The Iron Dog (A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale)
Page 7
“But, Holmes, what of the letters Miss Crawley gave you? You noted immediately the use of her name and the lack of Rutherford’s stationery.”
“It was clever ruse from a desperate woman, Watson. When the Inspector alerted her to the trouble she was in, she created a new set of letters. She burned the old letters. I asked Wiggins to check for evidence of a fire and he found it when he delivered my note. Again, we have a fire in the middle of a heat wave, Watson. She made certain the new letters were different from the ones she had given Rutherford. It made no sense that he was reluctant to use his stationary because of possible scandal. They were signed with his name. It was a forgery by Miss Crawley, but it put to the lie the notion he was afraid they would fall into the wrong hands. Additionally, the letters appeared to be wrinkled with age, but, Watson, is that how women retain old love letters? Do they allow them to become wrinkled? Of course not. If they are kept at all, they are pressed in a book. These letters were brand-new and then wrinkled by Miss Crawley to simulate age. Is that not all correct, madam?
“It is, Mr. Holmes,” she said in a clear voice. “What will you have me do?”
“Make a clean break with your recent past. Do not allow your judgment to be colored by drink. Melancholy is a dangerous state to be in, and it is exacerbated by strong spirits. Take the lifeline that has been thrown to you, and resume your career. The lady who protested her innocence in this room deserves to trod the boards. That is where your acting talent should have free rein. You shall never have another chance to redeem yourself as you have had this day.”
The lady hesitated not a moment. She stood up and faced Holmes.
“You shall never have cause to regret this, Mr. Holmes.”
“Very well,” said Holmes. “May the doctor , and I, accompany you home. I did promise Lestrade I would see to it.”
“No thank you,” said she. “I wish to walk in the sun. Good day to you, gentlemen. Please be my guests when the new show opens.”
With that she made a stately exit. Holmes and I found ourselves alone. My head was still spinning, but Holmes simply reached for his Persian slipper and removed some of his finest shag from the toe. He lit his pipe in some contentment.
“Do you disapprove of my actions here, Watson? You are most quiet.”
“I heartily approve, Holmes. I am merely agog at this final turn. This is the final turn, isn’t it?” I asked, with some suspicion.
“The hunt is over, my old friend. I think we have earned at least one day’s rest from our toils.”
“Agreed, but, Holmes, why did you allow Miss Crawley to escape justice?”
“The answer is twofold. Firstly, I judge her character to be a good one. She had a moral lapse, but I do not believe that she could have followed through to an actual crime. Apparently Rutherford felt the same. Secondly, I judge the character of Benjamin Rutherford in a much harsher light. Lestrade reported that Rutherford’s death brought little mourning, and that was my finding as well. In my tramp through the theater district, I found much rejoicing at his death. One woman threw her life away in the destruction of the man, but I saw no reason to throw away the life of another. Miss Crawley will always remember this, and that will keep her on the path of right.”
We lapsed into silence after that. Holmes persisted in his pipe, and I reviewed the case in my mind. Something was gnawing at me. It suddenly struck me what it was.
“Holmes,” I said, in a voice dripping with satisfaction. “Although you did manage to solve the case, it occurs to me that even though you suspected something was amiss with the Rutherfords when they visited, you were still fooled. You accepted the ersatz Benjamin Rutherford as the real person. That is actually most extraordinary.”
“You forget, Watson, that I had never met Benjamin Rutherford. Anyone reasonably close to his physical type would appear to be Rutherford. Anything else troubling you, doctor?”
“But, Holmes, what of the accent? Benjamin Rutherford was born and raised in Australia. The actor Peter Fennel was an Englishman. I must admit I am shocked that he was able to fool Sherlock Holmes with an affected accent.”
I had played my final trump card, and I was certain that, for once, I had bested Holmes. It was with a smug satisfaction that I leaned back in my chair to observe his reply. It was not long in coming.
“The answer to that is quite simple, Watson. I have learned that although Peter Fennel was born in England, he spent two years in Australia, from age four to six. These are the formative language years in regard to accents. I have written a slight monograph on the subject. That fact, doubtless, explains his mastery of the Australian accent.”
“That is a flimsy thread for an argument, Holmes,” said I, with no little sarcasm.
“Ah, but the most magnificent tapestry began as a humble thread,” said my friend blithely. “Now I believe the muse is upon me. Would you please hand me my violin, Watson?”
The End
Special Note
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