lukt at wan another. ‘An’ what’ll we do?’ sez I. ‘What would yez?’ sez Dan; ‘’tis non av our business.’ ‘That is so,’ sez Dennis again, and we wint on. Ut was quare, maybe, but it might aisily be wan av the jintlemen emptyin’ a barr’l out o’ windy or what not. An’ - an’ so - an’ so - ” Mr. Shanahan scratched his ear, “an’ so - we wint.”

  “And do you know at what time this was?”

  Larry Shanahan ceased scratching, and seized his ear between thumb and forefinger, gazing severely at the floor with his one eye as he did so, plunged in computation. “Sure,” he said, “’twould be - ’twould be - let’s see - ’twould be - ” he looked up, “’twould be half-past two maybe, or maybe a thrifle nearer three.”

  “And Main was in the place all the time after two,” Mr. Bowyer said, bringing down his fist on his open hand. “That finishes it. We’ve nailed him to the minute.”

  “Had you a watch with you?” asked Holmes.

  “Divil of a watch in the company, sor. I made an internal calculation. ‘’Tis foive mile from Cullanin, and we never lift till near half an hour after the Town Hall clock had struck twelve. ’Twould take us two hours and a thrifle more, considherin’ the pigs an’ the rough road, an’ the distance, an’ - an’ the thrifle of dhrink.” His eye rolled slyly as he said it. “That was my calculation, sor.”

  Here the constable appeared with two more men. Each had the usual number of eyes, but in other respects they were very good copies of Mr. Shanahan. They were both ragged, and neither bore any violent likeness to a teetotaler. “Dan Mulcahy and Dennis Grady,” announced the constable.

  Mr. Dan Mulcahy’s tale was of a piece with Mr. Larry Shanahan’s, and Mr. Dennis Grady’s was the same. They had all hear the shot it was plain. What Dan had said to Dennis and what Dennis had said to Larry mattered little. Also they were all agreed that the day was Tuesday by token of the fair. But as to the time of day there arose a disagreement.

  “’Twas nigh soon afther wan o’clock,” said Dan Mulcahy.

  “Soon afther wan!” exclaimed Larry Shanahan with scorn. “Soon afther your grandmother’s pig! ’Twas half afther two at laste. Ut sthruck twelve nigh ’alf an hour before we lift Cullanin. Why, yez heard ut!”

  “That I did not. Ut sthruck eleven, an’ we wint in foive minutes.”

  “What fool-talk ye shpake Dan Mulcahy. ’Twas twelve sthruck; I counted ut.”

  “Thin ye counted wrong. I counted ut, an’ ’twas elivin.”

  “Yez nayther av yez right,” interposed Dennis Grady. “’Twas not elivin when we lift; ’twas not, be the mother av Moses!”

  “I wondher at ye, Dennis Grady; ye must have been dhrunk as a Kerry cow,” and both Mulcahy and Shanahan turned upon the obstinate Grady, and the dispute waxed clamorous till Holmes stopped it.

  “Come, come,” he said, “never mind the time then. Settle that between you after you’ve gone. Does either of you remember - not calculate, you know, but remember - the time you got to Ballyshiel? - the actual time by a clock - not a guess.”

  Not one of the three had looked at a clock at Ballyshiel.

  “Do you remember anything about coming home again?”

  They did not. They looked furtively at one another and presently broke into a grin.

  “Ah! I see how that was,” Holmes said good-humouredly. “That’s all now, I think. Come, it’s ten shillings each, I think.” And he handed over the money. The men touched their forelocks again, stowed away the money and prepared to depart. As they went Larry Shanahan stepped mysteriously back again and said in a whisper, “Maybe the jintlemen wud like me to kiss the book on ut? An’ as to the toime - ”

  “Oh, no thank you, “Holmes laughed. “We take your word for it Mr. Shanahan.” And Mr. Shanahan pulled his forelock again and vanished.

  “There’s nothing but confusion to be got from them,” Mr. Bowyer remarked testily. “It’s a mere waste of time.”

  “No, no, not a waste of time,” Holmes replied, “nor a waste of money. One thing is made pretty plain. That is that the shot was fired on Tuesday. Mrs. Hurley never noticed the report, but these three men were close by, and there is no doubt that they heard it. It’s the only single thing they agree about at all. They contradict one another over everything else, but they agree completely in that. Of course I wish we could have got the exact time; but that can’t be helped. As it is it is rather fortunate that they disagreed so entirely. Two of them are certainly wrong, and perhaps all three. In any case it wouldn’t have been safe to trust to mere computation of time by three men just beginning to get drunk, who had no particular reason for remembering. But if by any chance they had agreed on the time we might have been led into a wrong track altogether by taking the thing as fact. But a gunshot is not such a doubtful thing. When three independent witnesses hear a gunshot together there can be little doubt that a shot has been fired. Now I think you’d better sit down Perhaps you can find something to read. I’m about to make a very minute examination of this place, and it will probably bore you if you’ve nothing else to do.”

  But
Mr. Bowyer would think of nothing but the business in hand. “I don’t understand that window,” he said, shaking his finger towards it as he spoke. “Not at all. Why should Main want to get in and out by a window? He wasn’t a stranger.”

  Holmes began a most careful inspection of the whole surface of floor, ceiling, walls and furniture of the sitting-room. At the fireplace he stooped and lifted with great care a few sheets of charred paper from the grate. These he put on the window-ledge. “Will you just bring over that little screen,” he asked, “to keep the draught from this burnt paper? Thank you. It looks like letter paper, and thick letter paper, since the ashes are very little broken. The weather has been fine, and there has been no fire in that grate for a long time. These papers have been carefully burned with a match or a candle.”

  “Ah! perhaps the letters poor young Rewse was writing in the morning. But what can they tell us?”

  “Perhaps nothing - perhaps a great deal.” Holmes was examining the cinders keenly, holding the surface sideways to the light.

  “Come,” he said, “see if I can guess Rewse’s address in London. 17 Mountjoy Gardens, Hampstead. Is that it?”

  “Yes. Is it there? Can you read it? Show me.” Mr. Bowyer hurried across the room, eager and excited.

  “You can sometimes read words on charred paper,” Holmes replied, “as you may have noticed. This has curled and crinkled rather too much in the burning, but it is plainly notepaper with an embossed heading, which stands out rather clearly. He has evidently brought some notepaper with him from home in his trunk. See, you can just see the ink lines crossing out the address; but there’s little else. At the beginning of the letter there is ‘My d - ’ then a gap, and then the last stroke of ‘M’ and the rest of the word ‘mother.’ ‘My dear Mother,’ or ‘My dearest Mother’ evidently. Something follows too in the same line, but that is unreadable. ‘My dear Mother and Sister’ perhaps. After that there is nothing recognizable. The first letter looks rather like ‘W,’ but even that is indistinct. It seems to be a longish letter - several sheets, but they are stuck together in the charring. Perhaps more than one letter.”

  “The thing is plain,” Mr. Bowyer said. “The poor lad was writing home, and perhaps to other places, and Main, after his crime, burned the letters, because they would have stultified his own with the lying tale about small-pox.”

  Holmes said nothing, but resumed his general search. He passed his hand rapidly over every inch of the surface of everything in the room. Then he entered the bedroom and began an inspection of the same sort there. There were two beds, one at each end of the room, and each inch of each piece of bed linen passed rapidly under his sharp eye. After the bedroom he betook himself to the little bathroom, and then to the scullery. Finally he went outside and examined every board of a close fence that stood a few feet from the sitting-room window, and the brick-paved path lying between.

  When it was all over he returned to Mr. Bowyer. “Here is a strange thing,” he said. “The shot passed clean through Rewse’s body, striking no bones, and meeting no solid resistance. It was a good-sized bullet, as Dr. O’Reilly testifies, and therefore must have had a large charge of powder behind it in the cartridge. After emerging from Rewse’s back it must have struck something else in this confined place. Yet on nowhere - ceiling, floor, wall nor furniture, can I find the mark of a bullet nor the bullet itself.”

  “The bullet itself Main might easily have got rid of.”

  “Yes, but not the mark. Indeed, the bullet would scarcely be easy to get at if it had struck anything I have seen about here; it would have buried itself. Just look round now. Where could a bullet strike in this place without leaving its mark?”

  Mr. Bowyer looked round. “Well, no,” he said, “nowhere. Unless the window was open and it went out that way.”

  “Then it must have hit the fence or the brick paving between, and there is no sign of a bullet there,” Holmes replied. “Push the sash, as high as you please, the shot couldn’t have passed over the fence without hitting the window first. As to the bedroom windows, that’s impossible. Mr. Shanahan and his friends would not only have heard the shot, they would have seen it - which they didn’t.”

  “Then what’s the meaning of it?”

  “The meaning of it is simply this: either Rewse was shot somewhere else and his body brought here afterwards, or the article, whatever it was, that the bullet struck must have been taken away.”

  “Yes, of course. It’s just another piece of evidence destroyed by Main, that’s all. Every step we go we see the diabolical completeness of his plans. But now every piece of evidence missing only tells the more against him. The body alone condemns him past all redemption.”

  Holmes was gazing about the room thoughtfully. “I think we’ll have Mrs. Hurley over here,” he said; “she should tell us if anything is missing. Constable, will you ask Mrs. Hurley to step over here?”

  Mrs. Hurley came at once and was brought into the sitting room. “Just look about you, Mrs. Hurley,” Holmes said, “in this room and everywhere else, and tell me if anything is missing that you can remember was here on the morning of the day you last saw Mr. Rewse.”

  She looked thoughtfully up and down the room. “Sure, sor,” she said, “’tis all there as ord’nary.” Her eyes rested on the mantelpiece andshe added at once, “Except the clock, indade.”

  “Except the clock?”

  “The clock ut is, sure. Ut stud on that same mantelpiece on that mornin’ as ut always did.”

  “What sort of clock was it?”

  “Just a plain round wan wid a metal case - an American clock they said ut was. But ut kept nigh as good time as me own.”

  “It did keep good time, you say?”

  “Faith an’ ut did, sor. Mine an’ this ran together for weeks wid nivir a minute betune thim.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hurley, thank you; that will do,” Holmes exclaimed, with some excitement in his voice. He turned to Mr. Bowyer. “We must find that clock,” he said. “And there’s the pistol; nothing has been seen of that. Come, help me search. Look for a loose board.”

  “But he’ll have taken them away with him probably.”

  “The pistol perhaps - although that isn’t likely. The clock, no. It’s evidence, man, evidence!” Holmes darted outside and walked hurriedly round the cottage, looking this way and that about the country adjacent.

  Presently he returned. “No,” he said, “I think it’s more likely in the house.” He stood for a moment and thought. Then he made for the fireplace and flung the fender across the floor. All round the hearthstone an open crack extended. “See there!” he exclaimed as he pointed to it. He took the tongs, and with one leg levered the stone up till he could seize it in his fingers. Then he dragged it out and pushed it across the linoleum that covered the floor. In the space beneath lay a large revolver and a common American round nickel-plated clock. “See here!” he cried, “see here!” and he rose and placed the articles on the mantelpiece. The glass before the clock-face was smashed to atoms, and there was a gaping rent in the face itself. For a few seconds Holmes regarded it as it stood, and then he turned to Mr. Bowyer. “Mr. Bowyer,” he said, “we have done Mr. Stanley Main a sad injustice. Poor young Rewse committed suicide. There is proof undeniable,” and he pointed to the clock.

  “Proof? How? Where? Nonsense, man. Pooh! Ridiculous! If Rewse committed suicide why should Main go to all that trouble and tell all those lies to prove that he died of small-pox? More even that that, what has he run away for?”

  “I’ll tell you, Mr. Bowyer, in a moment. But first as to this clock. Remember, Main set his watch by the Cullanin Town Hall clock, and Mrs. Hurley’s clock agreed exactly. That we have proved ourselves to-day by my own watch. Mrs. Hurley’s clock still agrees. Thisclock was always kept in time with Mrs. Hurley’s. Main returned at two exactly. Look at the time by that clock - the t
ime when the bullet crashed into and stopped it.”

  The time was three minutes to one. Holmes took the clock, unscrewed the winder and quickly stripped off the back, exposing the works. “See,” he said, “the bullet is lodged firmly among the wheels, and has been torn into snags and strips by the impact. The wheels themselves are ruined altogether. The central axle which carries the hands is bent. See there! Neither hand will move in the slightest. That bullet struck the axle and fixed those hands immovably at the moment of the time when Algernon Rewse died. Look at the mainspring. It is less than half run out. Proof that the clock was going when the shot struck it. Main left Rewse alive and well at half-past nine. He did not return till two - when Rewse had been dead more than an hour.”

  “But then, hang it all! How about the lies and the false certificate, and the bolting?”

  “Let me tell you the whole tale, Mr. Bowyer, as I conjecture it to have been. Poor young Rewse was, as you told me, in a bad state of health - thoroughly run down, I think you said. You said something of his engagement and the death of the lady. This pointed clearly to a nervous - a mental upset. Very well. He broods, and so forth. He must go away and find change of scene and occupation. His intimate friend Main brings him here. The holiday has its good effect perhaps, at first, but after a while it gets monotonous, and brooding sets in again. I do not know whether or not you happen to know it, but it is a fact that four-fifths of all persons suffering from melancholia have suicidal tendencies. This may never have been suspected by Main, who otherwise might not have left him so long alone. At any rate he is left alone, and he takes the opportunity. He writes a note to Main and a long letter to his mother - an awful, heartbreaking letter, with a terrible picture of the mental agony wherein he was to die - perhaps with a tincture of religious mania in it, and prophesying merited hell for himself in the hereafter. This done, he simply stands up from the table, at which he has been writing, and with his back to the fireplace shoots himself. There he lies till Main returns an hour later. Main finds the door shut and nobody answers his knock. He goes round to the sitting-room window, looks through, and perhaps he sees the body. Anyway he pushes back the catch with his knife, opens the window and gets in, and then he sees. He is completely knocked out of time. The thing is terrible. What shall he - what can he do? Poor Rewse’s mother and sister dote on him, and his mother is an invalid - heart disease. To let her see that awful letter would be to kill her. He burns the letter, also the note to himself. Then an idea strikes him. Even without the letter the news of her boy’s suicide will probably kill the poor old lady. Can she be prevented hearing of it? Of his death she must know - that’s inevitable. How as to the manner? Would it not be possible to concoct some kind lie? And then the opportunities of the situation occur to him. Nobody but himself knows of it. He is a medical man, fully qualified, and empowered to give certificates of death. More, there is an epidemic of small-pox in the neighborhood. What easier, with a little management, than to call the death one by small-pox? Nobody would be anxious to examine too closely the corpse of a small-pox patient. He decides that he will do it. He writes the letter to Mrs. Rewse announcing that her son has the disease, and he forbids Mrs. Hurley to come near the place for fear of infection. He cleans the floor - it is linoleum here, you see, and the stains were fresh - burns the clothes, cleans and stops the wound. At every turn his medical knowledge is of use. He puts the smashed clock and the pistol out of sight under the hearth. In a word he carries out the whole thing rather cleverly, and a terrible few days he must have passed. It never strikes him that he has dug a frightful pit for his own feet. You are suspicious, and you come across. In a perhaps rather peremptory manner you tell him how suspicious his conduct has been. And then a sense of his terrible position comes upon him like a thunderclap. He sees it all. He has deliberately of his own motion destroyed every evidence of the suicide. There is no evidence in the world that Rewse did not die a natural death, except the body, and that you are going to dig up. He sees now (you remind him of it in fact) that he is the one man alive who can profit by Rewse’s death. And there is the shot body, and there is the false death certificate, and there are the lying letters, and the tales to the neighbors and everything. He has himself destroyed everything that proves suicide. All that remains points to a foul murder and to him as the murderer. Can you wonder at his complete breakdown and his flight? What else in the world could the poor fellow do?”