Holmes glanced up at the windows of the surrounding buildings looking down into the yard. “No one heard anything, of course?”
Abberline shook his head. “My lads have been through all of those buildings, Mr. Holmes. We have questioned everyone who was in residence last night — everyone within sight of this yard. And of course we’ve questioned the residents of this building — all sixteen of them. Only one individual admits to hearing anything out of the ordinary, a man by the name of Cadosh who lives next door. He said he was in the yard behind his house — the yard that adjoins this one — at precisely a quarter past five — relieving himself no doubt — when he heard a woman’s voice sharply say no followed by the sound of something falling against the fence. He thought nothing of it at the time, he said. Didn’t give it a moment’s notice. Just turned right around and went back to bed. Said he hears much worse most nights.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” muttered Watson.
Holmes looked up sharply. “A quarter past five?” he asked. “You say he was certain of that — most precise?”
“Yes, absolutely certain. He said he had just heard the brewer’s clock strike the quarter hour.”
“That’s helpful,” Holmes said. He pondered for a moment. “You examined the fence?” he asked, taking the few steps necessary to bring him up to it: A low wooden wall, made up of rough boards crudely nailed together. It formed a border on three sides of the yard, the rear of the house itself forming the fourth.
“I ran an eye over it, but I can’t say it’s been examined closely,” admitted Chandler. “You’ll have noted those bloodstains on the boards just above where she is lying, but there’s nothing else as far as I can tell.”
Holmes whipped out his lens and spent the next several minutes conducting an examination of the fence, concentrating most of his attention on the top edges of the jagged, unpainted boards and on the bottom of the boards where they met the ground. Completing his task finally, he stepped back and placed his hands on hips, shaking his head. “No, not a thing.”
Abberline spoke up: “I have had a man examine the ground all along the fence on the other side, and there is nothing there either. No footprints, no sign of anyone vaulting over.”
Holmes nodded. “I doubt if he made his escape this way. He must have used the passage and walked right out through the door, calm as you please. A cool fellow, this.”
Chandler agreed. “That’s my guess. Yet our men haven’t been able to find anyone who saw a stranger about. Of course it was very early in the morning and still was dark, and most people would have been in their beds.”
“Yes,” said Holmes tonelessly.
Abberline referred to his notebook. “As I have said, we’ve interviewed everyone who lives in the immediate vicinity, or has legitimate business here, and we have a fairly complete list of those whose business would have had them up and about at that hour. We’ve cross-checked it, of course. No one that we’ve been able to question saw anyone who looked the least bit suspicious or out of the ordinary: Not a soul. No one who didn’t belong, no one who wasn’t known, no one who acted strangely.”
Holmes looked up with a strange smile on his face, an almost gleeful grin that took the others quite by surprise. Turning abruptly, he slashed the air with his stick and stamped his foot on the ground. “God, but this fiend is a wonder! He is a wonder indeed!”
At that point there was a clatter in the passage and two uniformed constables entered the yard, wheeling a litter. Abberline acknowledged their presence and turned wordlessly to Holmes, a questioning look on his face.
Holmes shrugged. “I’m finished with her. Are you, Doctor? Yes? Well then, I see no reason why the body shouldn’t be removed, Inspector. As you see fit.”
Gingerly, the body was eased onto the wheeled contrivance, covered with a scrap of canvas, and taken away. Holmes stood off to one side, looking on quietly. He then turned and started pacing up and down, deep in thought, his walking stick on his shoulder like a soldier’s rifle. The others observed him silently.
The windows looking down into the yard had filled with curious faces throughout the morning as the sky had brightened. Obviously, an opportunity was not to be lost, and entrepreneurial spirits among those who owned the buildings had been doing a brisk business renting out places at the windows to journalists and the morbidly curious, including several who, one would think from their shabby appearance, could put their shillings to better use. Holmes suddenly became aware of their presence for the first time. He stopped and looked up in annoyance, and then swiftly turned and made for the passage leading to the street.
“It would seem that we are making spectacles of ourselves,” he said dryly to no one in particular. “Perhaps we should adjourn to a less public place.”
He led the way through the door into the dark passage and was almost to the street when a thought occurred to him and he stopped abruptly, causing the others who followed to pile up behind.
“I nearly forgot. Has this hallway not been examined? Yes? Well, I take it no one shall mind if I have a look. Inspector Abberline, would you be so good as to order one of your men to fetch some bull’s-eyes?”
Chandler spoke up from the rear. “We’ve already searched here, Mr. Holmes. I assure you, there was nothing to be found: only rubbish, as one might expect.”
“Nevertheless, I would like a quick look. Some light if you please.”
Lanterns were brought in short order and the others stepped aside as Holmes, on hands and knees, spent the next ten minutes crawling the length of the dank passageway, poking into every corner and cranny. He finally emerged into the daylight with the knees of his trousers covered in filth, a glint in his eye, and something tenderly clutched between thumb and forefinger. He held it up for the others to see, his thin lips turned up in a triumphant smile.
“Observe, gentlemen! Our elusive phantom has taken human form. And it would seem that he has more than one disgusting habit. He smokes!”
Several of the policemen in the group looked at him with undisguised astonishment, more than one concluding that he had taken leave of his senses. But Abberline and Chandler rushed to his side and peered closely at the flattened cigarette stub he was holding in his fingers. Holmes took out his pocket magnifying glass and examined the object with something approaching ardor.
Abberline was the first to speak, making no effort to disguise the strong notes of skepticism and impatience that crept into his tone. “How can we possibly know it’s the killer’s, Mr. Holmes? It could have been anyone’s, and it could have been lying in that hallway for days, even weeks.”
Holmes shook his head. “The tobacco is still quite fresh: The cigarette was discarded quite recently. Fortunately, the owner did not grind it underfoot, but merely crushed it with his toe, and he could have taken only two or three puffs, because the fag end is quite long, almost complete. As to your first point, Inspector, we certainly don’t know it is the killer’s, I grant you that. But in the absence of any other tangible leads, it is a line of inquiry I shall gladly follow.”
Chandler, in a tone of voice containing more than a hint of doubt, joined the conversation: “There are many smokers present among us, Mr. Holmes. You yourself are one, I believe, as is Dr. Watson, whom I observed smoking a cigarette a short while ago. Surely, it could belong to any one of us.”
Holmes gave him an indulgent smile. “Not Watson’s brand,” he replied tersely. “His bears the imprint of his tobacconist, Bradley. Nor is it mine, since I have not yet indulged this morning. As to the possibility that it belongs to one of your colleagues in the department, Inspector, unless the Home Office has granted the Metropolitan Police a handsome increase in emolument that has escaped my attention, I should be very much surprised if many policemen could afford the price of these. It is a custom Turkish blend, I do believe, and the paper is of the finest quality. It is not a common brand you will find at your corner tobacconist’s; I doubt if they’re obtainable for less than seven and six the h
undred.”
Both Abberline and Chandler considered this new information. Chandler scratched his ear thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Even if you’re right, such a trifle doesn’t tell us much.”
“My dear Inspector Abberline, my method is based upon the examination of such trifles. It has long been an axiom of mine that it’s the little things that are infinitely the most important. Whatever this ‘trifle’ may or may not tell you, it tells me volumes. It tells me that the man who smoked it is someone of substance, a gentleman of refined tastes with the wherewithal to indulge them. It tells me that he was present at this location less than twenty-four hours ago, probably less than twelve. It tells me he was in somewhat of a hurry, for he took only two or three puffs. And that he tarried at all to do even that tells me that he is addicted to tobacco and is no doubt a heavy smoker. I would venture to say that he knows the district well and is no stranger to it, otherwise it is unlikely he would have found his way to this particular doorway off this particular street by sheer happenstance. It is, you will agree, a rather unsavory address and a good bit off the beaten path. Shall I continue?”
At a loss for words, the two policemen shook their heads. They both seemed considerably chastened.
Holmes bowed politely. “I would suggest, gentlemen, that you might gain some profit in having your men scour the streets between here and the major thoroughfares around us for other specimens of this cigarette. I should pay particular attention to street corners normally frequented by cabbies. It is possible that our friend hailed a hansom at some point; it is most unlikely he would have ventured far on foot. We may find he has left us a trail to follow.
“In the meantime, I shall hold on to this for the moment, if I may,” Holmes said, tucking the cigarette carefully into an envelope he had taken from his pocket, and then into his wallet. “I believe it may have even more to tell us once I have had the opportunity to examine it at greater length and submit it to chemical analysis.”
“You are welcome to it, of course,” said Abberline. “I’ve heard you’re an authority on the diverse varieties of tobacco, Mr. Holmes, but still —”
“No, Inspector,” he interrupted, quietly and matter-of-factly, “I am the authority.” With that, he turned away, leaving the two policemen with jaws agape.20
Six
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1888
“It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.”
— A Scandal in Bohemia
Watson emerged from his bath wrapped in dressing gown and towel to find Holmes, still occupied with his chemical apparatus, hunched over the cluttered, acid-stained deal table in the corner, test tube poised over Bunsen burner, totally oblivious to the pungent odors issuing forth from his efforts. He had been thus engaged since their return from Whitechapel over an hour earlier, hardly pausing to remove his suit coat, which was still draped untidily over a chair where he had flung it. When Watson returned from dressing ten minutes later Holmes was gone, a thin blue layer of haze the only sign in the room that he had been there at all.
It was not until considerably later in the afternoon that he reappeared, his expression troubled and thoughtful. His only response to Watson’s questioning look when he walked through the door was a shake of the head and a curt wave of dismissal. Clearly he was in no frame of mind for questions or conversation. He fell into his chair, placed a finger to his lips, and lapsed into deep thought.
When he finally did speak some little while later, it was in a quiet, subdued manner, his words hesitant, uncertain — so uncharacteristic of him as to cause Watson to look over in surprise, his attention gained as readily as if Holmes had shouted.
“This is most disturbing,” Holmes murmured, shaking his head. “Most disquieting. I cannot credit it at all.”
“You’ve been unable to discover the origin of the cigarette?” asked Watson.
Holmes gave him a contemptuous sidelong look. “To the contrary, all too easily. I had only to visit three tobacconists in Belgravia before ascertaining the manufacturer. It was Grover’s, of course.”
“Good Lord!” Watson looked at him with widened eyes.
G. Grover, Tobacconist, conducted a highly successful trade from a fashionable shop in Buckingham Palace Road not far from the palace itself, a discreet plaque over the door proclaiming, BY APPOINTMENT TO HRH THE PRINCE OF WALES. Largely as a result of the prince’s patronage, Grover’s had an exclusive clientele that included many of the most prominent names in England, among them peers of the realm, of course, and individuals highly placed at court and in government.
“As I suspected,” said Holmes, “the cigarette is made from a particular blend of fine Virginia tobaccos with an almost imperceptible touch of Turkish. Chemical analysis reveals that it is cured with brandy, would you believe — unusual in a cigarette tobacco. All very easy to trace, of course, as was the cigarette paper, which is manufactured exclusively for Grover’s use. This specific blend was identified by their manager immediately — he hardly had to look it up to confirm it: It’s prepared especially for one client, and one client only.”
Watson leaned forward in his chair expectantly. “And that would be?”
But Holmes did not reply. Instead, he gazed pointedly up at the ceiling, and for a moment Watson wondered if he had even heard the question. Finally Holmes drawled: “I think it would be best, old man, if I kept that knowledge to myself.”
Watson was startled by Holmes’s response, his curt, even cutting response — and more than a little hurt. It was rare for Holmes to keep anything from him, to deny him at least a civil reply, no matter how delicate the question or ticklish or touchy the matter at hand. But more than that, his remark had been made in such an offhand manner, in a tone so aloof, so patronizing, that had it come from anyone else it would have been grossly insulting. As it was, Watson did take umbrage, did feel some resentment. Color rising in his cheeks, he looked down at his hands to cover his confusion.
An awkward, embarrassed silence fell between them, and Holmes rose from his chair and moved about the room. Such moments were rare in their relationship, but they did occur, as they are bound to in any relationship, no matter how friendly or close. Clearly Holmes regretted his abrupt manner; was distressed, disconcerted by it. If he could not share the information with Watson, whom he trusted above all others, and whose feelings he would not hurt for the world, he should at least provide him with an explanation.
“Forgive me, dear chap,” he said at last, “but we are in very deep waters here, and it would not do to jump to false conclusions and bandy names recklessly about, even in the privacy of these rooms. I could be on a false track, there could be any one of a number of explanations for that cigarette to be where it was. I must ask you to bear with me for the while until, until...”
His voice trailed off and with a faint gesture of futility he let the sentence hang in midair. He returned to his chair and burrowed deeply into it.
Watson, after a while, got up to shut the window. He felt chilly all of a sudden. Holmes had always shared his confidences with him, even in the most sensitive of cases. If he felt he could not confide in him in this matter, it must be very, very serious indeed: Far more serious and sensitive than anything Watson could think of. He remained at the window, gazing out at the street below.
“Well, never mind,” he said quietly, feigning a nonchalance he did not feel. He looked over his shoulder at Holmes with a puckish little smile. “I mean, after all, it’s not as if you refused me the name of your tailor.”
Watson did not know how long he remained at the bow window, how long he gazed unseeing at the passing scene beneath him, but the shadows in the street had lengthened considerably when a familiar, slight, unprepossessing figure, dodging through the traffic, caught his eye.
“You’ve enlisted the aid of the Irregulars, I see,” he called to Holmes.
Holmes looked up from his ruminati
ons in surprise. “Why, yes. Earlier this afternoon. However did you know?”
“Here comes their urchin-in-chief, in all his unwashed glory.”
Holmes laughed. “Oh. For a moment I foolishly entertained the thought that you had deduced it.”
It was only a matter of seconds before the slamming of the downstairs door and the loud trample of footsteps on the stairs heralded the arrival of the unsavory and insignificant Wiggins, the leader of the nondescript band of street arabs that Holmes was amused to dignify as the Baker Street division of the detective police force. The boy burst into the room not only unannounced but without even the nicety of a tap on the door: A dirty face with large shrewd eyes, an unruly mop of hair, and a slender frame enveloped in a cast-off coat several sizes too large. His was not so much an entrance as an explosion, but the cloud of dust which in Watson’s eyes seemed to accompany the event was surely only illusionary.21
“Wiggins!” barked Holmes sharply. “You must knock before you enter!”
Wiggins looked from Holmes to Watson and back to Holmes again, an insolent but not entirely unengaging grin spreading across his face. He sniffed violently and wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve.
“Wh’ell I begs yer pard’n, I’m sure, guv,” he said, his words weighted with exaggerated sarcasm, “but yer did tells me not ta tarry, an’ I din’t, did I?”
Holmes’s mouth twitched. He bore no small amount of respect (and if the truth be known, affection) for this enterprising survivor of the streets, and despite himself, the scowl on his face gave way to an indulgent little smile.
“Why, so I did, Wiggins, so I did; and so you didn’t. But in the future you need not take my instructions so literally as to forget the niceties.”
Wiggins cocked his head to one side and gave Holmes a funny look. “Come again?”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Whitechapel Horrors Page 6
