The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories

by Otto Penzler

  “I’ve put two good men to work on just that angle. The ports are being watched, and a descriptive circular has been issued by the Yard. He won’t get far if he’s still in England. We did uncover the fact that Mrs. Staunton visited Foote’s quarters yesterday afternoon. We learned from the housekeeper that the lady looked terribly pale and ill, and when told that Arnold Foote had not spent the previous night (Monday, that is) in his rooms, she had exhibited great distress and had left immediately.”

  “A complex affair,” muttered Holmes. “Mrs. Staunton was indubitably leading a double life, taking advantage of her husband’s absences to live with her lover.”

  “That’s how we view it,” agreed Patterson.

  For some minutes the only sounds to break the silence which followed were the crunch of wheels on wet asphalt and the steady clop-clop of the horse’s hoofs. Occasionally the gaslight from a passing street lamp would fall on the grave, brooding faces of my companions. Holmes, pale and tense, his lips clamped tightly on the stem of his pipe. Patterson, stoical and calm, his heavy-set features showing no sign of strain or fatigue.

  “We must be approaching the Thames!” cried Holmes suddenly. “I am sure I heard a boat whistle just now.” He peered out into the foggy darkness for a moment. “Yes, yes, we ought to be there shortly,” he exclaimed. “This is Flood Street, and those are the lights of the Embankment.”

  Holmes’s accurate knowledge of London streets was never at fault, for a few minutes later we turned into Oakley Crescent.

  No. 134 proved to be an old yet attractive Georgian dwelling, with wrought iron railings enclosing a narrow strip of garden. At the gate stood a stalwart police constable good-naturedly coping with a crowd of loafers staring up at the entrance. He saluted as he caught sight of the Inspector’s large bulk, and waved the loiterers aside for us to pass.

  I obtained only a shadowy glimpse of the narrow, dusty, panelled antechamber, lit by a gas chandelier, as we followed Patterson up a flight of carpeted steps, with its unpolished rods dully reflecting the light overhead. Then we were in the bedroom, the scene of the tragedy which, exploding in the press on the following morning, was to rock the entire country for weeks. A boyish-faced policeman rose hurriedly to his feet and saluted as we entered.

  It was a largish room, tastefully decorated in blue and gold wall trimming, with heavy curtains at the wide windows, chairs in brocade and silks, soft rugs, and a vast gilt-framed mirror placed before a well carved dressing table. But I noticed all this later.

  It was the slender, sheet-covered form, lying between the bed and the dressing table, which instantly caught my eye and held it with all the fascination that only swift and mysterious death can evoke. Mrs. Edna Staunton had been a beautiful creature, with clear blue eyes, light brown hair, and exquisitely modeled nose, lips, and throat. In spite of the hideous blemishes which now marred her features, she still radiated a faint, perfumed aura of feminine attractiveness which tugged at one’s heartstrings.

  While I had stood shaking my head sadly over the piteous ruin of one of Nature’s perfect creations, Holmes, who never wasted a moment in maudlin sentiment, had been giving the room a searching examination. Lens in hand, he had carefully scrutinized the various toilet articles which littered the dressing table. Then, on his knees, he had meticulously gone over the carpet in the immediate vicinity of the body. Like some lank, weird bird of sombre plumage, he hopped about the room, muttering to himself, intent upon his work with all the powers of concentration at his command, completely unaware of those of us who were witnessing this strange spectacle. In silence we watched and waited, while he continued his investigations, impressed by the earnestness he exhibited, and his painstaking exactitude.

  Finally he approached the sheeted figure, bent one knee and studied the lurid discolourations with frigid analytical detachment. An exclamation broke suddenly from his lips. A movement of his hand attracted my attention and in an instant I was at his side.

  He had parted the soft brown hair and was pointing at the white scalp beneath. The keen, alert expression on his face, the tightening of thin lips and the quiver of nostrils were symptoms I diagnosed with ease.

  “What do you think caused that, Watson?” he muttered, his voice hoarse with excitement. Craning my head, I could see to what he had alluded. Directly over the parietal bone, above the right ear, were a series of thin parallel scratches, less than an inch in length.

  “What do you think it is, Holmes?” I countered, unable at the moment to account for so slight an abrasion.

  “The solution to the mystery,” he replied, rising to his feet and brushing the knees of his trousers as he went towards the dressing table.

  “The mystery of her death?” I asked, following him.

  “No, Watson, the mystery of how the poison was administered!”

  I heard an ejaculation from Inspector Patterson and turned in time to see him retrieving the cigar which had toppled from his lax lips as my friend’s ringing words fell on his ears.

  As we eagerly approached the toilet table, watching Holmes with expectant eyes, he carefully lifted an object from its surface, then whirled round.

  “And this,” he cried dramatically, holding aloft a silver-mounted tortoise-shell comb, “this is the instrument of death!”

  So long as memory serves, I shall never forget his face at that supreme moment of triumph. The colour had mounted to his usually sallow cheeks and his eyes glowed with sheer joy at the homage we paid him with our words of praise, our cries of astonishment. For the moment, the cold analytical reasoner became a human being, eager for admiration and applause. Then the hidden Holmes vanished as swiftly as he had appeared, the incisive reasoning machine returned.

  After having scanned the spot on which the comb had lain, he was now intent upon examining the poisoned article itself, studying the long thin teeth through his pocket lens, turning it over with the utmost care.

  “A conception worthy of the Borgias!” he cried at last, ill-repressed admiration in his voice. “This innocent-looking comb is deadlier than a cobra reared to strike! The merest scratch is sufficient to cause death.”

  Holding it out for us to see, but at a safe distance, he added: “Not only have the center teeth been filed to razor sharpness and smeared with poison, but the remaining teeth have been lowered a fraction of an inch. I could distinctly see the marks of the file through my lens!”

  “What a devilish device!” I cried, horrified.

  “Aye, Watson, devilish and cunning. Who would suspect so terrible a weapon masquerading under the guise of a common, everyday article such as this? With the possible exception of Culverton Smith’s little ivory box, I cannot recall in all my experience of murder weapons another which filled me with such utter loathing.”

  “What made you suspect a comb in the first place?” asked Patterson, who had hardly uttered a word since entering the room.

  “Where the others looked for the obvious, I sought for the unusual. Once having found the scratches, on the head, I could scarcely fail to recognize the object that had made them.”

  Patterson nodded. “Of course,” he agreed, his shrewd eyes looking down at the covered body. “Must be a slow-acting poison,” he observed as an afterthought. “She had time to replace the thing on the dressing table before collapsing.”

  “Perhaps the murderer himself did so,” I interjected quickly, realizing with a sharp pang that Holmes had apparently failed to account for this most vital point.

  But Sherlock Holmes merely shook his head. “No, no, gentlemen, I disagree with you. The poison acts too rapidly for the victim to do what you have implied, Patterson. The thought had already crossed my mind only to be discarded. I have a simpler explanation. You might ask the maidservant, Mrs. Grant, to step in here for a moment.”

  Inspector Patterson gave the necessary order, and the policeman who had remained on duty left the room at once. A minute or two later he returned with a sturdy, dour-faced woman, faded of feature and with
gray-streaked hair.

  Holmes greeted her with an encouraging smile. “No need for alarm, Mrs. Grant,” he said, “I only wish to ask you a simple question.”

  The comb, which he had retained in his hand at his side, was suddenly level with the woman’s pale, unblinking eyes, the silver mounting twinkling and shining under the gaslight.

  “This comb was lying near Mrs. Staunton’s body when you entered this room earlier this afternoon. What made you replace it on the table?”

  She remained staring at him silently for several seconds, calm and unperturbed. In the hush which followed, I could hear the harsh sounds of a “growler” lumbering by, and the far-off hum of voices from the street. I held my breath, waiting for her to speak. Then the stolid features relaxed, the tightly pressed lips moved.

  “You are a clever man, sir,” she said, her voice still retaining traces of a Scottish burr worn thin from disuse. “A very clever man who makes a body remember things she had forgotten.”

  “What made you remove it?” insisted Holmes.

  The heavy shoulders heaved in a helpless shrug.

  “Who can say? I was that shocked to see the poor lass lying on the floor. I just had to do something. Ma’am was always so fussy about that comb, never a place she went to without taking it along with her. So…”

  “So you automatically picked it up and put it back in its place, as a well-trained servant should,” concluded Holmes for her, a glint of savage delight shining on his face. “Thank you, Mrs. Grant; your testimony has aided us materially.”

  “The comb will of course figure in the trial, Inspector,” remarked my friend after the maid had left. “I entrust it to you. Remember, a careless movement resulting in the slightest scratch or abrasion will cause a frightful death. So handle it gingerly and advise your men accordingly.”

  Patterson nodded gravely. “I’ll take proper care of it, never fear, Mr. Holmes, and so will my men.” Then, shaking his grizzled head from side to side in wonderment, he added: “Wish I knew how you get your results.”

  “Yes, Holmes,” I put in, “how did you discover it was the servant who had replaced the comb?”

  “Simply by observing the dust on the dressing table,” he replied. “As you can see,” he went on, pointing with his finger, “a four day accumulation covers its surface, outlining every article. Upon lifting the comb, however, I could distinctly see that the dust beneath, although scuffed and disturbed, did not show the same clear imprint as the rest of the objects. Hence I deduced that it had only recently been placed there. The police would never have touched it. Who, then, had preceded them? The only person who met all the requirements was Mrs. Grant—the first person to enter the room and find the body.”

  “Holmes,” I said, after a long silence, my voice quivering with emotion, “you have seldom risen to greater heights!”

  “Best bit of detecting I’ve ever witnessed!” was Inspector Patterson’s only comment, but it sufficed to bring a glow of pleasure to my friend’s ascetic features.

  “Well, Patterson,” remarked Sherlock Holmes some time later as we were leaving the Staunton House, “there is your case. It is still incomplete, and some obscure details remain to be cleared up, but in the main, I believe you have got enough to hold Henry Staunton for questioning.”

  “Enough to hang him,” said the Inspector grimly, tapping the leather case in which lay the tortoise-shell comb.

  Retrospective

  Three months had gone by. Henry Staunton, the Oakley Crescent murderer, had been tried and convicted of the poisoning of his wife and of her lover, Arnold Foote. The most dramatic trial of the decade had ended after four tempestuous weeks of controversy and debate. With the execution of the poisoner early in February, the whole sensational affair that had rocked the country was already in the process of being forgotten in the never-ending swirl and bustle of everyday life.

  I had not seen Sherlock Holmes since that eventful evening in November. A hurried note from him which reached me on the 25th informed me that he had been called in by the French Government on a matter of grave importance. I could only conjecture as to what it was, for his terse messages which reached me from time to time conveyed only that his investigations might be of long duration.

  I was, as a consequence, agreeably surprised on a late afternoon in mid-February to learn through Mycroft Holmes that my friend was back in town and wished to see me. My practice being quiet, I wasted no time but went to Baker Street the same evening.

  As I knocked upon the well-remembered door, the sound of his strident voice made my heart leap with pleasure, and on entering, my eyes dimmed as I caught sight of the lean pale face, the faded bathrobe.

  “Ah, Watson!” he exclaimed, “it is good to see you.”

  His face was thinner, more deeply lined than I ever remembered seeing it. His cheek bones were more prominent, and his thick, black eyebrows stood out against the pallor of his skin. Yet his keen, ever-alert eyes retained their old fire, his voice all of its commanding power and resonance.

  He was seated at his desk, his long nervous fingers deftly inserting various papers and documents into a large blue envelope.

  “But perhaps I am intruding upon you,” I remarked, after having warmly responded to his greeting. “If you are busy…”

  “No, Watson, only a preliminary weaving of my web. There is nothing more to be done at this stage.” He held up the pale blue folder on the surface of which I noticed a large letter ‘M.’ “My case is almost complete, but I cannot spring into action for several weeks.” He rose to his feet, placed the folder into one of the pigeonholes of his desk, then crossed over to his favourite chair by the fireplace.

  “You must forgive me,” he resumed, as I followed to take my accustomed place across from him, “for not notifying you earlier of my return. My present investigation necessitates the utmost secrecy. No one, save only those I trust implicitly, must know of my presence here in London at this time. I came back in disguise; the only persons with whom I have communicated are my brother and Police Inspector Patterson.”

  “This investigation, then, is of great importance?”

  “So important,” he replied very earnestly, “that if I bring it off successfully it will be the crowning achievement of my career.”

  “I need hardly have to say that I am at your disposal, Holmes. Should you need…”

  “Rest assured, my dear Watson,” he broke in, “that when the time comes I shall most certainly have need of a faithful ally. It is a waiting game that I play, against a formidable foe whose every move must be carefully weighed if I am to land him in the net I am preparing.”

  I experienced a pang of disappointment which I attempted to conceal. I ought to have known that it was not his nature to send for me just for the pleasure of seeing an old and trusted friend. His proud, self-contained personality and unemotional character made him shun any display of sentiment towards anyone, even his only friend.

  “Come, come, Watson,” he cried, a mischievous twinkle lurking in his eyes. “What I have to say will amply reward you for any time you may have to spend away from your patients.”

  “I am always happy to see you, Holmes,” I said quietly, the bitterness thawed by the cordiality in his voice, “and to listen to whatever you might have to say. At present, having no serious cases to attend to, I am quite free to help you in any way I can.”

  “Splendid!” he exclaimed, crossing his thin knees and settling back more comfortably in his seat. “I suppose,” he said, after a pause during which he sat thoughtfully puffing his pipe, “I suppose that you are wondering why I have asked you to drop in today?”

  “You have a case to go over with me?”

  “Right, Watson,” he replied, glancing keenly in my direction, his heavy brows drawn low over his eyes, as if expecting a reaction from me. “The Staunton affair.”

  I started up in my chair in surprise.

  “Is not that an unusual departure from your customary methods of work
?” I asked, for none knew better than I that, in his clear and orderly mind, each case displaced the last, and present problems invariably blurred all recollections of past ones.

  “It is,” he agreed, “but there were unusual aspects about the case which prompted me to deviate from my rule.”

  “But what feature could have induced you to dwell upon the Oakley Crescent Murders at this time, three months after the conclusion of your investigations?”

  “The significance of the tortoise-shell comb,” he answered gravely, “in connection with the death of Mrs. Edna Staunton.”

  “I was not aware that there existed any significant aspect in connection with her death,” I observed, my mind reverting to the grim scene in the Staunton bedroom. “The poisoned comb, I concede, was an extraordinary method of committing a crime, without precedent, perhaps, in modern criminal annals. But…”

  “No, no, Watson,” he said quickly, “say unusual if you like—even grotesque if you prefer it, but not entirely unprecedented, for there are parallels in modern criminology.”

  “Indeed? I should like to hear some.”

  “Very well.”

  A reminiscent light came to his eyes as he resumed after a momentary reflection.

  “I might mention, by way of illustration, the Wurlitzer Case at Salzburg, in 1877, in which a poisoned earring was used. The fact that the victim—a woman of means whose wealth was coveted by the murderer—had recently had her ears pierced at his insistence, was chiefly instrumental in bringing the poisoner to justice. Another, differing only in the method of application, is the Selmer Poisoning Case of Brittany, some two years ago. You may recall that a sharpened nail, driven through the sole of the boot, then smeared with a deadly acid, caused the death of its wearer, Francois Selmer, a rich cattle merchant. His nephew was later convicted of the crime when it was proved that the marks on the leather could only have been made by his own hammer. There are others, less striking perhaps, but these will suffice to bring out the various points of resemblance existing between them.”