by Gary Lovisi
“I knew you would get wind of this, even before the papers did.”
“What has happened?” I asked carefully.
“Im afraid he’s done it this time, Doctor Watson,” Lestrade said as he led me to a seat in his private office, closing the door behind him. “Sherlock Holmes has gone too far; from solving crimes, to finally committing one.”
“Lestrade, that is nonsense.” I replied hotly.
“No nonsense this time, doctor. Oh, I am not as slow-witted as you and Mr Holmes make me out to be. I acknowledge that he has bent the rules upon occasion. Upon some occasions bent them quite nicely, and I’ve looked the other way—for justice’s sake.”
“But . . . ?”
“But it has gone past all that now. He’s being held for murder.”
“Murder? That is ridiculous! Sherlock Holmes could no more murder someone that could you or I!”
Lestrade gave me a wry grin that caused me great distress, “Who’s to say what any man will do given the circumstances? Regardless, Mr Holmes has admitted to the murder, doctor, or shall I say the assault that has lead to the death of Lord Albert Wilfrey.”
“He has admitted it?” I replied, my anger deflated.
“Yes, and quite candidly I can assure you.”
I sighed, not knowing at all what to make of such dire news but determined to see my friend at once and get the details of his full story.
“May I see him?”
“Of course, doctor, I’ll take you down to his cell now.”
* * * *
“Holmes!” I shouted, as I ran to the cold iron bars that separated us. I saw that my friend was seated on the jail mattress, as calm as could be, reading a book.
“Watson, I knew you would come.”
“What has happened? Why are you here? Surely there is some miscarriage of justice. A mistake?” I rambled, while Lestrade unlocked the door to Holmes’s cell, and Lestrade and I entered.
“I’m afraid, it is as Lestrade has no doubt told you,” Holmes said in his usual cold analytical manner but there was a softness around his eyes and the slightest tremble upon his lips to let me know he was indeed touched by my presence and concern.
“Please,” I stammered. “I am in need of some explanation.”
Holmes smiled, “Of course, good Watson, and you shall have it, just as I gave it to the inspector here.”
“He admitted it all, Doctor,” Lestrade chimed in eagerly.
“Indeed I did, and why not. It is quite cut and dry. I was called out to the home of Lord Albert Wilfrey upon a question of inquiry. You will remember, Watson, that Lord Wilfrey is a peer of the realm and quite influential, a man of great wealth and power. When such a man calls for assistance or council, it is advised you heed that call.”
“He is dead?” I asked nervously.
“Oh, most definitely dead, I can assure you, Watson; but please, you are getting ahead of things. Let me explain.”
“I feel I need to warn you, Mr Holmes, anything you say here can be used against you at the assizes,” Lestrade stated.
“Of course, Inspector, and I appreciate your reminding me of the fact, but what I say now will be nothing more nor less than what I have told you in your official interrogation of me when I called you to the Wilfrey home.”
“Then go on, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade said.
“It is rather simple and straight forward. Lord Wilfrey and I had a disagreement that escalated quite quickly. Things were said, the situation spiraled out of control, and in my anger and rage I struck him. He went down, hitting his head upon the mantle of the fireplace as he fell back. When I examined his prone form I discovered that he was dead. I immediately sent out one of the servants to fetch the Inspector.”
“Upon examination of the body, doctor, we found Lord Wilfrey had a head wound that corresponds with Holmes’s story, and there were some drops of blood on the fireplace mantle where his head struck,” Lestrade explained.
I was astonished. Holmes a murderer?
“Surely it was self defense? He struck you first?”
“No, Watson, I landed the first and only blow.”
“Then surely it was some kind of accident? You did not intend to kill him, I am sure.”
“No,” Holmes admitted slowly, “but the result speaks for itself.”
“That’s all for a judge and jury to decide, doctor; but for now it’s a murder case all right, murder pure and simple,” Lestrade interjected.
“Poppycock!” I bellowed.
Holmes smiled, “Oh, Watson, you are a true blue friend.”
“And you are no murderer!”
Holmes remained silent.
“Well, what of any witnesses? Did the servants see anything that could help your case?” I asked hopefully.
“Lord Wilfrey and I were quite alone when the incident took place,” Holmes said softly.
Suddenly I was at a loss for words, aware of a gnawing void deep in the pit of my stomach.
“Of course, we will give Mr Holmes every comfort here, until the trial, doctor,” Lestrade offered.
“Until the trial. Are we not to expect he will be released until the date of that trial?” I asked the inspector.
“Afraid not,” Lestrade said sternly. “It is a murder case, after all. Lord Wilfrey was a man of considerable influence and power. Once the press gets word of this . . . well, you know how the papers are with sensationalism? The Yard can hardly allow a murderer . . . I mean a man accused of such a murder to be let lose, you understand. When I took Holmes back to his rooms to collect some personal items and books, no doubt that is how his landlady discovered the situation and alerted you.”
I shook my head in frustration and looked at Holmes who only shrugged as if the entire affair was a mere inconvenience rather than the possible end of his brilliant career, and perhaps his freedom and very life.
“Holmes, what of your solicitor? Why is he not here?” I asked.
“I have not called one,” Holmes said simply.
I was aghast and said so, “Then I shall get you one immediately.”
“No, Watson.”
“No?” I said sharply.
“No, I shall conduct my own defense. I am fully capable. In the meantime I shall also get some valuable reading done.”
“Reading? And you have not employed a defense attorney? You are on charge for murder, your very life is in the balance! I say, Holmes, you seem to have a damn cavalier attitude toward this abominable injustice!”
“Good old Watson! I see you are fired as usual with that righteous emotional fuel you seem to possess in abundance.” Holmes said with a smile. Then he yawned expansively, “And now, gentlemen, I’m afraid you must take your leave.”
“Well, I don’t believe this entire situation for one minute!” I barked.
Holmes smiled, “I knew you wouldn’t, John, and thank you.”
I looked at my friend carefully then, trying to gauge any sign from him that perhaps his words held some deeper meaning but his face was as stoic and inscrutable as ever when he did not want to give the game away.
“Something is most certainly up with this,” I said boldly.
Holmes only shook his head; “It is what it is. Come see me tomorrow, John.”
Then Sherlock Holmes turned away and sat down upon his bunk. I watched as he picked up one of the many books Lestrade had allowed to be brought into his cell and he began reading. I was rather surprised to see the title of the book was Crime and Punishment by the famous Russian novelist, Fyofor Dostoevsky.
THAT NIGHT AND THE NEXT DAY
I can say with all candor that I slept little if at all that terrible night. Even with my wife, Mary, still away, and me alone, the quiet of our flat grew to be desolate and alarmin
g. It was as if the very walls were closing in upon me—as they most certainly were closing in upon my friend, Sherlock Holmes. How had this travesty happened? I could not wait until the morrow when I would see Holmes again for explanation. My mind was awhirl with all manner of fancy theories and conjectures. Why had Holmes admitted the crime? Why had he not engaged a legal agent for his defense? There was more to this than met the eye, I was sure; and yet it seemed to be cut and dry, just as Holmes had stated; and that had me very worried.
And yet, the more I thought about it, Lestrade’s words kept hammering at the back of my mind—of how Holmes had so often bent the rules in his cases—sometimes with even myself believing he had gone far in excess. Could it be possible? Could Sherlock Holmes be a murderer? Did the argument and the rage he felt at Wilfrey cause him to strike out with such dire consequences? It seemed so unlike my friend, and yet . . . And yet . . . was he not even now reading Dostoevsky’s dark tale in his jail cell—a tale that I knew held as the central character a man who takes it upon himself to kill a vile and unscrupulous monster—thus ridding the world of an evil parasite. The book is about a man who believes murder is permissible in pursuit of a higher purpose. Had Holmes descended into some similar errant vigilantism? I was fearful such doubts could take sway over me.
I shook the cobwebs from my mind as the first glimmer of dawn and a new day approached. I washed, shaved, dressed, and was determined to make some inquiries on my own that morning, well before I visited Holmes that afternoon.
I took a cab to the Wilfrey estate. It was an imposing pile with large, gated grounds. I was allowed entrance by James, the butler, an old family retainer. We had a good discussion about the events of that dark day. He admitted nothing but I could see quite plainly he was hiding something, so I pressed him hard.
“Did Lord Wilfrey leave a widow?” I asked.
“No sir, she passed away years ago, in child birth, sad to say.”
“So there are no children?”
“Yes, one, a boy. Young master Ronald is upstairs in his room, indisposed. You can not see him.”
“James, please, I need your help.” I pleaded.
“You say you are Mr Holmes’s friend?” James whispered finally.
“Most certainly,” I assured him.
“Then drop this inquiry, doctor. It is what Mr Holmes would want you to do.”
Well, there it was, certainly something nefarious was going on here and now I was more determined than ever to get to the bottom of it.
“I’ll not drop it! Sherlock Holmes faces trail and the assizes for murder—a murder I am now sure he did not commit. Conviction will destroy his career and may end his life! You will have his blood on your hands—and my most fearsome revenge, I can assure you—if you do not come clean with all you know.”
James resolve buckled at my threats. Suddenly he broke and told me the entire story. Later he brought in two of the servants, Gloria the chamber maid and Ricardo the groom, both of whom had also bore witness to the incident. I was astonished by what I learned. Holmes had three excellent witnesses and yet he had pledged them all to silence.
* * * *
Later that day I visited Holmes in his cell at Scotland Yard. Once Lestrade left us and we were alone, I put what I had learned to my friend as plainly as I could.
“I’ve been to the Wilfrey home, I’ve spoken to James, Gloria, and Ricardo. You have three witnesses to verify your innocence. Tell me now, what is this all about?”
“Watson, you have become a veritable bundle of energy and ingenuity as you have grown older.”
“I have learned from the best.”
Holmes smiled then, “So you have cracked James, made him talk? I am sure it took some time.”
“I had nothing but time.”
Holmes nodded, “And you never doubted me, not for an instant?”
“Dostoevsky? Really, Holmes, that was a nice touch and almost had me considering the unthinkable, but that’s just it, isn’t it? It is unthinkable—you, a murderer—never!”
“Bravo, Watson!”
“So who are you covering for? Your witnesses would not admit all the details. When do you intend to end this abominable charade?”
“Soon, old friend. I need to give him another day to get out of the country before the pursuit grows hot on his heels. Then I can allow the Wilfrey servants to come forward and tell their tale to clear me.”
“But why, Holmes? Why keep me in the dark?”
“Long suffering, Watson, I am sorry. I never intended this to get so far afield and out of hand. Good Mrs Hudson grew alarmed when Lestrade brought me in cuffs to my rooms to collect some personal effects and books, to make my stay here at least bearable. Since you have moved out into your own flat with wife, Mary, I did not want to alarm you unnecessarily with my plan. Mrs Hudson contacted you before I could give you any of the details. I will give you those details now.”
* * * *
SHERLOCK’S STORY
“I did indeed go to the Wilfrey residence on that dark morning. Lord Wilfrey had arranged to employ me upon a niggling matter of some missing jewelry belonging to his deceased wife supposedly taken by the kitchen porter, Morrow. Well, I brought the man in for questioning, and after that I called for Lord Wilfrey’s son, Ronald. That cleared up the matter easily enough. You see, the son had hidden the items, and he readily admitted it when Morrow was accused. It seems the boy and Morrow had become close friends in his short time of employment in the home. The boy is certainly a troubled lad, but he did not want to get his friend fired or arrested for the theft.”
I nodded, listening intently, absorbing the facts of the story.
Holmes continued, “However, while I was in the Wilfrey home I am sorry to say that I bore witness to such horrendous brutality that I can only call it by its true name. Evil.”
“What was it, Holmes?”
“You know my feelings about the dark secrets that go on in all those pretty country houses, Watson? How I have said quite often that I believe the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.”
I nodded.
“Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places, and none the wiser,” Holmes added.
“Yes, you have spoken upon it at times, quite detailed I remember, during the case I chronicled a few years ago in the Strand as ‘The Adventure of the Copper Beeches.’ ”
“Well, keep those thoughts in mind as I tell you that no sooner was the kitchen porter, Morrow, brought into the library to confront Wilfrey and myself about the theft, I recognized him as John Maulin Morrow, a young roustabout and violent felon.”
“Now I see, Holmes!” I blurted, aware of a criminal connection.
“Not quite, good fellow, and certainly not the entire story. Allow me to explain. I recognized Morrow forthwith, and he me. You see, we have a history. He is a brute and a violent fellow, and yet not all that he seems. I know something of the man, his family life. To be fair, as a youth he was the victim of a vicious homicidal mother. The woman murdered her husband, got away with it, then she systematically tortured the boy. He was eventually taken away from her and put into an orphanage. She died soon after, and the boy descended into brutality and crime.”
“Holmes continued, “Young Morrow assaulted a man. Morrow saw him beating a woman. The man was a pimp and the woman a lady of the evening in his employ. But it made no difference, the assault was violent and bloody, it cried out for a remedy. Prison for Morrow was the result. I watched his career over the years, noted his struggle and his progress. Morrow reformed during his time in prison, so much so, that the warden himself gave him a recommendation and he was able to find an honest job. There he met Lord Wilfrey who offered
him the position of kitchen porter in his home. A decision that ended up costing Wilfrey his life.”
“The brute! And after Wilfrey had shown him such kindness and taken him into his own home.”
“Hah! Not quite, Watson. You see, Wilfrey’s son and Morrow struck up an immediate friendship—it seems Morrow saw in the boy something of himself at that young age—and more so, he easily noticed the abuse. . . .”
“Abuse, you say?”
“Beatings of the most violent sort, done to the boy by his own father. It seems the wife died in childbirth but the child lived—Ronald—the father forever blamed the son for the death of his wife. He took it out on the boy with terrible results. I tell you, John, as a medical man, were you to examine this child you would discover the marks of horrendous acts perpetrated upon his person. I believe the boy has, at one time of another, had almost every bone in his body broken by this abuse. The beatings were so severe, young Ronald should have died a dozen times. Such is the power of his steadfast character and heroic will to survive that he has lived this long. It is pure evil, Watson. What has been done to this boy by his own father is nothing less than evil.”
Holmes was quiet for a moment, I sighed and digested these facts solemnly. As a medical man I was well ware of such atrocities and had sadly seen my share of them when distraught mothers brought children with “accidents” into St. Barts. Accidents that were clearly the results of beatings, or worse.
Holmes continued, “Of course I had made up my mind to report the matter to the authorities when the situation was suddenly wrenched out of my hands forever.”
“My God, was it Morrow?”
“Once I confronted the boy and he admitted the theft, Wilfrey flew into a diabolical rage and attacked the child like a madman. The brute grabbed his son and began to pummel him with his fists. It was tragic, shocking, and so sudden and unexpected. Wilfrey is a big man, six feet in height and over 200 pounds; the boy is but two stone soaking wet. This was not normal parental anger, nor the justifiable punishment of an errant child, it was excessive brutality of the most violent form. I truly feared for the boys life. So did John Morrow. As he was nearer to Wilfrey than I, he reached the man first. Morrow let go with a massive fist to Wilfrey’s chin that hit him with such power it caused the peer to release his hold upon his son and fall backwards. That is when his head hit the lintel of the fireplace. Wilfrey was dead immediately and my examination of the body confirmed it.”
