by Ian Wright
“If he spent time waiting here, somebody may have noticed him,” commented Watson.
“Bravo, Watson! That is entirely plausible.” Holmes looked at the surrounding houses and noticed a middle aged woman staring at him through a window.
“Ah, she appears to be somewhat inquisitive,” he mentioned, “Let us go and speak to her.”
Holmes collected the stamped out cigarette and made his way to the front door, with Watson. He was about to knock on the door when it was pulled open from within by the woman who had just been looking from the window.
She stared coldly at the two men and snapped, “What do ya’ want, snooping around ‘ere?”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am investigating a crime that took place in this area last night. Did you see anything, or anyone, suspicious last night?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed as she looked at Holmes. After a short pause, she asked, “What sort of crime?”
“A young lady was murdered,” answered Watson.
“Oh, no. What is this world comin’ to?” asked the woman rhetorically. Her stare softened and she continued, “I saw a bloke hangin’ around outside. It was just after eleven last night when I saw ‘im. He was pacin’ around for about ten or fifteen minutes. All of a sudden, he hid in the garden where I just saw you two.”
“Can you describe this man?” asked Holmes.
“All I can really say is that he was big. It was a foggy night, so I didn’t get much of a look.”
“Is there anything else you remember about him?”
“Come to think of it, I saw him smoking a cigarette. When he lit it and the match was near ‘is face, I think I saw a scar on ‘is right cheek. Can’t be completely sure though.”
“What happened after he had hidden himself behind the garden wall?” asked Watson.
“He waited there for about five minutes and then suddenly came out of the garden and walked into Lisle Street, deary,” replied the woman smiling, showing off her rotten brown teeth.
“Please continue,” prompted Holmes.
“I didn’t like the look of the bloke. At first, I was too scared to follow, but after a bit, I wanted to make sure that ‘e was gone. I went into Lisle Street and there was a big carriage. The bloke I ‘ad seen was there wiv’ another one. They lifted someone into the carriage, and then the bigger bloke climbed up into the driver’s seat. The other bloke looked around and then got inside. After that the carriage started to move towards me, so I hid until it was gone.”
“Can you describe the shorter of the two men?” asked Holmes.
“I suppose ‘e might have been about the same height as your friend,” she answered, pointing at Watson. She then went on, “I only got a glimpse. He was a bit ugly. He had fat, round lips. I can’t tell you anyfing else. I only saw that much ‘cos ‘e stood near a streetlight for a moment.”
Holmes smiled at the woman and said, “Thank you. You have been extremely helpful.”
“Anytime, deary. I hope you catch ‘em,” said the woman, as she closed the door and went inside.
As the two men turned away, Holmes said, “I think we had better return Ginny to Mr. Bloomfield.”
The men walked the dog along Whitcomb Street, towards Trafalgar Square.
On their way, Holmes asked, “When the woman described the shorter of the two men, who did it remind you of, Watson?”
“Erm… Her description matches what we know of our suspect, so I would say that it is Stephen Wood.”
“Anyone else?” prompted Holmes
“No, I don’t think so, Holmes.”
“Imagine if he wore a beard and moustache. Can you picture anyone apart from the suspect?”
“No, I’m afraid that I can’t, Holmes. Who do you have in mind?”
Holmes paused, perhaps for dramatic effect, and then replied, “Arthur Smith.”
“But it can’t be! When I left Paignton, he was so busy working on his farm and said that he would not be coming to London for several months.”
“Could the description, the lady just gave us, apply to Arthur Smith, Watson?” asked Holmes with persistence in his voice.
Watson thought for a moment before replying, in an unconvinced manner, “Well, I suppose it could, Holmes. But her description could apply to any of several men! I don’t understand why you are trying to establish a connection between the description and Arthur.”
“I am not entirely convinced that the primary purpose of your visit to Arthur’s farm was to help him get settled in.”
A look of shock developed on Watson’s face, as he snapped, “That is preposterous! All I did the entire time I was with Arthur was to help out on the farm. You are being ridiculous!” His voice became more raised as he spoke and his eyes narrowed, indicating his growing anger.
“I have no doubt that you spent the majority of your time helping Arthur, but I still believe there was another reason for your visit,” added Holmes, as he watched Watson’s lips stiffen and his face flush.
Watson stopped walking and, glaring at Holmes, shouted, “How dare you accuse me of being a liar, Sir! I demand you explain yourself!” Watson’s fists were bunched, as he continued glaring at Holmes, awaiting a response.
“Calm yourself, Watson. I am accusing you of no such thing.”
“Yes you are!” came the angered response.
Holmes smiled briefly, amused at how easily Watson became annoyed.
“Would you please allow me to elucidate?” he asked in a voice somewhat too calm.
Watson looked around, not sure quite what to do. He knew that Holmes would have an explanation that would render his anger pointless. Despite still feeing irritated at Holmes, he was also curious.
After a few moments he said, somewhat sarcastically, “Very well. Please do elucidate.”
“Tell me, Watson, did you get drunk at any point during your time with Arthur?”
All remaining anger immediately drained out of Watson, as Holmes’ question sparked a memory from his visit to Devon.
“You are incredible, Holmes. How did you know? One evening, Arthur suggested that we share some wine. After only half a glass, or so, I remember feeling very strange. I looked at my glass and realised that I shouldn’t be feeling so drunk. I don’t remember anything else from that point until the next morning.”
“How did you feel the next morning? Were you suffering with a hangover?”
“That’s another odd thing. I felt slightly groggy, but it wasn’t as bad as a hangover.”
“I believe you were drugged, Watson.”
“Surely not, Holmes. Smith is such a decent fellow. What possible reason could he have to drug me?”
“I fear that he wanted to gain information from you, old fellow. It is my firm belief that Arthur Smith and Stephen Wood are the same man. If I am correct, he tricked you into visiting him, with the intention of getting you to reveal information about people connected to the trial of his brother.”
“Are you serious? Do you really believe that Arthur Smith is actually Stephen Wood? What information would I have been in a position to give him?”
“Stephen Wood was never present at his brother’s trial. From what I recall, he had been committed to the lunatic asylum before his brother’s case came to court. Therefore, he was not privy to any details of the witnesses, or other people involved in securing Stanley Wood’s conviction.”
Holmes paused, as he felt awkward about what he needed to say next. He then continued, “Watson, it is my belief that you, unwittingly, provided Stephen Wood with details about his intended victims. He subsequently used this information to find and kill anyone he felt was responsible for the death of his brother.”
Watson’s face sank. He stood looking down at the ground and quietly said, “But that means people are being killed because of me.”
Holmes placed a hand on Watson’s shoulder and replied, reassuringly, “That isn’t true, Watson. You are in no way responsible. You were tricked. The reason people are being
killed is because someone, possibly Stephen Wood, is murdering them, not because of anything that you have done. Please try not to feel so bad, old fellow.”
Watson looked up to see Holmes smiling at him. He still felt awful, as he asked, “How could I have been so easily fooled, Holmes? I never suspected anything about Arthur.”
“Arthur Smith, or should I say Stephen Wood, fooled us both, Watson. With his beard and glasses, it would have been difficult to have recognised him as Wood. I had noticed that he wore dark glasses, even when inside. Although I thought that strange, I accepted his explanation that he suffered from photophobia. Now, it seems more likely that he wore those glasses to hide his eyes from us.”
Watson gave a dejected sigh, but said nothing.
Holmes, concerned at how upset his friend was, added, “Watson, this is only a theory. I may not be correct about you being used in such an awful way. I may even be wrong about Stephen Wood and Arthur Smith being the same man.”
“I know you are trying to help, old man, but you are always right about these types of things.”
“Not always, Watson.” The reply seemed thoughtful, as though Holmes was looking inwards as he uttered the words. Watson noticed a hint of melancholy show on Holmes’ face.
Holmes quickly snapped out of his thoughtfulness, and, with a smile, added, “Come along, Watson. We should take Ginny back home, and then deliver the items we found to Scotland Yard. After that, I have something that I would like to try out.”
“What about Miss Spencer, Holmes?” asked Watson. “Should we not tell her about her sister?”
“Yes, of course. You are quite right, Watson. After we have taken Ginny home and delivered this evidence to Scotland Yard, we can take a Hansom cab to Charing Cross Road.”
After taking Ginny back to Mr. Bloomfield, the two men found a Hansom cab to take them to Scotland Yard, where the handed all the evidence they had gathered to Inspector Lestrade, and gave him a description of the crime scene. Following this, they continued their journey to see Miss Spencer. Neither of the men spoke during the journey.
They arrived at 28 Charing Cross Road and knocked on the door, which was opened, shortly after, by Susan Spencer. She looked anxious upon seeing the two men, and felt an odd mixture of dread and hope. She hoped that her ambivalence would soon be over, as she asked, “Mr. Holmes! Have you any news of my sister?”
Holmes replied, ignoring the question, “May we come in, Miss Spencer?”
“Yes, of course. Please come in. We shall adjourn to my room.”
Holmes noticed that Susan Spencer was trembling, as she led them up a flight of stairs and into a pleasantly decorated room. He removed his hat and coat and Watson followed suit.
“May I sit down, Miss Spencer?” asked Holmes, hoping that his question would also prompt the girl to sit.
“Yes, please do,” she replied, pointing to a sofa. She came and sat next to Holmes and looked at him expectantly, but found that she was too afraid to ask anything.
Holmes looked at Susan, and quietly said, “I have news of your sister, Miss Spencer. I’m afraid… I…” He stared down at the floor, unable to finish the sentence or look her in the eye.
“Please tell me, Mr. Holmes,” implored Miss Spencer, shakily.
Holmes looked back up at the distraught girl as she grabbed his forearm.
She looked deeply into the detective’s eyes and added, “I fear I already know what you are going to say, Mr. Holmes, but I need to… I have to…” Her voice became chocked with emotion. She looked through the blur of her tears at Mr. Holmes, and could see that he was trying so hard to find the right words to say.
Suddenly, she felt a sadness so deep as, for the first time, she realised that she would never see Sally again. Her mind flooded with so many fond memories of her sister, which contrasted so greatly with the emptiness she envisioned for her future. She could not conceive a life without Sally and wanted a chance to be able to make more fond memories. More than anything, she wanted to see her again. Instead, all she could imagine for her future was an unfulfilled void of despair.
She sobbed her saddest tears, whilst still holding onto Holmes’ forearm. She would have given anything to be able to see Sally again.
A thought flashed through Susan’s mind. Perhaps Sally was alive. Mr. Holmes had not told her anything yet. Perhaps Sally had been badly hurt, but would recover. A faint glimmer of hope showed in her eyes as she looked up at Holmes.
She forced her voice past her unwilling lips, and managed to whisper, “Please, tell me, Mr. Holmes.”
Without realising, Holmes gently placed his hand on top of Susan’s. His voice was soft, as he said, “I am so sorry, Miss Spencer. Your sister is dead.”
Her crying became more insistent and her weeping voice whispered, “Oh, God… No… No.”
She saw the image of Sally’s face in her mind’s eye, the vision, so vivid, was merely an illusion created by her broken heart. The image changed to that of a dead body, lying motionless on a table in a morgue. The vision of her dead sister, with open lifeless eyes and pale blue skin, haunted Susan’s mind.
As she began to acquaint herself with the loneliness of life without her sister, her weakened voice asked, “Why is she dead?”
Holmes looked into Susan’s saddened eyes and quietly answered, “There is no good reason. An act of murder is a violation that cruelly robs the world of someone special. Even though she has gone, she will live on in your memories. Nobody can take those from you.”
A fresh stream of tears ran down Susan’s face, but, at the same time, she smiled.
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. You are right. She meant so much to me. She was always so strong, and was always there when I needed her. Although I won’t be able to turn to her from now, I will always remember her. But now that she has gone, who will I be able to turn to?”
Holmes sat silently, unable to find words to console the weeping girl at his side.
After a short pause, Susan continued, “I always took her for granted. I just expected that she would always be a part of my life. I never told her that I loved her, and now I will never be able to. She died not knowing how much I loved her.”
Watson came over with a glass of water he had poured for Susan.
“She knew how much you loved her, Miss Spencer; in the same way that you always knew how much she loved you,” said Watson, as he handed her the water.
“Thank you, Dr. Watson,” acknowledged Susan. She took a sip and became aware of how much her hands were trembling as she held the glass. Holmes also noticed, so he took the glass from her and set it on a nearby table.
She smiled at him and asked, “Why is it that I am able to tell you, a perfect stranger, how much I cared for Sally, but I was never able to tell her? I could never say the words ‘I love you’ to her.”
“It is just the way people are, Miss Spencer,” responded Holmes. “We spend a great deal of time concealing our emotions, in part to protect ourselves because they make us vulnerable. I also believe that society has conditioned us to hide our emotions to such an extent, that we are now afraid to ever reveal them. Perhaps, because we cannot control our emotions, we have become too afraid to share them.”
Susan sat, feeling the warmth of Holmes’ hand on hers, as she quietly cried and shook her head. She sat in silence for a minute, or so, her bloodshot eyes staring at the crackling fireplace.
Her gaze moved to Holmes as she said, “Sally had some good news to tell me last night. I already knew, but was still looking forward to hearing her tell me. She was going to be married. I had even been practicing how to act surprised when she told me.” A faint smile appeared on Susan’s face as she continued, “I remember when we were children. Sally never wanted to get married. She used to say that boys were horrid. Life was so simple back then.”
Susan’s brief smile turned, once again, to an expression of despair.
Her gaze returned to the fireplace and she added, “I don’t know how I’ll manage with
out Sally. I always depended on her and needed her in my life. Why did this have to happen, Mr. Holmes?”
She looked at Holmes and noticed an anguished expression on his face. She could see that he was averting his eyes, avoiding her gaze. As she continued to look, waiting for him to answer, she saw a tear run down his cheek. He opened his mouth slightly, as if to speak, but no words came.
After a pause, he looked at Susan and said, in a voice barely above a whisper, “I am so sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Mr. Holmes,” replied Susan, sensing that Holmes felt, somehow, responsible.
Holmes smiled at her and, wiping his eyes, asked, “Is there anything that Dr. Watson and I can do for you, Miss Spencer?”
“No, thank you. I think I would like to be left alone. You… You are going to catch her… her killer, aren’t you?”
Holmes looked at the girl and thought, ‘it will be a long time before your sadness passes.’
He stood up to leave and replied, “You can be assured that Dr. Watson and I will make every endeavour to catch this murderer, Miss Spencer. If you need us for anything, anything at all, please contact us. We will leave you now.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes and you too, Dr. Watson.”
As the two men walked out of the front door, Holmes turned to the girl and said, “You will receive a visit from the police soon, confirming what I have already told you, Miss Spencer. They will probably require you to provide them with a positive identification of your sister. If you would like me and Dr. Watson to accompany you, we will be available. Goodbye, Miss Spencer. I hope your grieving turns to fond memories soon.”
Out in the street, Watson turned to Holmes and asked, “Are you alright, Holmes?”
“Yes, old fellow. Let us return home as there is something that I should like to try, after lunch.”
Chapter 8
“Absolutely, out of the question!”
“Please try to understand, Watson. This is our best chance.”
“Be that as it may, Holmes, there is no way I can condone such foolishness.”
