A Biased Judgement

by Geri Schear

  I reviewed the position of each window and its corresponding room. The third floor was empty and unfurnished.

  I kicked a stone. I had missed something. But what? I had searched the house from rafters to foundation... no, wait! I had not!

  I ran back into the house and called, “Watson, Watson!”

  The doctor came running down the stairs. “Have you found it, Holmes?”

  “A basement, Watson? Did you find a basement?”

  “No, come to think of it, I didn’t. But there must be one, surely? At least a coal cellar.”

  “Exactly. It is a strange thing, Watson, but I find it is always easier to spot incongruity when an unexpected thing is present; far more difficult to notice when something that should be there is not.”

  I examined the fireplace: there was a plentiful supply of coal here in the scuttle but no sign of where it had come from. There were still ashes in the grate and though there was no telling how long they had been there, it was a reasonable assumption that, given the recent bad weather, Derby had lit a fire the last time she was here, just over a week ago.

  There was enough coal for one day’s heating if she was careful with it, but no one buys coal in such a small amount. No, there must be a place where coal was kept.

  I lay down on the floor and examined it with my magnifying glass.

  “What are you looking for, Holmes?” Watson asked.

  “Coal dust,” I said. “Ah!”

  The trail of small specks was not visible to the naked eye, but was clear enough under my glass. Thanking the stars that the dead woman was an unenthusiastic housekeeper I followed the trail into the kitchen. They led directly to the large china dresser. A glance at the floor showed faint scuff marks on the tiles. Ah, yes, that made sense. I felt along the shelves and dishes and there, behind a large blue pot, I found the handle embedded in the wood, almost invisible to the naked eye. I pulled it and the dresser swung easily out from the wall. Behind it was a flight of stairs leading downwards.

  “Can you find a candle or a lamp, Watson?” I asked.

  He took the oil lamp from the table and lit it, and then the two of us made our way down the stone steps to the basement.

  “It is very curious, is it not, Holmes?” Watson asked as we climbed down the stairs. “I can understand her wanting to hide the papers, but why hide the entrance to the coal cellar?”

  “An additional precaution. There’s an old and filthy cart in the cupboard under the stairs. I saw it without giving it much thought. Now I realise she would have picked up the coal in it and brought it home in that thing. No one need ever know the basement was here; she wanted to make it as difficult as possible for anyone who came snooping. I’ve no doubt we shall find the door this key opens down here. Now, let us see what we may find.”

  The coal was piled in the corner to the right of the stairs. There was a plentiful supply, at least six months’ worth. The rest of the cellar was filled with bric-a-brac: old prams, suitcases, and boxes all lay scattered about in a disorderly way.

  “Does this not strike you as odd, Watson?” I said.

  “That she should store things like boxes down here in a damp basement when there are two empty bedrooms? Yes, very odd.”

  “Not to mention the spacious attic. What does it suggest to you?”

  He looked about him. “I would say Derby was making it difficult for anyone to find the secret door. I can’t see it, can you?”

  “Not yet. But I suspect this rubbish also served the purpose of revealing to Derby if anyone has been intruding here. There’s no way of getting through these things without moving them, and it would take some effort to remember where each item had been. A decidedly paranoid person, was Miss Derby. Hardly surprising in a blackmailer. It must have rankled having to trust those stolen documents from Rillington Manor to the post.”

  Watson tiptoed through the accumulated junk with a concentrated expression on his face. “Odious creature,” he said. “But you’re right about paranoia being the normal state of being for a blackmailer. They have more insight into others’ secrets, and a greater awareness of how easily those secrets can be uncovered than most.”

  “They have indeed. This is odd...”

  “What, the mirror?”

  “Mm. It’s a perfectly adequate mirror. I’d expect to see it hanging in one of our larger mansions. It is enormous; far larger than the paltry square over the sink in the water closet. A cellar seems an odd place for such a thing, does it not?”

  The mirror, it transpired, was not a freestanding object, but rather the door to a secret room. The lock was embedded into the side of the ornate frame and the key slid easily into it. With a cry of triumph I pulled it open and stepped inside.

  The room was about six foot wide and eight foot long. It contained forty-two leather boxes. Most were clearly labelled with the names of some of the most illustrious people of the land. Some twenty or so others were unlabelled; I assumed these were empty, awaiting trophies she had yet to acquire. Never will acquire, now, thank God.

  The boxes were neatly stacked upon a long table. In the corner there was what I first took to be a bench, but which further scrutiny revealed to be a trunk covered with a blanket.

  I turned my attention first to the smaller boxes and went through the stacks. I chuckled as one name in particular caught my attention.

  “Here, Watson! You see?”

  “Good gracious, Holmes. How appalling!”

  “Yes, well, we are all capable of foul things when we are driven by fear and despair. We shall take all these documents with us. No sense subjecting these unfortunates to further scrutiny and distress. First, let me open the lid of that trunk... I have some suspicions but perhaps I am wrong...”

  I was not wrong. Inside was the mummified corpse of a man. Judging by his clothes and his hands, I determined he was a workman, though with a decidedly shady past. “Eddie ‘Popper’ Porter,” I said. “Or so I surmise.”

  “How ghastly, Holmes,” Watson said. “But you cannot possibly recognise him in this state.”

  “No, that birthmark on the back of his left hand that looks like a squib. It was the reason for his nickname, ‘Popper’.”

  Watson looked about him and I waited as he put the pieces together. “He did this work for her and she killed him. I’m right, aren’t I, Holmes?”

  “It is as good a theory as any I can devise. Her need for secrecy was too great to risk anyone else knowing about this room. She probably persuaded him to do the work by suggesting he could hide his booty here. Porter was a notorious thief, you know. So she came here to review his work and then killed him. When he disappeared about five years ago I suspected he’d come to a bad end. I don’t suppose you can determine a cause of death at this stage, Watson?”

  The doctor examined the body with his usual thoroughness. “Yes,” he said, after some moments. “There is a fracture along the back of the skull. Presumably she struck him with a heavy object.”

  “Yes, possibly one of his own tools. Would the fracture have been enough to kill him, do you think?”

  “It would have knocked him senseless but it’s impossible to tell if it was the direct cause of death without an autopsy. It’s exceedingly likely the man was knocked out then she suffocated him.”

  “I suspect that’s what happened. She locked him in the trunk and in that airtight container he never regained consciousness. In any event, it hardly matters. We shall inform Lestrade, but first let us remove these boxes.”

  “They’re going to be difficult to transport, Holmes. There have to be about forty of them. They’re not heavy but they are bulky.”

  “See if you can find a sheet or a tablecloth; we can wrap them up in that and leave them in Jermyn Street. We can go through them when we have more leisure. Give me a moment to check these unlabel
led ones... Oh, they’re not all empty. I wonder why there are no labels on them. Well, we’d better take the lot.”

  We did exactly that. There was barely enough time to deposit the boxes in my bolt hole before hurrying off to the Rose and Crown to meet Lestrade.

  “You should have called me as soon as you found the body, Mr Holmes,” the inspector said mildly as we related our discovery of Popper Porter’s mummified corpse. “Though I suppose it hardly matters.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry about that, Lestrade. Though we left the body precisely as we found it. Here is the key to get you into the hidden room.”

  “Behind the mirror, you said, Mr Holmes? What I don’t understand is why she would need a room like that in the first place.”

  Watson and I exchanged a glance. I said, “She was a blackmailer, Inspector. She hid the objects of her filthy trade in that room and she wanted to be sure no one else could access her secrets.”

  Lestrade knows me of old. He glanced from me to the doctor and back again. With a sigh of resignation he said, “I assume all evidence of this ‘filthy trade’, as you call it, is no longer there?”

  “It does not good to sully people’s names, inspector. Besides, your murderer is dead. What does it matter?”

  “And I suppose there’s no possibility that someone else murdered Porter?”

  “None at all. You know my methods, Inspector.”

  “I should by now,” he said. “Never mind. I’ll take care of it. At least we won’t have to worry about Popper making the Brixton Road a misery for everyone who lives there.”

  Satisfied that I had not corrupted evidence pertinent to his case, Lestrade turned his attention to another matter.

  “Take a look at this picture, Mr Holmes, and see if you recognise him.”

  I took the photograph and studied it. “Ah, my old friend Gilberto Calvini.” I handed the picture to Watson. “This is the villain who stabbed me in St James’s Park. He is dead, then?”

  “Dead as Mr Marley’s doornail,” said he, citing Dickens. “We found him on the Embankment with a broken neck. It was expertly done, very efficient.”

  “He’s a savage looking brute, Holmes,” Watson said. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “Do you have any other information, Inspector?” I said. “When did this wretch return to our shores?”

  “Three days ago, Mr Holmes. My man on the docks spotted him and followed the brute just as we planned. Calvini met up with a chap called Travis at the Old Bull the day he arrived.”

  “Algernon Travis, commonly called ‘The Albino’? Yes, I know him. That is exceedingly interesting.”

  “Is it?” Lestrade said. “In any case, the two of them wandered about the docklands, getting drunk and carrying on, and from there made their way up the river to the Embankment. My constable thought they spotted him because they gave him the slip. The next morning Calvini’s body was discovered in the Victoria Underground station.”

  “Hm... I do not suppose you were able to pick up the Albino’s trail again, Inspector?”

  “Ah, I thought you might ask me that. In point of fact, we did. We traced him back to the house of a gentleman by the name of Albrecht Porlock in Finsbury Park.”

  “Porlock,” I exclaimed. “Ah, that is most interesting.”

  “Is it? I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me why?” Lestrade always looks most ferret-like when he is curious. The resemblance at that moment was quite uncanny.

  “It is a government matter, Lestrade,” I said. “I’m afraid I can say no more than that. This Porlock gentleman, do you know anything about him?”

  “Not much at all, I’m afraid, other than he owns a house in Finsbury Park and had a meeting with our friend here,” he patted the picture of my dead assailant.

  “I see. And I don’t suppose you know where the Albino went after that meeting?”

  “He took the boat to Ostend,” Lestrade replied with some swagger.

  “Ah, excellent. Well done, Inspector. And after that?”

  “I’m afraid we have no means of tracking him beyond our shores, Mr Holmes,” he looked crestfallen.

  Watson said, “I think you’ve done splendidly, don’t you, Holmes?”

  He gave me a pointed look and I said, more enthusiastically than I felt, “Yes, indeed. Really excellent work, Lestrade.”

  A clear link between Porlock and Moriarty’s old network. A small thing, to be sure, but many of my cases have rested upon small things. The depth to which parsley sank in the butter, I remember, helped me solve a particularly nasty murder. And there was the bloody fingerprint that solved the apparent death of Mr Jonas Oldacre. My entire career has been built on small but significant details.

  I was curious to hear that the Albino, a man as lacking in conscience as he is swift with a blade, should be in cahoots with the Professor’s old university chum. From such unions fearful things are born.

  “Yes, you have done very well, Lestrade,” I said. “I am exceedingly obliged to you.”

  The inspector flushed with pleasure. It is ridiculously easy to elevate people.

  I glanced at my watch and said, “Are you almost finished your luncheon, Watson? We really have no time to dawdle.”

  Watson gave me one of his faces and said, “Another ten minutes will hardly matter, Holmes.”

  Lestrade took advantage of the delay to say, “I, ah, don’t suppose you’d care to tell me what you know about this Albino chap, Algernon Travis? Is he someone I should worry about?”

  “He’s most certainly worth keeping an eye on. It is a remarkable thing, but he has never been arrested and yet his name has been linked to some of the most dangerous men in England. That case of the screaming nun that I consulted on, you remember? Travis was behind it; well, he and some old friends of ours, yours and mine, Inspector.”

  “Do you mean the late Professor Moriarty’s gang? We can never seem to stamp out that organisation entirely. We’re making progress, though, with your help, Mr Holmes.”

  “That organisation is like the Lernaean hydra of legend, Inspector: for every head we chop off two more grow in its place. But have no fear, we’ll get the better of the rascals if it takes every man in England and another decade to do it.”

  Watson finished his meal at last and we rose. “I will be happy to discuss this matter further with you upon my return, Lestrade, but I am anxious to get back to the manor before nightfall.”

  “Do you want to go to Baker Street, Holmes?” Watson asked when we were in the cab.

  “Baker Street? Whatever for?”

  “Greer might have left a message. The Irregulars may have news. I’d quite like to change my shoes.”

  “No, I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with your footwear, Watson. We shall be back home soon enough, probably this evening. All that is left to us is to make an arrest. Besides, I have no wish to attract the attention of those shadows who keep watch on our apartments. If they had any intelligence they would have had someone keep an eye on Waterloo; they saw us leave from there. Even an imbecile would conclude we would most likely return the same way. We are fortunate that they are such dull witted fellows.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Watson said, rubbing the side of his foot. “Still, I wish we did not have to make an arrest in this case, Holmes. It’s such a sad situation. That Derby woman was as evil a creature as I have ever heard. Anyone might have been driven to extremes by her.”

  “I know, Watson. Believe me, I know.”

  On our way to railway station, I stopped to send a telegram to Mycroft. He will be most interested in the news about the Albino and Porlock. That duty done we were just in time to get the train back to Bitterne.

  Watson waited until we cleared the station before saying, “What do you make of this meeting between Porlock and that albi
no person, Holmes? An odd thing, surely, for the man to arrive for only a few days.”

  “I suspect he was hired to murder Calvini. Porlock wanted no loose ends. The meeting between the Albino and Porlock was probably payment for services rendered.” I leaned forward and said, softly, “Something is afoot, Watson. There are machinations behind this fellow’s every movement. You may be sure I shall give the matter my full attention as soon as we return.”

  For the rest of our journey I remained in a brown study. Watson read the newspaper and then fell asleep. With each passing mile my preoccupation with Porlock grew less and my anxiety about the Southampton case grew. I could not decide what exactly worried me, but I’ve learned to trust my instinct. By the time the train approached the Bitterne station darkness had fallen and I was in a fair lather. I leapt from the train before it had fully stopped. Watson stepped out behind me and said, “It feels like weeks since we’ve been here, Holmes.”

  “Come, Watson,” I cried. “We must make haste.”

  “What is it that worries you, Holmes?” Watson asked. “We know the killer struck down Liz Derby out of fear and anger. Surely there is no cause for alarm now?”

  “There is, Watson, of course there is. Don’t you see? There is nothing more deadly than a trapped animal. The first murder is the hardest but it becomes easier after that. I am afraid there is more death to come.”

  “Death comes in threes,” Watson muttered. At my quizzical look he said, “That’s what Lady Summerville said, remember? That death always comes in threes.”

  “Superstitious twaddle,” I said. And yet, and yet...

  I ran down the platform in search of a hansom to convey us to the manor.

  This small town had no such to offer, but fortunately the station manager’s son was visiting and offered to convey us in his trap.

  “As fast as you can go, lad,” I cried. “Hurry! There may be lives at stake.”

  “Sit down, old man,” Watson urged. “You’ll do yourself nor anyone else any good if you work yourself into such a state. Come now, we’re almost there.”