by Ashton, Hugh
“Absurd!” I exclaimed. “Do you know the person whom you are arresting?”
“I do indeed, sir, and it gives me no pleasure to be carrying out my duty, I can assure you. You, I take it,” and he actually tipped his hat to me, “are Doctor Watson, I assume?”
“I am indeed. May I be permitted to accompany you and Mr Holmes to the station?”
“In the normal way of things, I would have to refuse, but given your reputation and that of Mr Holmes, I will allow it this time.”
Holmes had remained silent and impassive throughout this exchange, and showed no emotion on his face. “Shall we go, then, McKenzie?” he asked the detective.
“You know me, Mr Holmes? “The policeman was taken aback.
“Of course, “replied Holmes genially. “You were assisting Inspector Gregson in one of the cases where I offered a little assistance. The Drebber murder, if you recall.” This case is one of which I have recorded the details elsewhere, under the title of A Study in Scarlet.
The detective flushed. “Fancy you remembering me, sir! I’d only just started out in the Force then, and it was a real treat to watch you at work. That’s what makes it such a blooming shame that we have to bring you in today, sir. “His regret seemed unfeigned.
“Who is this Michael Frignall who is supposed to have been assaulted?” I asked. “What manner of man is he?”
“I am afraid I cannot answer that, sir. He’s just a name on the charge-sheet to me. You and I will take a cab to the Yard, Mr Holmes. If you don’t mind, Dr Watson, you will have to follow in a separate vehicle. I’ll let them know you are arriving, and there’ll be no problem with your coming in.” So saying, he hailed a passing hansom, which he and Holmes entered before clattering off in the general direction of Scotland Yard. A minute or so later, I hailed a cab of my own, and was soon trotting after them.
-oOo-
I was admitted without any difficulty, and was shown to the room where Holmes was seated at a table facing Inspector Gregson. “Ah, Doctor Watson,” the Inspector greeted me. “I am sorry to see you under these circumstances.”
“Maybe you can tell us more about this offence of which I am accused,” suggested Holmes. “I fear the good McKenzie has not been taken into your full confidence regarding this matter.”
“That last is true,” admitted Gregson. “Well, Mr Holmes, it is a strange business, as I am sure you need no telling. About ten o’clock last night, a man who gave his name as Michael Frignall presented himself at the Pentonville police station, complaining that he had been violently assaulted. He was suffering from a broken nose, and there were severe contusions to the upper body. His story was that he had just left a public house in the area when a tall figure stepped from the alleyway beside the hostelry, and fell upon him, causing the injuries that he had sustained.”
“Was any weapon involved, according to this man?” asked Holmes.
“No. The assault was carried out using fists alone, according to the victim.”
“And what links me to this assault?” Holmes’ tone was relaxed, even amused, but there was an undercurrent of seriousness beneath his words.
“Apparently the assailant muttered something along the lines of ‘That will teach you to meddle with Sherlock Holmes’ as he left his victim, and dropped this at his feet. “He pointed to a small pasteboard square lying on the table – one of Holmes’ calling cards. “This is one of your cards, I believe, Mr Holmes?” asked Gregson. “I have seen them often enough.”
“I cannot deny that it is my card,” replied Sherlock Holmes. “Though I deny being in that area at that time last night, and it would hence have been impossible for me to have committed the offence complained of.”
“So you say,” replied Gregson. “I assume you have an alibi?”
“Alas,” replied Holmes. “I spent the evening in my rooms in Baker Street, bringing my records up to date. I saw no-one.”
“Doctor Watson was not with you, then?” asked Gregson. His voice betrayed some worry.
“I saw no-one after seven o’clock in the evening, when Mrs Hudson brought in my dinner,” repeated Holmes, “until seven o’clock this morning when she came to clear away the remains of that meal – by my request, I had asked her not to disturb me after dinner – and to bring in my breakfast.”
“How very unfortunate,” said Gregson. “I suppose that there is no possibility that she could vouch for your not having left the house during the course of the evening?”
“Inspector, I appreciate the effort you are making to establish my innocence, but I cannot in all honesty assist you further by providing an alibi. I would remind you that this is not the first time that my name has been misappropriated by the criminal classes, many of whom, as I am sure you are aware, would like nothing better than to see me removed from the streets of London.”
“I am aware of that,” replied Gregson, “and believe me, we are taking this into account. There are two other points that I have to take into consideration, however. The first is your undoubted skill in pugilism. It would appear that the assailant was likewise some sort of boxer, as evidenced that the assault was carried out with fists alone. The other is that the victim gave a description of his attacker that is a remarkably good description of you, Mr Holmes. Perhaps you would care to read the statement taken at Pentonville police station last night.” He passed another piece of paper to Holmes, who perused it.
“Indeed, it is a very detailed description,” he commented, raising his eyebrows, “even if a little flattering to my personal vanity in places.”
“Who is this Michael Frignall, anyway?” I asked Gregson.
“No-one of importance,” replied the policeman. “He works as a clerk in some firm in the City – Knight and Conk-Singleton, stockbrokers, I believe.”
Holmes and I exchanged glances. “You are sure of his employers?” asked Holmes.
“They are given at the top of the statement you hold in your hands,” said Gregson. “Is the matter of any significance?”
“Quite possibly, Inspector. Forgive me if I prefer to play my cards close to my chest at present, though.”
Gregson chuckled. “I know you too well, Mr Holmes, than to pry into matters where you have no wish to have me pry. But,” and his voice became serious once more, “you are under arrest at present, and though I can offer you the best cell on the premises as accommodation, it will still be a cell while you await trial at the Bailey, unless the magistrate will grant bail at tomorrow’s hearing. Believe me, I will do what I can to make your stay with us as comfortable as possible, but I warn you that unless you can come up with some alibi, I fear the worst.”
I was struck with a certain horror. The penalty that would be levied upon Holmes was not likely to be a light one. Worse, perhaps, would be the damage to his reputation. It would be hard for Holmes to advertise his services as a bringer of miscreants to justice were he to be punished for a common crime such as this. Despite Gregson’s obvious goodwill towards my friend, my heart sank somewhat at the thought of what lay in store for Sherlock Holmes.
“I have a request, Inspector,” said Holmes, looking the policeman in the eye. “It may be that you would exceed your powers a little in granting it, but for old times’ sake, eh?”
“Tell me what it is that you want of me, and I will give you an answer to the best of my ability.”
“I wish your permission for me to visit the scene of the alleged crime tonight at the hour when you were told it occurred last night. Naturally, I would expect you and some of your men to accompany me. Escape is the last matter on my mind at present, I can assure you.”
“It would be most irregular,” replied Gregson, “but I am in a position to grant your request. If we depart at a quarter past nine, that should allow us to reach Pentonville about a quarter before ten, which was when Michael Frignall was assaulted.”
“Shall we say ‘claims to have been assaulted’?” said Holmes, quizzically. “By the by, I assume there is no problem w
ith Watson’s joining us on our little trip? Assuming, that is, Doctor, that you wish to accompany us on our excursion.”
“How can you doubt my intentions on the matter?” I responded, more than a little nettled by his words.
“I should never have doubted my Watson. I apologise,” replied Sherlock Holmes.
“By no means do I have any objection,” said Gregson. “I will make arrangements to have you admitted to the Yard and shown to my office at around nine this evening, Doctor.”
I thanked Gregson, and bade farewell to him and my friend, who seemed to be remarkably unconcerned about his sojourn in the jaws of justice, and the possible consequences that might ensue.
-oOo-
As Gregson had promised, my way was prepared for me when I came to Scotland Yard that evening. He greeted me heartily. “Mr Holmes is in his cell. Would you like to visit him there, or will you wait until he is brought to us?”
“I would prefer to wait,” I answered. Truth to tell, I would have been embarrassed to see my friend in those circumstances, and I am certain that he, too, would have suffered from a crisis of humiliation had I seen him there. “How is he behaving? What is he doing?” I asked.
Gregson chuckled. “He is behaving as if he were at his rooms in Baker Street,” he replied. “He has called for pens and paper, with which I have supplied him, and he has sent out for some tobacco for his pipe. When I visited his cell two hours ago, he was stretched at full length on his bed, with his eyes closed, but he was not asleep, for he greeted me by name, without even opening his eyes.”
“No doubt he recognised your step,” I remarked.
“No doubt. Tell me, Doctor, in strict confidence, do you believe he is guilty?”
I was torn. All the evidence, such as the calling card, and the minutely detailed description, coupled with the inability of Sherlock Holmes to provide an alibi, pointed in the direction of his guilt. But my loyalty to my friend, not to mention my knowledge of his upright and honest nature that would not allow him to deny such a thing, led me to believe in his innocence. I explained this to the Inspector, who listened to me thoughtfully.
“Your thoughts and mine, Doctor, run along similar lines. As a policeman, I cannot ignore the evidence in front of my own eyes. As a sometime colleague and, I hope it is not presumptuous of me to say so, a friend of Sherlock Holmes, I am somewhat at a loss, since I cannot believe him to have committed such a crime. If he had performed these actions, I am sure that he would have had an excellent reason for doing so.”
“And he would have told us those reasons, I am sure,” I replied.
At that moment, there was a knock on the door, and Sherlock Holmes entered, escorted by two uniformed policemen.
“Excellent,” said Gregson, pulling out and examining his watch. “We have a growler waiting, I believe, which should let us arrive at the time you requested, Mr Holmes.”
The journey to Pentonville was a silent one. The uniformed policemen sat like unmoving wooden statues on either side of the prisoner, who sat wrapped in his own thoughts, which neither Gregson nor I would have dreamed for a minute of interrupting.
“We are here,” announced Gregson, as the carriage drew to a halt. “The public house from which Frignall made his way is over there,” gesturing with his stick. “The alleyway from which his attacker emerged is here,” pointing to a dark entrance on the other side of the road, “and this spot here,” striding to a spot midway between two streetlights, “is where the attack took place, according to Frignall.”
“As I thought,” said Holmes, whose voice had taken on a strong resonance, which I recognised as a sign that one of his theories had just been vindicated. “Tell me, Inspector, how tall is the man who was attacked?”
“Smaller than you or I, Mr Holmes. He would just about come up to your chin, I guess.”
“So he was about this height?” replied my friend, pointing to one of the constables. “Excellent. Now, the attack took place here, you say?” standing at the spot previously indicated by Gregson.
“Precisely so.”
“Now, Constable,” went on Holmes, addressing the policeman whose height had been established as that of the victim. “I want you to tell me the colour of my eyes.”
The constable looked puzzled. “I don’t know that. I never noticed.”
“Then come closer, man, and look for yourself.”
The perplexed policeman stepped closer to Holmes. “I can’t see in this light,” he complained.
“Then perhaps I am facing in the wrong direction,” said Holmes. He slowly revolved through a full circle, the policeman presenting a comical spectacle as he followed Holmes’ face, peering closely.
“It’s no good. I couldn’t tell you whether they’re blue or green or brown or what,” he announced at length.
“Very good, constable,” replied Holmes. “And now, if you would, name the stone that decorates my scarf-pin.”
“Same again. Not enough light for me to say,” replied the puzzled officer.
“Let me revolve once again. Maybe the light shining from another angle will be able to help you discern it more clearly.” Once again, Holmes spun slowly round, the constable fixing his eyes on the scarf-pin in question.
“I wouldn’t swear to it, but I think that’s one of those orange stones – a topaz, I think they call these things.”
“Excellent!” replied Holmes, obviously in high spirits. “Thank you for your invaluable assistance, Constable.”
Gregson appeared to be completely baffled by these actions, but I was beginning to have some ideas of my own regarding my friend’s motives.
“We may return,” Holmes said to Gregson, using the same tone of voice to the police officer as if he were the captor and not the captive. Holmes and the policemen, including Gregson, made their way to Scotland Yard in the carriage that had brought them, and once again I was permitted to share the vehicle with them.
“I know it is late, Inspector,” said Holmes, “but I would impose on your kindness for perhaps twenty minutes more.”
“Very well,” replied Gregson. “This whole business brings me no pleasure, I am sure you are aware, and I am happy to lend you what assistance I am able. I am still somewhat in the dark, I confess.”
“Then let me be the bearer of light,” smiled Holmes. “Be so good as to read the description of the attacker that Mr Frignall provided.”
“Six feet and two inches in height, dark hair, long aquiline nose, grey eyes...” Gregson’s voice trailed off. “Now I begin to understand what you were doing back there. There is no way that he could know the colour of your eyes, given the light at that time and that place.”
“Precisely. Especially since he was supposedly being attacked by me at the time.” Holmes smiled a thin smile. “Pray continue.”
“Wearing a dark topcoat, silk hat, and white scarf fastened at the throat with an amethyst pin. I see. It was impossible for Robinson, who, by the by, is one of our more observant constables, to determine the type of stone in your pin.”
Holmes’ smile was still in place. “I think you see my point now, Inspector?”
“I do indeed.”
“Maybe I can add one more item to the list? You have my card that was discovered at the scene of the attack?” Gregson opened the file on the desk, and retrieved it. “No, no, do not give it to me. I would ask you to examine the right edge of the card. Do you discern any dents or nicks in it?”
“Indeed so,” replied Gregson, after a close examination of the article in question. “There are marks as if a thumbnail had scored marks in the pasteboard.”
“It was indeed a thumbnail,” replied Holmes. “The nail of my right thumb, to be precise. I have developed the habit, when passing out one of my cards, of marking it in this way to show the date on which I presented it. It is simple to do, takes very little effort on my part, and is a practice that has proved of value in the past, as I have no doubt it will in this instance. Count the marks, if you would, Inspecto
r.”
Gregson bent over the card again. “There are two here, then a gap, and then ... seven together.”
“Precisely. And today’s date?”
“The twenty-eighth.”
“Correct. Two and eight.”
The policeman considered this for a few seconds. “So that would indicate that you presented the card yesterday?”
“Correct, my dear Gregson. In this way, should one of my cards be misused, as this one has been, I have only to refer to my records to discover those to whom I have been introduced recently, or at any rate, on the twenty-seventh day of a month at some time in the past. In that way, I am able to establish the identity of the culprit in a very short space of time.”
I was struck by the simplicity, as well as by the ingenuity of Holmes’ device, the existence of which came as a complete surprise to me, even after all the time that I had known him.
“So, Mr Holmes, to whom did you pass out cards yesterday?” asked Gregson.
“There was only one, to the man who appeared with Charles Conk-Singleton at my rooms in Baker Street yesterday. The man who now calls himself Edward Masters, but is known to Inspector Bradstreet here at Scotland Yard as Edgar Madingley, or alternatively as Eric Morden.”
Gregson frowned. “I have some recollection of that name. The confidence trickster and forger? Bradstreet took the case, with some assistance from you?” Holmes nodded. “And what was he doing visiting you?”
Holmes, confident of the other’s attention, proceeded to relate the circumstances that had led to the visit. Gregson frowned, and tapped his teeth with the end of his pencil.
“It seems obvious to me that this was an attempt to blacken your name by this man Morden,” he remarked.
“I think there is something more to it than this, though,” replied Holmes. “I would be greatly obliged, Doctor, if you could send word to your wife that you will be absent from home tonight, and if you could return to Baker Street and keep watch there, that would be highly appreciated. Gregson, if you could spare a couple of your plain-clothes men to remain in the vicinity, ready to assist Watson should he whistle for help, I would expect some interesting results. I myself, having been subject to arrest, will have to remain here, out of sight of those who are no doubt watching Baker Street in my absence.”
