Secrets From the Deed Box of John H Watson, MD (The Deed Box of John H. Watson MD)

by Ashton, Hugh

“Tut, man,” said Holmes. “It is evident that you have much to learn in your profession.”

  The police detective flushed, but said nothing in reply. The search continued, and I soon noticed Holmes stoop and use his forceps to pick up a small black object from under the table. “And this, Inspector?”

  “You may keep it,” said the other, shortly, turning his back on Holmes.

  Holmes gave me a glance, and once more shook his head in disgust, signifying his contempt for the lack of method he considered was being displayed by the official detective.

  Once more the search continued, with Holmes moving to the drawers of the table.

  “Aha!” he cried, waving aloft a small black notebook which he had removed from the drawer. “This may prove to be of interest, I think, Lanner, even to your uncurious mind.”

  The Inspector and I moved to Holmes’ side, as he slowly turned the pages.

  “It’s all in French,” grumbled Lanner.

  “What would you expect? M. Gérard was, after all, a Frenchman. It appears to be some sort of account-book.”

  “The sums involved appear to be somewhat large for an individual’s accounts,” remarked Lanner.

  “Perhaps they are for his work?” I suggested, but Holmes shook his head at this.

  “Hardly that, I think,” he said. “See here. ‘Table et chaises’ – that is, table and chairs, and ‘Armoire’ – wardrobe. I see no table and chairs in this room that would seem to warrant such an expenditure as twenty-five pounds.”

  “And that wardrobe in the corner is one for which I would not part with half a crown,” added Lanner. “If he really gave thirty pounds for that, he was a fool.”

  “Indeed. We are therefore left with a number of possibilities. First, that this notebook is not the property of the late M. Gérard, and the entries herein were not made by him. That can easily be determined by comparison with other specimens of his writing. Next, that the items listed here do not correspond to the items we see here in this room. Again, that can easily be checked by reference to the sellers of the items, who are conveniently listed here. Maybe he was exporting furniture to France – for what purpose, I cannot tell. Lastly, and this I believe to be the most likely, the items in this book form a kind of code, representing items of a completely different kind, and ones which might attract the unwelcome attention of the authorities if they were accurately described and this book were to fall into their hands.”

  “By Jove, Mr Holmes,” cried the little detective, intrigued, despite himself, at Holmes’ analysis. “I believe you have hit on the truth of the matter.”

  Holmes smiled. “We must continue our search,” he said. “Maybe there is more here that can aid us in our quest for the truth.”

  It was Lanner who discovered the next item that appeared to be out of place in that chamber of horror. “What,” he asked Holmes, “do you make of this?” pointing to a pile of sawdust in one corner of the room, part of which had absorbed some splashes of blood. Beside the sawdust were a bradawl and a carpenter’s brace and bit.

  “Curious,” replied Holmes. “Very curious indeed,” as he once again brought his high-powered lens into play over the pile of wood dust. “This would appear to be cherry-wood, or possibly pear- or apple-wood, and I see no article composed of that material in this room.”

  “You can distinguish the kind of wood from sawdust?” laughed Lanner. “Come, Mr Holmes, you cannot expect me to believe that. Even you with all your tricks cannot reconstruct a tree from dust.”

  “I care not if you believe it or not,” replied Holmes stiffly. “As it happens, I am making my identification not so much from the dust as from the larger chips of wood contained in it. I would suggest, if you doubt me, to search the wooden objects in this room for a hole of half an inch in diameter, corresponding to the bit fixed in this brace, which has obviously been in use at a comparatively recent date. I wager you will find no such thing.”

  “And your no doubt ingenious theory concerning this?” sneered Lanner.

  Holmes drew himself up to his full height and glared down at the other.

  “Inspector Lanner, I will remind you for the last time that it is you who requested my assistance and not the other way about. Should you decide that you are still in need of my help, I would be obliged if you would refrain from making remarks such as your last. Otherwise I will be happy to take myself elsewhere and leave you to attempt the solution of this problem alone.”

  “I beg your pardon,” replied Lanner, obviously somewhat taken aback by the prospect of losing the observations of the distinguished amateur. “It is merely that your methods tend to differ from those employed by us at the Yard.”

  “I am well aware of that fact,” Holmes commented drily. “But no matter. The fact remains that we have carpenters’ tools here, a pile of otherwise unexplained sawdust, and a list of those from whom furniture has apparently been purchased in the past, from which we might expect the sawdust to have come. It would seem to me that your time when we leave here would be best spent in examining that list and making enquiries of those people.”

  “You may do as you wish, Mr Holmes. As for me, I think that I will go to the heart of the matter and arrest your client, if you will tell me his name.” Holmes looked at the Scotland Yard detective with an air of defiance. “I will remind you that I have the legal power to order you before a magistrate and compel you to give the information. I hardly feel that you would see that to be in your best interests.”

  “Very well,” replied Holmes, reluctantly providing the name and address of our earlier visitor to the policeman. “I would ask you to refrain from arresting him until tomorrow morning at the very earliest. I will guarantee that should you still feel it necessary to arrest him, he will be there for you. I make no such promises regarding your ability to secure a conviction.”

  Lanner laughed unpleasantly. “Well, you may have your theories, Mr Holmes, and I will deal in facts. I have no objection to delaying the inevitable as you request.”

  “In that case, you will have no objection to my retaining this?” asked Holmes, holding up the notebook that he had discovered.

  “Please yourself,” said Lanner. “I thank you for delivering the murderer into my hands.”

  The two men continued the search in an angry silence, and I was conscious of the tension between the detectives, one a brilliant amateur, and the other an unimaginative official. Even allowing for Holmes’ prejudices, I felt there was some justification for his condemnation of the Scotland Yard police officer. I was heartily glad when the task was completed, without anything else of interest being discovered, and we were able to leave the stinking room and strip off the overgarments that had protected our clothing.

  “Can you let me have a report on the body soon, Doctor?” Lanner asked me.

  “Certainly. I will be producing a neat copy this afternoon or early this evening and will have it sent to you as soon as I can.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I think we have shared everything of importance,” Lanner addressed Holmes.

  “That depends on your ideas of what you consider to be of importance,” retorted Holmes. “You seem determined to overlook the most important matters in this case.”

  “I am sorry that I ever brought you into this business,” replied Lanner. “You have given me the name of the murderer, for which I thank you. Other than that, I fail to see that you have done other than waste my time.”

  I could tell that Holmes was angered at these words, but he maintained some control over his temper. “I bid you a very good day,” he said stiffly to Lanner, whereupon he turned on his heel and strode off. I followed him as he walked down the street at a crisp pace.

  “I was a fool to allow myself to be cajoled into helping that stiff-necked blockhead Lanner,” he muttered to himself. “His single redeeming characteristic is that he is tenacious, and when he has been set on the right track, that is no bad thing, to be sure. But in a case like this, where he is facing in completely
the wrong direction, it is a disaster.”

  “What makes you sure that our visitor is not the killer?” I asked.

  “For one thing, those cuts to remove the limbs were almost certainly made by a left-handed man, and Lefevre, as he calls himself, is right-handed, as you no doubt observed. For another, and more convincing proof, he told us that he was informed that Gérard had not appeared for some days before he consumed the meal concocted from the stolen recipe. It is easy for us to confirm the relevant dates, and Lefevre must know that. It would make no sense for him to lie about these things.”

  “Unless he had previous knowledge of the theft, murdered Gérard several days ago, and took his meal at the G— Hotel several days later as a subterfuge?” I suggested.

  “I think you and Lanner attach too much importance to the stolen recipe,” replied Holmes. “He was most certainly aggrieved by its loss, but I really have my doubts as to whether he would kill for such a reason. What did you conclude from your examination of the body?”

  “There were few signs of violence other than the obvious post-mortem dismemberment,” I replied. “The pupils appeared to be unnaturally dilated, from what I could tell. If I had to make any kind of conjecture, I would have to say that he was poisoned by some form of alkaloid. I will make a note in my report that the contents of the stomach should be analysed by the pathologist. I am curious, though, as to why the corpse was dismembered and then abandoned there.”

  “I consider it to be merely a matter of the time available to the murderer,” replied Holmes. “Think about what was missing from that room.”

  I racked my brains, but was unable to come up with an answer to the conundrum.

  “Where were the clothes he was wearing?” asked Holmes. “We came across many clean white outfits such as are worn by cooks, in addition to many freshly laundered undergarments in the drawers. But where were the clothes he was wearing when he died, eh?”

  I stopped in my tracks, struck by this fact. “I never considered that,” I admitted.

  “No more did that blockhead Lanner,” replied Holmes. “I do not blame you for not remarking the fact, as you were otherwise engaged with the cadaver, but Lanner was meant to be seeking evidence and he should have been well aware of the simple fact of the missing clothes. My theory is that the murderer removed the dead man’s clothes and disposed of them, prior to returning to the body and dismembering it in order to dispose of it. For whatever reason, he found he was unable to re-enter the room, and therefore decided on discretion being the better part of valour, and abandoned the attempt entirely.”

  “It seems plausible enough,” I replied. “And now where do we go?”

  “To the first address in the book,” Holmes replied, hailing a cab. “A Mr Simon Oliphaunt, who would appear to reside in the Portobello Road.”

  The address turned out to be a shop specialising in the sale of fine old furniture. Mr Simon Oliphaunt turned out to be an amiable man, who was happy to talk about his work.

  “Do you remember selling,” Holmes consulted the notebook, “a gate-leg table and four spindle-backed chairs in September last year for the sum of thirteen guineas? This notebook is written in French, but I trust that my extempore translation makes sense to you.”

  “It makes perfect sense, sir. Those are the correct terms. And yes, I remember that sale well. I was expecting a little more from those pieces, I must say, but Mr Phillimore is a sharp man of business, and I was not able to realise the profit I had anticipated,” he chuckled.

  “Mr Phillimore, eh?” asked Holmes. “Is he a regular customer?”

  “Indeed he is, sir. He tends to go for the slightly older pieces, of the time of Queen Anne or the first George. He has good taste.”

  “And this entry here?” asked Holmes. “A large circular clawfoot table in November last year?”

  “That was a beautiful piece, sir, and to be fair to Mr Phillimore, he paid what it was worth.”

  “What does he do with all these items, does he say?”

  “He dispatches them to France, to Toulouse, I believe, where there is a market for English furniture of that period. I must assume so, in any case, otherwise there would be little point in his taking this trouble, would there?”

  “Indeed it would seem to be pointless otherwise,” agreed Holmes. “Could you describe Mr Phillimore to us?”

  The shopkeeper frowned as he recalled the appearance of his customer. “A little shorter than yourself, sir, but only by an inch or two at the most. An elderly gentleman, thin, and perhaps sixty years old, I would guess, with white hair worn somewhat long at the back.”

  “A moustache or beard?” asked Holmes.

  The other shook his head. “Nothing like that, sir. He is a clean-shaven man.”

  “Have you observed whether he is right- or left-handed, by any chance?”

  “No, sir, I have not. Though, now I come to think of it, perhaps he is left-handed. I have a vague recollection of his signing his name left-handed on one occasion.”

  “Thank you, Mr Oliphaunt. That has been most illuminating.” Holmes replaced his hat and we walked out onto the Portobello Road. “Well, Watson?” he quizzed me.

  “I am astounded.”

  “Oliphaunt has surprised me, I confess,” he replied. “It would now appear that the man whom Oliphaunt knew as Phillimore was Gérard. If that is the case, the dead man whom we have just seen is not Gérard. The two descriptions cannot conceivably be of the same man. Was the dead man right or left-handed, in your opinion?”

  “I cannot tell. Remember that the limbs were not side by side for my comparison.” I shuddered involuntarily at the memory. “Though there was one fact that I noted. On the left hand, there were a number of knife scars and half-healed cuts on the fingers.”

  “From which I would deduce that the dead man was a right-handed cook, who used a knife with sufficient frequency to cut his other hand, which is a common occurrence in that trade.”

  “Oliphaunt has a memory of Phillimore writing his name with his left hand, and the murderer was left-handed, you judged,” I reminded Holmes.

  “Not strictly true, Watson. I said that he who made the cuts to remove the limbs would appear to have been left-handed. The killer and the individual who performed the dismembering may not be the same individual,” he corrected me. “Let us visit another name from the book. I fear that we will be told the same story as we have received just now from Oliphaunt, however.”

  In the event, Holmes’ prediction was fulfilled. David Edwards, a furniture dealer in Paddington, gave a description of the man he had known as Phillimore which was almost identical with the one we had been given earlier by Oliphaunt.

  “Let us now to Lefevre’s place of work, and wait for him,” suggested Holmes.

  -oOo-

  We were admitted to the Club, after some slight confusion at the door, where the porter seemed to have difficulty in believing that Holmes and I were seeking an interview with one of the Club servants, albeit one of the more senior of that number.

  We were ushered to the Visitors’ Room, and informed that Lefevre would be with us shortly, and invited to partake of tea and cake, which we accepted.

  At four precisely, Lefevre entered. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said. “I trust the refreshments were to your taste?”

  “Certainly,” smiled Holmes. “And we were a trifle in advance of the appointed hour.”

  “Come, then, let us to my office.” He led the way through the back corridors of the Club, and opened a door to a dingy small apartment chiefly occupied by a large desk. “This is where I am forced to spend too much of my time,” he complained. “I would sooner be in the kitchen, but as you can imagine, there is more paper than pastry in my life. Still, I must not complain. To work here at the Club is one of the pinnacles of my profession. Now, have you discovered anything?” he asked Holmes.

  “I come as the bearer of bad tidings, I am sorry to say,” answered my friend. “You may be expected
to be arrested tomorrow morning.”

  The effect on Lefevre was electric. “On what charge?” he asked. He had clapped a hand to his chest in alarm, and looked as shaken as I have ever seen a man.

  “On the charge of the murder of M. Gérard,” replied Holmes.

  “Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Lefevre, reverting to French, and a look of horror spreading over his face. “He is dead?”

  Holmes shook his head. “I have reason to believe not. However, the police seem to think so, and they also are under the impression that you are the killer.”

  “I swear to God that I did not even know that he was dead. I did not kill him, I give you my word.”

  “Do you know anything about a death at his rooms in Dean Street in Soho?”

  “His rooms in Soho?” asked Lefevre. “You mean Gilbert Place in Bloomsbury, do you not? He has rooms there above a bookshop. I have visited him at that address on two or three occasions.”

  “You have no knowledge of the rooms in Dean Street? That is where the police have discovered a body which they believe to be his.”

  “I have no knowledge of this at all,” the other replied simply. “I always knew his address to be number 10, Gilbert Place.”

  “I believe you,” said Holmes, writing in his notebook. “Tell me more about M. Gérard, and your relations with him, if you would. First, give me a description of his appearance.”

  “Certainly. Jean-Marie Gérard is a tall man, maybe as tall as you, Mr Holmes, and slightly built. My age or thereabouts, with grey, almost white, hair, somewhat longer than mine. Clean-shaven. A somewhat long face. I am sorry, but I do not consider myself to be an expert at this sort of thing. I hope this is of some use, though.”

  “No matter,” replied Holmes. “That is most helpful. For how many years have you been acquainted with him?”

  “We worked together in the same restaurant in Paris some twenty years ago, and became friends at that time. Since then we have never lost contact with each other, and I would describe our relations as being friendly, though of course, the nature of our work and the times at which we are busy mean that we are unable to meet as often as we would like.”