Sherlock Holmes & The Master Engraver (Sherlock Holmes Revival)

by Husband, Ross

  Holmes made a lengthy and painstaking examination of the body, then gestured to the attendants to lift it onto the slab; the degree of rigor mortis present was immediately apparent, for when they had wrestled the cadaver free from the trunk, it stubbornly retained its foetal posture. The heavy chain between the rusty leg-irons clanked dismally upon the cool mortuary slab.

  While Gregson and I stood by in silence, Holmes scrutinised the frightful object at close range through his lens. Oddly at variance with the man’s affluent attire was the flower in his buttonhole.

  It was not a rose; it was not a camellia, nor even a carnation.

  It was something much meaner – a withered dandelion.

  After several minutes Holmes turned to me; “Your views Watson?” Experimentally I attempted to flex the cool, rigidly-clenched fingers, then a near unbending arm, and considered my opinion. While not trained as a pathologist, I have considerable experience of death, gained during my time as an army surgeon in Kandahar serving with the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers.

  Rigor mortis generally commences within two to six hours of death; over the next four to six hours, it spreads to the other muscles, then gradually dissipates until approximately forty-eight to sixty hours after death; but when conditions are warm, as those we had enjoyed for several days now, the onset and pace of rigor mortis are considerably hastened and markedly exacerbated.

  Holmes awaited my opinion, for he knew full-well my experience with cadavers retrieved from the field of battle up to a day or even more after the action, in all weathers and temperatures.

  I suspected I also observed a second, or should I say a parallel condition – it is a rarely-seen occurrence, generally termed cadaveric spasm or cataleptic rigidity – which occurs at the precise moment of a particularly violent death, anticipated by the victim. This man’s fists were unusually tightly clenched; the face presented a hideously contorted rictus of fear, symptoms entirely consonant with an extremely vicious death, certainly foreseen by the victim, under brutal physical circumstances and intense emotion, though I could not, as yet, see the cause of his demise.

  I spoke; “In my opinion, the matter stands thus, Holmes; I judge this man to have been deceased for around thirty-six to forty-eight hours – sixty at most. And while I see no apparent cause of death yet, I am pretty certain that we will discover that he died very violently, and that he was aware of his impending fate seconds before he expired. From the fresh abrasions on the ankles I think it very likely he wore the leg-irons for some hours or even days before his death. When the cadaver is straightened we may learn more.”

  Holmes nodded in the deepest satisfaction. “That is excellent, quite excellent.” He motioned for the morgue attendants to commence straightening the body. We stepped outside for a lungful of clean air while they proceeded with their grisly manipulations.

  “Your attendance is most valuable Watson – you have confirmed my every suspicion from the instant the lid of the trunk was lifted; this is no clandestine or casual disposal of a body; thus, beyond doubt the man did not die of natural causes –it is a murder, and a very bizarre and public one at that! I am certain that we shall learn the means of the killing very shortly.”

  Some fifteen minutes later the heavy doors to the mortuary creaked open; a sombre-faced Inspector Gregson spoke gravely “Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson, there is something I think you should see...” We replaced our camphor wads and returned. The muscular attendants had completed their brutal work; the cadaver now lay upon its back, more or less straightened, though the arms still curled forward and out as one desperately begging in supplication; I observed the massive scarlet-black lividity on the left side of the face which generally confirmed my estimate of the likely time of death.

  As to the cause of the man’s horrific demise, it now had become hideously and shockingly evident; it did not require a skilled pathologist to observe the curious, gleaming steel contraption that had been driven through the costly jacket lapel, deep into the heart beneath.

  I peered over Holmes’ shoulder as he examined the strange implement with his lens. To me it appeared rather as the apex of a narrow letter A, or perhaps the base of an inverted letter V.

  At length he straightened and turned. “Gentlemen, in all the annals of violent crime, the use of this weapon is, in my experience, quite without precedent.

  “It is a large, very new pair of steel dividers or compasses, of the sort associated with mathematicians, cartographers and ships’ navigators...” he paused, reflectively, “and mayhap... others. That is certainly most noteworthy, but of one thing we may be sure – whoever drove that instrument in so deeply was assuredly a determined and powerful man.” Gregson nodded grimly. “Perhaps one of the two men that Mr Skerritt reported seeing at Trafalgar Square, Mr Holmes?”

  “I dare say you are right, Gregson, indeed it is likely. Ah me – it’s a wicked world, and when a vengeful man turns his thoughts to murder, it’s the worst of all.

  “Now I have no doubt that you will proceed to a full post-mortem examination, but my instinct is that we shall learn little more as to the cause of death. Doctor Watson, whose experience I greatly trust in these matters has established the minima and maxima of the likely time of the man’s demise and the method is all too clearly visible before us.

  “With your permission Gregson, now that they are accessible, I shall search the pockets for anything that may aid us in identifying the man?”

  Gregson readily nodded his acquiescence and with a gesture, dismissed the two attendants. With infinite care Holmes eased the jacket buttons free and explored within; I noted the tailor’s label – it was Gieves, one of London’s finest. After some moments of delicate probing he produced two items; an expensive-looking calfskin pocket book bound with worn gold corners, and a gold pocket watch and chain, Geneva-made, clearly of preeminent quality.

  He examined the exterior of the wallet. “Vintage, perhaps thirty or forty years old; very fine grade leather; sometime in the past it has been immersed in water – observe here on the leather the heavy staining, and again extensively on the silk lining.” Within the pocket book was a substantial sum of money in note; Holmes counted out fifty-five pounds.

  “Clearly gentlemen, we may immediately discount robbery as a motive.” The pocket-book contained just two more items; one was a timetable of White Star Line arrivals in Liverpool for the past three months of May, June and July; the other an unused first-class return rail ticket from London to Enfield, dated for travel on the 22nd of July. Holmes removed all the contents and peered carefully for some considerable time deep within each of the silk-lined compartments, but he produced nothing more.

  He then proceeded to scrutinise the watch with his lens; “Aha, there is some small, fine, much worn engraving here...

  With Gratitude from

  TBS & NH –1872

  Obscure gentlemen, yet I have no doubt, informative in due time.” The remaining pockets of the costly suit yielded three further objects; a white silk handkerchief bearing a small faint green stain, nine shillings and eight pence ha’penny in coin, and a compact, short-barrelled .32-calibre Smith & Wesson revolver. It appeared to be brand-new.

  Expertly Holmes flipped the cylinder open and sniffed it; it was fully-loaded. He placed it beside the other exhibits and looked up from his strange harvest.

  “And that Gregson, at this stage, appears to be all that our rather taciturn guest is prepared to reveal.”

  He paused reflectively. “Yet he is not perhaps, quite as secretive as he seems.” Holmes returned to the trunk and peered inside.

  “Oho, gentlemen, now what have we here? It seems we have one more exhibit in this dark affair. I do declare few cases could afford a finer field for the acute and original observer.”

  He reached within and produced what appeared to be a small, flattish rectangular sliver of polished bone or ivory, perhaps four inches by two. Gregson and I approached while Holmes subjected it to a detailed examination with his lens.
I peered more closely.

  “Why Holmes, what the Devil is this – it appears to be scratched with symbols and childish drawings – runes and stick figures or some-such?” Gregson looked as perplexed as I. Holmes frowned darkly, his lips tight and pursed.

  “I do believe you are correct Watson. What, I wonder, shall we make of this curiosity, and how came it here? But clearly it is present for a reason. So strange in its inception and so dramatic in its execution is this slaying Inspector, I would suggest that you do not release too much detailed information for public scrutiny. In that way, when we take our man, we may be sure that he, and only he, may corroborate those most singular details we have observed today.” Once more he paid close attention to the odd sliver of bone; a thought appeared to strike him.

  Abruptly he heaved the heavy steamer trunk onto its side and proceeded to examine the base with his lens at some length. I noted that he became particularly excited by several longitudinal, broken black lines which were erratically imprinted on the underside; oddly, he ran the point of his pocket-knife along the length of one of the lines, carefully wrapped it within his handkerchief and placed it in his pocket.

  He then ran his thin white finger along the underside of the roughly-cut, raw leather edge inside the lid until he located a loose ragged shred, perhaps three inches long and an inch wide. “Would you have an objection to my removing this small sample Gregson? It will be most significant in advancing our investigation.” The bewildered detective shrugged, uncomprehending, but gestured his agreement to proceed, whereupon Holmes severed the shred of leather and a shaving from the wooden frame to which it was glued, and placed them along with his pocket-knife within his kerchief.

  Apparently satisfied, he said “That is all, gentlemen.”

  He glanced at his watch – a certain sign that he had learned all there was to be discovered.

  “If there is nothing more Inspector, I should like to retain these items for a few days, and return to Baker Street where I shall ponder the matter further.”

  The stocky policeman nodded gratefully; abruptly Holmes’ face illuminated like a beacon; “But surely you will allow, Gregson, there is nothing more stimulating, more challenging to the curious intellect, than a riddle such as this? I am grateful to you for bringing it to my attention”

  Gregson scratched his tousled blond mane and eyed Holmes dolefully.

  “Perhaps it is stimulating for you Mr Holmes, but I fear it is my job to get to the bottom of this dark riddle, and pretty sharply too. Can you give me any direction at this early stage?” The lean detective looked across the corpse at Gregson.

  “Sadly, very little Inspector, beyond the obvious that this man is either a doctor in practice, or more likely, is now retired; he was extremely successful in his day, and he used a flexible broad steel nib and an unusual colour of dark green ink when writing his prescriptions.

  “His middle initial is J.

  “Oh, and one other thing, he learned some unnerving news recently that gave him reason to fear for his life. He intended to travel to Enfield on the 22nd but as we now observe from the unused ticket, did not choose to, or did not live to make the journey in time.

  “Beyond that, I regret I can divine little more at present except that the trunk is of foreign manufacture, the leather and the wood from which it is constructed are of a type quite unfamiliar to me, it has at some time recently travelled on a large sailing ship in very hot climes, and the padlocks are English, from Willenhall.”

  Gregson stared in astonishment, as did I. Quite bewildered, he shook his head in puzzlement. “You are too many for me when you begin to get on your theories, Mr Holmes.”

  “Oh, and two more things Gregson; I think this sliver of scratched bone is of the very greatest consequence – it is scrimshaw. And when eventually we seize the perpetrator of this slaying, I believe it likely we shall find he is a classicist, a man of considerable learning, and has a knowledge of Greek.” Upon which enigmatic note we departed; Holmes directed our driver to Baker Street.

  αβγδ

  -CHAPTER TWO-

  DÉJÀ VU

  Over the ensuing week or more, as the calendar progressed from July into August and the temperature steadily rose, Holmes became increasingly energetic, disappearing for one or two days at a time, only to return and spend hours in silent thought at his desk, or dash off telegraph forms, then vanish again. He explained nothing of his activities to me. There was a notable surge in the number of letters and telegrams addressed for his attention.

  As it happened, my small practice was growing busier – hay-fever and prickly heat-rash being notably frequent complaints – and so it was that our paths crossed but infrequently during those furnace-hot summer days.

  I returned to our rooms late one afternoon – my notes remind me it was August the 5th – to discover Holmes seated at his desk, intently studying a telegraph message. His face was grim and troubled, yet there was a dangerous gleam of exhilaration in his cold grey eyes. “Ah, you are returned Watson. Better timing I could not wish for. I have no doubt you recall our man in a trunk? – do you have the stamina for a further visit to the morgue?” I was startled.

  “There is another murder, Holmes?” In times past, I recall my friend had described some murders as ‘sequential’ or ‘repetitive’ but never yet had I recorded such a case in the course of my association with Sherlock Holmes.

  “There is indeed.”

  “Is it a similar killing?”

  “It is rather more than similar Watson. It is a perfect and precise encore; we have a second unfortunate, murdered in exactly the same manner, and packed in an identical steamer-trunk.”

  “When was it discovered..?”

  Holmes’ eyes hardened like adamantine flakes of newly riven flint.

  “The trunk was reported around dawn this morning, by a street-washer.”

  “Where was it found?”

  “Directly below the jaws of the second of the four lions on Trafalgar Square.” He paused. “Shall we return to the necropolis?”

  I called down to the boy in the hall to summon a cab; the journey to the mortuary passed in silence – Holmes was evidently deep in thought as he pondered this second appalling disclosure. As before, Inspector Gregson anxiously awaited us, his bluff features creased with concern. He greeted us with a grave nod.

  Upon entering the mortuary I experienced the most unsettling instance of déjà vu – once again, beside the same mortuary slab stood the battered metal trolley, surmounted by a second brown leather steamer-trunk – to my eye it appeared identical to the first; beside it waited the same two burly attendants, talking quietly. Once more, the padlocks had been cut and hung impotently from the hasps on the trunk.

  For a second time the ritual of the camphor-impregnated wads of cotton, the close external examination of the trunk and the locks, and again Holmes removed his coat; not a word had passed between the three of us since our arrival. At a gesture from Holmes the two burly attendants wrestled the corpse from its heavy leather sarcophagus and placed it upon its back on the mortuary slab; the man was taller than the first, and it evidently required considerable effort to liberate his remains from the tight confines of his coffin.

  His contorted, discoloured, desiccated face was adorned with a substantial white beard; blue-bottles had colonised the trunk and their determined rear-guard buzzed in a small angry cloud around the sickly-sweet smelling remains.

  This man was not wearing leg-irons; horrifically however, the back of his jacket was diagonally striped with seeping dark stains of dried, crusted, blackened blood. I could conceive of only one feasible explanation for such a bizarre manifestation, yet surely it could not be...?

  Decomposition and desiccation were significantly more advanced than we had observed in the first instance, and the effects of rigor mortis were all but gone; the greater the period since death, the harder it is to be precise about the timing, but I judged the man to have been deceased considerably longer than the
first – maybe up to ten days, possibly even twelve.

  He was around seventy years of age, again expensively dressed.

  From the severe distortion and lividity of the left side of the face, it was evident that the body had rested within the trunk almost since the moment of death.

  Still, the mortuary remained silent; I looked up at Holmes who raised an interrogative eyebrow.

  I answered his unspoken question; “Up to ten days, perhaps even twelve; the man was certainly placed in the trunk immediately after his demise, where he has remained until this moment.

  “I observe residual signs of cadaveric spasm once again.”

  A soft Irish brogue voice spoke from behind us. “I agree entirely Doctor Watson; in my opinion your assessment is exact.” We turned to the new arrival.

  He introduced himself “Doctor Bryan O’Brian; for my sins I am the senior pathologist in this dismal place.” Holmes and I briefly shook hands with him – I was pleased to hear my judgement endorsed by an expert in matters of the dead.

  Inspector Gregson gestured to the waiting attendants, who heaved the body onto its back and proceeded to straighten the awful object into something more closely resembling the man it once had been; again the dreadful moment of déjà vu – the apex of a pair of mathematician’s steel dividers gleamed brightly on the left breast, driven deep into the heart. He was resplendently bewhiskered and wore a large, square-cut, grey beard. Unlike the first victim, he retained a full head of silver hair.

  In his buttonhole, chillingly, was again a shrunken yellowish-brown flower, still just recognisable as a withered dandelion.

  Holmes gestured at the body on the slab; “May I, Inspector?” and for the second time he proceeded to rifle the pockets of a dead man.

  They yielded a gold fob-watch on a chain, a leather pocket-book containing forty pounds in note, seven shillings and nine-pence in coin, and a second plaque of bone with yet more childish drawings scratched upon it.