Tales From the Deed Box of John H. Watson MD

by Hugh Ashton

  “Hardly, my dear Inspector. I have had occasion previously to notice that you are left-handed, and the present mild disarray of your garments indicates to me that you have reached across to extract something from the right-hand pocket, thereby disarranging your clothes. The object would hardly be your watch, that I see is placed in a place convenient for your left hand, and I scarcely imagine that you would need your keys when you have come to pay us a visit. I therefore deduce that you found it necessary to reach into that pocket to extract some money for the purpose of paying the fare of the hansom I heard draw up a few minutes ago.”

  “And how did you know that I had come straight from my home?”

  “Tut, man. I cannot imagine Inspector Lestrade entering the hallowed precincts of Scotland Yard with flecks of shaving soap behind one ear, and one boot improperly laced. But when you are visiting the humble abode of Sherlock Holmes, such matters are presumably of no importance...”

  Lestrade laughed ruefully. “You are too much for me,” he confessed. “But I admit that your assistance would be most useful in a case that was brought to my attention by a telegram brought to my house this morning, followed by a longer dispatch from the Yard.”

  As he spoke there was another knock on the door, and Mrs Hudson presented a telegram to Holmes.

  “Ha!” he ejaculated, ripping open the envelope, and scribbling a few words on the reply form. “Take this to the post-office, if you would, Mrs Hudson. You were saying, Inspector?” as Mrs Hudson left the room.

  “Yes, Mr Holmes. I would greatly value your knowledge of European matters in helping me with this affair. It concerns an educational establishment for young ladies in Brighton—”

  “St Elizabeth’s, I believe?” smiled Holmes.

  Lestrade gave a visible start in his seat. “How the deuce do you know that?” he said.

  Holmes smiled. “I believe we have received telegrams this morning referring to the same incident. Maybe you have a little more information from the report to which you alluded than do I at this present time? Perhaps we could travel to Brighton together, and you could occupy the time by recounting the facts as you know them? Oh, and if you wish to remove that shaving soap to which I alluded previously, feel free to avail yourself of this establishment’s ablutionary facilities.”

  -oOo-

  We arrived at Brighton at about midday. Lestrade had informed us of the events at St Elizabeth’s as we sat in our first-class carriage. It seemed that the mysterious bearded visitor mentioned in Miss Holmes’ letter had been seen again at ten o’clock the previous evening, again by the young Archduchess, in the same way as before, peering through the curtains. Again the alarm had been raised, and a search party sent out, aided this time by several of the male teaching staff and the gardener, who had been requested to stay on the premises that evening by Miss Holmes, contrary to usual custom.

  This time, the search had not been fruitless. A body whose countenance, as far as could be ascertained, resembled that seen by the girls earlier in the evening had been found by the French master, Monsieur Leboeuf, lying in a flowerbed, on the opposite side of the building to the window where the face had been observed. Firmly implanted in the chest of the dead man, and seemingly the cause of his death, was a long paperknife, subsequently identified as the property of the principal herself.

  “Intriguing,” Holmes had remarked, listening to Lestrade’s narrative, his eyes closed, and his fingers steepled in that characteristic pose of his. “And what does the owner of the knife have to say about this?”

  “Miss Holmes,” replied Lestrade, “insists that although the knife is hers, it had disappeared from the desk in her study some two or three days before – she cannot be exactly certain – and that she had no idea where it was until it reappeared as the apparent murder weapon. By the by, it is curious, Mr Holmes, that you and she should share the same name.”

  “I believe it is common,” replied Holmes sardonically, “for a brother and sister to share a name.”

  Lestrade stared at Holmes in astonishment, and the notebook from which he had been reading dropped from his hand. “I had no idea...” he stammered. “You have a personal interest in this case, then?”

  “You requested my assistance on this case,” replied Holmes coldly. “I shall give it to the best of my ability, regardless of any family ties that may be present.”

  “Just so, just so,” muttered Lestrade, obviously embarrassed.

  I was anxious to restore some semblance of social ease to the gathering. “Perhaps you can tell us what is known about the murdered man?” I suggested to Lestrade.

  The police inspector retrieved his notebook and started reading from it, with an obvious sense of relief at being delivered from his gaffe. “From papers found on him, the dead man appears to have been a Russian, by the name of Plekhoff. His passport shows he entered England a week ago. As of this morning, the Sussex police have been unable to discover where he has been staying.”

  “Of course, there is no reason for them to assume that he was staying locally,” remarked Holmes. “The train service to London from Brighton is a particularly good one, and the last trains leave a little before midnight, I believe.”

  “True, true,” agreed Lestrade.

  “Have any arrests been made?” asked Holmes.

  “If you are concerned for your sister,” replied Lestrade, with an obvious attempt at reconciliation, “I am happy to tell you that the Sussex police saw no grounds for her arrest simply as a result of the murder weapon having belonged to her.”

  “Thank you,” replied Holmes, and gazed out of the window. Without turning his head, he addressed us both. “May I trouble you both to remain silent until we reach Brighton? I wish to consider this matter.” So saying, he pulled out his pipe and proceeded to almost asphyxiate both of us until we arrived at the Brighton London Road station, and were able to pull fresh air into our suffering lungs.

  -oOo-

  We were greeted by Inspector Steere of the Sussex Constabulary, a ruddy-faced guardian of the law of the old school.

  “Well pleased to have you with us,” he said to Lestrade. “These foreign doings to do with Russia are somewhat out of our league, and we welcome help from London on these matters.”

  “You suspect that the Russians are involved, then?” asked Holmes.

  Steere looked inquiringly at Holmes, and Lestrade hastened to introduce us.

  “Well, I’ve heard of you, Mr Holmes, and you too, Dr Watson, and I am well pleased to see both of you here, too. In answer to your question, it stands to reason, doesn’t it, that it’s all connected with the Rooskies? That young Archduchess and all that?”

  “Quite so,” replied Holmes, though I knew from his expression that his words belied his true feelings on the matter. “May we visit the scene of the crime?”

  “The cab’s waiting, sir. The body is just where it was found.”

  When we arrived at St. Elizabeth’s, a handsome red-brick mansion, I was somewhat surprised that Holmes made no immediate attempt to meet his sister, but allowed himself to be led immediately to the scene where the body had been discovered and still lay, covered by a tarpaulin cloth, that was withdrawn by two constables as we approached.

  The dead man appeared to have been somewhat short of stature, slightly built. His most distinguishing feature was the heavy beard that surrounded his face. Holmes dropped to one knee, and whipped out his powerful magnifying lens, peering through it at the body, as well as at the hilt of the ornamental paperknife that protruded from the cadaver’s chest, surrounded by a small brown stain on the man’s shirtfront, presumably dried blood.

  “An interesting weapon,” I remarked, looking at the curiously wrought Oriental workmanship.

  “Turkish, according to Miss Holmes,” replied Steere.

  “She has positively identified it as hers?” asked Lestrade.

  “As positive as anyone could be under the circumstances, sir. We have no formal statement from her as yet.” />
  Holmes appeared to have finished his inspection of the corpse, and was now examining the ground around it. “Has the body been moved?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” replied Steere. “We were at great pains to leave everything as it was found ready for the gentlemen from London. The only thing we did was to empty his pockets.”

  “So I observe from the mess you fellows made with your footprints,” Holmes remarked a little testily. “I shall want to see what you found later on. Very good,” he added, standing up, “I’ve seen enough here. Let us now examine the window where this man allegedly showed his face.”

  “‘Allegedly’, sir? Surely there is no doubt. Her Highness and several of the other girls have testified already to having seen him looking through the window.”

  “As you will, Inspector. Of what room is this the window, by the way?”

  “This is the principal’s study, sir,” replied the Sussex inspector.

  We marched round to the back of the building, where a constable was standing. “We thought it best to take no chances,” said Steere. “There might be something to be learned here, we felt.”

  “Quite right, Inspector,” replied Holmes. “This may make up for your men’s blundering around near the body.” Once more he dropped to the ground, this time lying full length on the damp soil, heedless of his garments, as he peered at the marks in the flower-bed.

  “Ha! As I thought,” he remarked at length, arising from his recumbent position, and stretching himself to peer through the window. He picked something that appeared to be some kind of dark tangled thread from the creeper that covered the wall beside the window, placing it in an envelope with an expression of satisfaction

  “You never change, do you, Sherlock?” came a cultivated feminine voice from behind us. “Always dirtying your clothes, peeking at things that don’t belong to you, and keeping your secrets to yourself.”

  I turned to face the speaker. The family resemblance was obvious at a glance. Miss Evadne Holmes was a true feminine counterpart of her brother, with the same aquiline nose, deep-set eyes and thin compressed lips. Her strong face would have been somewhat unattractive in a woman, had it not been tempered by a flash of obvious humour that was often lacking in her brother’s countenance.

  “Evadne!” he exclaimed. The pleasure at meeting his sister seemed unfeigned, and showed a facet of his character hitherto unseen by me. “Excuse me,” he apologised to her. “A little of your flower-bed appears to have adhered to my hands. May I clean myself up a little? And then, Inspector, if we may examine the contents of the dead man’s pockets?”

  Holmes allowed himself to be led by his sister, presumably to some hot water and towels, for he emerged some minutes later looking somewhat less like a rural ploughman.

  “Yes, indeed, Russian, as you say,” he remarked, examining the papers headed by the Romanoff double eagle. “And, as I thought, Lestrade.” He held up a scrap of pasteboard. “Here we have the return half of a railway ticket from Victoria Station dated yesterday. He was intending to return last night. It would be singularly useless to begin looking for his lodgings in this area. And this here,” sniffing at a small packet. “Yes, Russian tobacco, I have no doubt. Wouldn’t you agree, Lestrade?” holding out the paper for the other’s inspection.

  “I would have no idea about that,” replied the policeman. “I have little experience of these things.”

  “I would lay pennies to a pound I am correct,” my friend answered. “A small penknife, of cheap German manufacture, and this bottle. What does it contain, Inspector?”

  “We have had no time to submit it to analysis, sir,” pointed out Steere, somewhat nettled.

  “Just so, just so,” replied Holmes, conciliatory. “I notice the bottle is sealed, and the seal is unbroken. My guess is that it is some sort of poison.”

  “We’d observed the unbroken seal, too, sir, and truth to tell, I’d made the same guess as yourself.”

  “And that appears to be all, doesn’t it? Other than this piece of cardboard printed in Russian, which I cannot read. Our late friend travelled light, it would appear. I would like to speak with the Archduchess in the presence of one of the academic staff, if I may.”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged, Mr Holmes,” replied Lestrade. “If I may, sir, under the circumstances, I feel it would be wisest if the member of staff were someone other than your sister?”

  “Naturally,” replied Holmes, easily. “I would have suggested the same thing myself if you had not mentioned it.”

  -oOo-

  About ten minutes later, the two police inspectors, Holmes and myself were seated in a small room together with Miss Simpson, who had been introduced to us as the senior history mistress.

  “I trust that you will say or do nothing that will alarm the poor child further,” she requested, showing a degree of compassion for her charges that was at odds with her stern forbidding appearance.

  “I will endeavour to exercise all the tact and restraint of which I am capable,” replied Holmes, with the easy good humour for which he was famous.

  The girl was shown in, and we all rose. Truly, I think I have hardly ever seen a more beautiful and nobly self-possessed young woman than the Archduchess Anastasia. She was dressed in the drab grey uniform of the school, but she entered as though she had been decked in a ball gown and a diamond tiara. There was something regal in the way she sat, and faced us with a level gaze with calm grey eyes from within a halo of golden hair.

  “Your Highness,” Holmes began. “I have a few simple questions to ask you, and though I am not of the police and you are therefore under no obligation to answer my questions, it would be in the interests of justice if you would do me the favour of indulging my curiosity.” She bowed her graceful head in assent. “Can you tell us the exact time at which you saw the man at the window?”

  “You mean on the second occasion? Last night?” Her English had only the faintest trace of a foreign accent. Holmes nodded. “Yes. It was exactly ten o’clock. The stable clock had just begun striking ten, and that is the time when we are required to put out our lights. I was just moving to snuff out my candle when I saw the face at the window.”

  “Did you recognise the man?”

  “Of course not!”

  “I am sorry. That was not my meaning. What I meant to ask you was whether the man you saw last night was the same as the man whom you saw previously looking through your window.”

  “I am sure of it. The same bearded face appeared on both occasions. How can you doubt my word on it?”

  “I am not doubting your word, Your Highness. I simply wished to be certain of the matter. I have only one more question for you at present, which may be difficult for you to answer, but I must ask it. Are you aware if you, or any of your family, are the target of any anarchist or nihilist threats?”

  A slight tremor filled her voice as she replied. “Yes, indeed. My father has been the subject of at least two attempts on his life, and it has been feared by the Russian authorities that my sisters and I may also be the target of the anarchists. I am not frightened of them, though.” These were brave words, but they failed to carry conviction, to my ears, at least. Holmes, on the other hand, seemed satisfied.

  “Thank you, Your Highness. That will be all for the present.”

  She rose, and we all rose with her as she left the room, escorted by the formidable Miss Simpson.

  “I think we have it now, Mr Holmes, thanks to you,” said Lestrade, “though I have no doubt we would have reached the same conclusion without your help.”

  “Indeed?” Holmes cocked a sardonic eye. “And pray, what conclusion have you reached?”

  “The dead man was one of these Russian nihilist anarchists that you mentioned just now. He arrived here with the intent of killing the girl, or maybe abducting her. The phial in his pockets no doubt contains poison, as we agreed, or maybe some sort of sleeping draught which he proposed to administer if abduction was his goal. The first night he ma
de his appearance, he realised that he had been seen, and accordingly made his escape. He returned a few nights later, and was seen again, but this time, the hue and cry was more successful than on the previous occasion. He was discovered by your sister, who surprised him as he was creeping away in his attempt to escape. She bravely attacked him with the paperknife, which she had snatched up as she went outside, and he died in the struggle. Naturally, she wishes to deny any such thing, as she is frightened she will be accused of murder. Well, I would like you to tell her, Mr Holmes, that in this case, we won’t be pressing charges. I can give you my word on that. The death of one of that type is no great loss, I can assure you.”

  “You would indeed be foolish to press charges,” replied Holmes. “I fear you are on completely the wrong scent. It is a beautiful story, Lestrade. It lacks only the virtue of truth.”

  Lestrade snorted. “And which of your precious theories is it to be this time, Mr Holmes? Surely the answer is staring you in the face.”

  “Some of the answers were staring us in the face, it is true. But other questions remain. I think we need to speak to Monsieur Leboeuf now.”

  Inspector Steere passed a request to a constable, who left, returning a few minutes later shaking his head. “Beg pardon, sir,” he said to Steere, “but they can’t find the gentleman anywhere. Seems no-one’s set eyes on him since last night when he found the body.”

  “Confound you!” said Holmes angrily to the Sussex policeman. “You’ve let him slip through your fingers.”

  I noticed that Lestrade seemed a little less cocksure than he had done a few minutes previously. “I am sure that Inspector Steere has done his best,” he said.

  “I think it is time I talked to my sister,” said Holmes. “In private, if you have no objection, gentlemen. Watson, I require you as a witness. Come.” He stalked off, and I followed.

  -oOo-

  We entered Miss Holmes’ study, where she received us pleasantly enough, and greeted me by name.

  “I have always enjoyed reading your accounts of Sherlock’s adventures,” she told me. “I must admit that I never thought I would feature as a character in one of them.”