“Anything is possible, Watson. Let us see what we find at our destination.”
We arrived at Reading Station with only minutes to spare. Already in possession of our return tickets, we hastened to the platform. I was a bit surprised to see Sergeant Wegand coming with us and wondered what Holmes had said to him.
The three of us boarded the train together, avoiding the first-class carriages and going directly to the coaches. Holmes strode down the aisle quickly, eyes straight ahead, and it was not until we’d passed through to the second coach that he suddenly pounced, reaching across an empty seat to fasten upon an unshaven man in dirty clothes who sat staring out the window at the platform.
“Here, Sergeant!” Holmes announced. “Arrest this man! He is the triple killer you are seeking.”
The officer was taken by surprise. “My God! The escaped convict?”
“No, no. Let me introduce you to Mr. Haskin Zehn, returned from the dead, but no less dangerous for that.”
Later, after we’d returned to Stacy Manor for the explanations Holmes felt they deserved, we sat once again in the library with Sir Patrick and his wife. Their other guests had departed soon after we did, perhaps fearing more violence. But Holmes assured them it was over.
“I can’t believe that Haskin would do such a thing,” Elizabeth White said. “What could possibly have been his motive?”
“His original motive involved only the publisher, Oscar Rhinebeck. You told me, Sir Patrick, that Rhinebeck had suggested greatly enlarging your zoo, hiring a professional staff and opening it to the public. Haskin feared his beloved animals would be taken away from him and, in a moment of anger, he struck Rhinebeck with a poker, inflicting a fatal wound.”
“What about the playing cards and the other killings?” Sir Patrick asked.
Holmes, relaxing at last, had taken out his pipe as he spoke.
“The business with the playing cards was meant merely to confuse us, and it did just that. I overlooked one crucial clue for too long—it might even be called the clue of the clue. The bloody trail showed that the first victim, Rhinebeck, had dragged himself to the card table and used his final moments of life to choose that ten of spades as a clue to his killer’s identity. But consider the later killings and you’ll note some vastly different circumstances. Agnes Baxter was stabbed in the chest in her bedroom, killed instantly. The third victim died in a locked lion’s cage. Certainly neither of these was in a position to choose a playing card in their final seconds of life.”
“Of course not!” Sir Patrick agreed. “The murderer left them!”
“Obviously. And yet the first card, that ten of spades, had been chosen by the victim. The bloody trail told us so. Conclusion? After that first, legitimate clue, the killer left more playing cards in sequence to confuse us. Instead of looking back at the first clue, the ten of spades, we looked ahead, speculating on where the series was going, seeking an overall pattern that didn’t exist.”
“What could the ten of spades have meant?” Elizabeth wondered.
“The spade was simply the first ten he came to. It was the ten that was important. The Germanic Rhinebeck was trying to tell us his killer’s name was Haskin Zehn…the number ten in German!”
“Of course!” Sir Patrick slapped his knee with an open palm. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten too much of my public school German.”
“But Agnes Baxter hadn’t. She accused him, perhaps threatened him, and she had to die, too. By that time, it must have been obvious he was in deep trouble. My presence, if I may say so, must have added to his growing concern. Then, last evening, a solution presented itself, virtually out of the blue. The escaped convict, for whom the police were searching, appeared at your zoo…perhaps trying to steal some of the animals’ food. Haskin came upon him and realized at once that the man was his own size and weight, with the same hair coloring. His escape had presented itself. The convict was knocked unconscious and hidden for a time. I believe Haskin wounded him and disfigured his face with a sharp garden tool. Then he changed clothes with the man and pushed his body into the lion’s cage with an appropriate playing card. I fear I was too quick in killing the lion for a death he only partly caused.”
“How did you know Haskin would be on the London train?”
“He could not afford to remain in this area where he might be recognized, and the schedule showed that on Sunday, the London train was the next one out. I knew he couldn’t have caught an earlier train because he had to walk all the way to Reading Station.”
“You were so sure that the body wasn’t Haskin Zehn?”
Holmes nodded. “When I finally heard his last name for the first time, I was virtually certain of the truth. I examined the body, especially the belt and shoes, and found confirmation. The belt buckle was one hole tighter than it had ordinarily been worn, and the shoes fit a bit too loosely on the feet. That was all the proof I needed.”
It was the following week at the Diogenes Club when I met Sherlock’s older brother Mycroft for the first time. Early in the conversation, Mycroft asked about the Manor House Case.
“It was Adams, of course?”
“Yes, it was Adams,” Sherlock agreed.
“I was sure of it from the first.”
Later, when we were alone, I asked why he had told Mycroft that the convict was the killer.
Sherlock Holmes smiled slightly. “It was just a bit of brotherly rivalry, Watson. He will learn the truth soon enough, and realize that he was wrong for once.”
THE CHRISTMAS CLIENT
IT WAS ON CHRISTMAS Day of the year 1888, when I was in residence with Mr. Sherlock Holmes at his Baker Street lodgings, that our restful holiday was interrupted by the arrival of a most unusual client. Mrs. Hudson had already invited us to partake of her goose later in the day and, when we heard her on the stair, I assumed she was coming to inform us of the time for dinner. Instead, she brought a surprising announcement.
“A gentleman to see Mr. Holmes.”
“On Christmas Day?” I was aghast at such a thoughtless interruption and immediately put down my copy of the Christmas Annual I’d been perusing. Holmes, seated in his chair by the fireplace, seemed more curious than irritated.
“My dear Watson, if someone seeks our help on Christmas Day, it must be a matter of extreme urgency. Either that, or the poor soul is so lonely this day, he has no one else to turn to. Please send him up, Mrs. Hudson.”
Our visitor proved to be a handsome man with a somewhat youthful face, though his long white hair and the lines of his neck told me he was most likely in his mid-fifties. He was a little under six feet tall, but slight of build, with his fresh face giving the impression of extreme cleanliness. Holmes greeted him with a gentle handshake.
“Our Christmas greetings to you, sir. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my dear friend, Dr. John Watson.”
The man shook my hand, too, and spoke in a soft voice. “Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. I am pleased to meet you, sir and I…I thank you for taking the time to see me on this most festive of days.”
As he spoke, I detected a slight stammer that trembled his upper lip as he spoke.
“Please be seated,” Holmes said, and he chose the armchair between the two of us. “Now, tell us what brought you out on Christmas day. Certainly it must be a matter of extreme urgency to keep you from conducting the Christmas service at Christ Church in Oxford.”
Our slender visitor seemed taken aback by his words. “Do you know me, sir? Has my infamy spread this far?”
Sherlock Holmes smiled. “I know nothing about you, Mr. Dodgson, other than that you are a minister and most likely a mathematician at Oxford’s Christ Church College, that you are a writer, that you are unmarried and that you have had an unpleasant experience since arriving in London earlier today.”
“Are you a wizard?” Dodgson asked, his composure shaken. I had seen Holmes astonish visitors many times, but I still enjoyed the sight of it.
Holmes, for his part, casually reached for hi
s pipe and tobacco. “Only a close observer of my fellow man, sir. Extending from your waistcoat pocket, I can see a small pamphlet on which the author’s name is given as Rev. Charles Dodgson, Christ Church. Along with it is a return ticket to Oxford. Surely if you had come down to London before today, the ticket would not be carried in such a haphazard manner. Also, on the front of your pamphlet, I note certain advanced mathematical equations jotted down in pencil, no doubt during the train journey from Oxford. It is not the usual manner of passing time unless one is interested in mathematics as a profession. Since you have only one return ticket, I presume you came alone, and what married man would dare to leave his wife on Christmas Day?”
“What about the unpleasant experience?” I reminded Holmes.
“You will note, Watson, that the knees of our visitor’s pants are scraped and dirty. He would certainly have noticed them on the train ride and brushed them off. Therefore, it appears he fell or was thrown to his knees since his arrival in London.”
“You’re correct in virtually everything, Mr. Holmes,” Charles Dodgson told him. “I left the mathematics faculty at Oxford seven years ago, but I…I continue to reside at Christ Church College, my alma mater.”
“And what brought you to London this day?”
Dodgson took a deep breath. “You must understand that I tell you this in the utmost confidence. What am I about to say is highly embarrassing to me, though I swear to you I am innocent of an…any moral wrong.”
“Go on,” Holmes urged, lighting his pipe.
“I am being blackmailed.”
He paused for a moment after speaking the words, as if he expected some shocked reaction from Holmes or myself. When he got none, he continued.
“Some years ago, when the art was just beginning, I took up photography. I was especially fond of camera portraits, of adults and children. I…I liked to pose young girls in various costumes. With the permission of their parents, I sometimes did nude studies.”
His voice had dropped to barely a whisper now, and I noticed that his frozen smile was slightly askew.
“My God, Dodgson!” I exclaimed, before I could help myself.
He seemed not to hear me, since he was turned toward Holmes. I wondered if his hearing might be impaired.
Holmes, puffing on his pipe as if he’d just been presented with a vexing puzzle, asked, “Was this after you had taken holy orders?”
“I sometimes use ‘Reverend’ before my name, but I am only a deacon. I nev…never went on to holy orders, because my speech defect makes it difficult for me to preach. Some…sometimes it’s worse than this. I also have some deafness in one ear.”
“Tell me about the pictures. How old were the girls?”
“They were usually prepubescent. I took the photographs in all innocence. You…you must realize that. I photographed adults, too, people like Ellen Terry and Tennyson and Rossetti.”
“With their clothes on, I trust,” said Holmes, with a slight smile.
“I know what I did was viewed with distaste by many of my acquaintances,” our white-haired visitor said. “For that reason, I abandoned photography some eight years ago.”
“Then what is the reason for this blackmail?”
“I must go back to 1879, when I published my mathematical treatise, Euclid and His Modern Rivals. Although the general public paid it little heed, I was pleased that it caused something of a stir in mathematical circles. One of the men who contacted me at the time was a professor who held the Mathematical Chair at one of our smaller universities. We became casual friends and he learned of my photographic interests. Later, af…after I’d ceased my photography, he apparently did some picture-taking of his own. I was at the beach in Brighton this past summer when I met a lovely little girl. We chatted for a time, and I asked if she wouldn’t like to go wading in the surf. I carried some safety pins with me and I used them to pin up her skirt so she co…could wade without getting it wet.”
I could restrain myself no longer. “This is perversion you speak of! These innocent children…”
“I swear to you I did nothing wrong!” he insisted. “But, somehow, this former friend arranged to have me photographed in the very act of pinning up the little girl’s skirt. Now, he’s using these pictures to blackmail me.”
“What brought you to London today,” Holmes asked, “and what unpleasantness brought you here to seek my help?”
“The professor contacted me some months ago with his threats and blackmail. He demanded a large sum of money in return for those pictures taken at the beach.”
“And what made him believe that a retired mathematics instructor, even at Oxford, would have a large sum of money?”
“I have ha…had some success with my writing. It has not made me wealthy, but I live comfortably.”
“Was your Euclid treatise that successful?” Holmes chided.
“Certain of my other writings…” He seemed reluctant to continue.
“What happened today?”
“The professor demanded that I meet him here at Paddington Station with a hundred quid. I came down from Oxford on the noon train as instructed, but he was not at the station to meet me. Instead, I was assaulted by a beggar, who pushed me down in the street after handing me an odd message of some sort.”
“Did you report this to the police?”
“How could I? My rep…reputation…”
“So you came here?”
“I was at my wit’s end. I knew of your reputation and I hoped you could help me. This man has me in his clutches. He will drain me of my money and destroy my reputation as well.”
“Pray tell me the name of this blackmailer,” Holmes said, picking up a pencil.
“It is Moriarty…Professor James Moriarty.”
Sherlock Holmes put down his pencil and smiled slightly. “I think I will be able to help you, Reverend Dodgson.”
It was then that Mrs. Hudson interrupted us with word that the Christmas goose would be served in thirty minutes. We were welcome to come down earlier, if we liked, to partake of some holiday sherry. Holmes introduced her to Dodgson and then a remarkable event occurred. She stared at him through her spectacles and repeated his name to be sure she’d heard it correctly.
“Reverend Charles Dodgson?”
“That’s correct.”
“It would be a pleasure if you joined us, too. There is enough food for four.”
Holmes and I exchanged glances. Mrs. Hudson had never even conversed with a visitor before, to say nothing of inviting one to dinner. Still, it was Christmas Day and perhaps she was only being hospitable.
While she escorted Dodgson downstairs, I whispered to Holmes, “What’s this about Moriarty? You spoke of him earlier this year in connection with the Valley of Fear affair.”
“I did indeed, Watson. If he is Dodgson’s blackmailer, I welcome the opportunity to challenge him once again.”
We said nothing of our visitor’s problems during dinner. Mrs. Hudson entertained him with accounts of her young nieces and their occasional visits to Baker Street.
“I read to them often,” she said, gesturing toward a small shelf of children’s books she maintained for such occasions. “All children should be exposed to good books.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Dodgson replied.
As we were finishing our mince pie, and Mrs. Hudson was busy clearing the table, Holmes returned to the subject that had brought Dodgson to us.
“If you and Professor Moriarty were casual friends, what caused this recent enmity between you?”
“It was the book, I suppose. Moriarty’s most celebrated volume of pure mathematics is The Dynamics of an Asteroid. When I followed it with my own somewhat humorous effort, The Dynamics of a Particle, he believed the satire was aimed at him. I tried to explain that it dealt with an Oxford subject, a contest between Gladstone and Gathorne Hardy, but he would have none of it. From then on, he seemed to be seeking ways to destroy me.”
Holmes finished the last of hi
s pie.
“Excellent, Mrs. Hudson! Excellent. Your cooking is a delight!”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”
She retreated to the kitchen while he took out his pipe but did not light it.
“Tell me about the cryptic message you alluded to earlier.”
“I can do better than that.”
He reached into his pocket and produced a folded piece of paper.
“This is what the beggar gave me. When I tried to stop him, he knocked me down and escaped.”
Holmes read the message twice before passing the paper to me.
On Benjamin Caunt’s Day,
Beneath His Lofty Face,
A Ransom You Must Pay,
To Cancel Your Disgrace.
Come By There At One,
On Mad Hatter’s Clock,
The Old Lady’s Done,
And Gone Neath the Block.
“It makes no sense, Holmes,” was my initial reaction. “It’s just some childish verse, and not a very good one.”
“I can make nothing of it,” Dodgson admitted. “Who is Benjamin Ca…Caunt?”
“He was a prize fighter,” Holmes remarked. “I remember hearing my father speak of him.”
He puzzled over the message.
“From what I know of Moriarty, it would be in character for him to reveal everything in this verse, and challenge us to decipher it.”
“What of Caunt’s lofty face?” I asked.
“It could be a statue or a portrait in a high place. His day could be the day of his birth, or some special triumph, or perhaps the day of his death? I have nothing about the man in my files upstairs, and it will be two days before the libraries are open.”
“And what is this about the Mad Hatter?” I inquired.
Mrs. Hudson had returned from the kitchen at that moment and heard my question.
“My niece prefers the March Hare, Mr. Dodgson,” she told him. “But, then, little girls usually like soft, furry animals.”
She walked over to the little bookshelf and took out a slender volume.
“See? Here is my copy of your book. I have the other one, too.”
The Sherlock Holmes Stories of Edward D. Hoch Page 6
