The Spanish Butler (A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale Book 8)

by Steven Ehrman

  He reached in and brought forth a gleaming gold ring with a single large diamond. I am not a jeweler by trade, but the ring looked to be a match for the one we had seen the previous evening. Holmes studied it closely with his glass and even employed his microscope for the examination. Finally, after some minutes he pronounced himself satisfied with the authenticity of the item.

  He had hardly finished his examination when a knock at our door signaled the arrival of Inspector Hopkins. Holmes slipped the ring in his pocket just before the Inspector came in. The Scotland Yard detective took a seat and came straight to business.

  “I have seen Mr. Arthur Bloomfield’s solicitors this morning as I promised you I would, Mr. Holmes,” he said.

  “And what did you discover?” asked Holmes

  “It is all very straightforward, sir. The will was made just after Mr. Bloomfield remarried and it left his estate, in its entirety to his wife, Berta.”

  “But she is dead, as well,” said I. “Does that mean there is no heir to the estate?”

  “Of course not, Doctor. It is standard practice to name a secondary beneficiary in case the primary heir is deceased at the time,” said Holmes.

  “Right you are, Mr. Holmes, and in this case it is the son, Edward Bloomfield, who inherits the estate.”

  “Is it left to him unencumbered?” asked Holmes.

  “Well, it was written when he was still a relatively young man and between ourselves I have heard he was a rapscallion in those years. With that in mind, he is left a third of the estate now, another third at the age of thirty, and the rest at thirty-five. That is fairly standard. His uncle, Charles Bloomfield, is named as conservator of the estate monies until Edward comes fully of age. Again, this is all quite standard. I have communicated with Edward Bloomfield, and he tells me that this was always his understanding of the circumstances of the will. He was not surprised at all.”

  “I see,” said Holmes. “Hopkins, I hope you received my telegram from last evening.”

  “Indeed I did, sir, and I brought the ring with me this morning.”

  The Inspector reached in his vest pocket and pulled out the ring he had shown us the previous evening.

  “I must say, Mr. Holmes, I am curious as to why you wish to see the ring again,” said Hopkins.

  “It has occurred to me that it is just possible that the ring is not authentic,” replied Holmes.

  “What?” asked Hopkins. “That cannot be, sir. The man’s description matched Martinez perfectly. Why would he bother to steal the ring and then try to fob off a counterfeit one?”

  “Calm yourself, Inspector,” said Holmes. “I do not state it as fact, I merely propose it as a possibility. May I examine the ring, please?”

  “Of course, sir, and gladly. I will look quite the fool at the Yard if this is a forgery of the original.”

  Holmes accepted the ring from the now distraught Inspector. He rolled it around in his hand for a moment and began to reach for his glass. As he did so, he transferred the ring to his other hand and fumbled with the ring briefly. I thought that he might drop it, but he did not do so. He employed the glass for a short length of time before he pronounced himself satisfied that the jewel was real.

  Hopkins drew a deep sigh of relief and accepted the ring back from Holmes. I had been watching my friend closely, as I knew that he proposed to make a switch of the two rings, but I must admit that I did not observe him doing so. However, the switch must have been made, as Holmes seemed quite satisfied.

  “Now that that business is settled, tell me what transpired at your meeting with Captain Keeler,” said the Inspector. “Did you come across any new information?”

  No, we did not, I am afraid,” said Holmes blandly. “The captain knew nothing of use.”

  Hopkins nodded, but I frowned a bit. I must confess that it again troubled me at the ease by which Holmes practiced deception. I know at times that deception is necessary, but still the casual deftness of the lie unsettled me. As I was musing, I realized that Holmes had resumed speaking.

  “Hopkins, you say that you have been in communication with Edward Bloomfield. Is there any news concerning him? I was wondering specifically how his wife is coming along.”

  “I am glad you brought that up, sir. It seems the lady took a turn for the worse last night. Bloomfield said he did not think it serious at first, but apparently the lady’s sister has moved in with them to care for her and the sister insisted a doctor be called. Florence Bloomfield pulled through and is resting comfortably.”

  “This is troubling news, Inspector,” said Holmes. “I had hoped to gather more evidence before speaking to the family members again, but the lady’s health relapse bothers me. Would it be possible to gather Charles and Dora Bloomfield as well as Edward and Florence Bloomfield together here at Baker Street tonight? I request your presence, also.”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Holmes. The lady may be too ill to leave her home.”

  “If her doctor forbids it then so be it, but I would like her present. It is important.”

  “What of Charles Bloomfield, Holmes?” asked I. “I remind you that he is in ill health as well and has a much greater distance to travel.”

  “I will have a carriage sent for him and his wife. He is a stubborn man and I believe he will triumph over his infirmities to come.”

  “I will see to it, Mr. Holmes,” said Hopkins. “I have confidence in your methods, but for myself I still seek Martinez. Well then, sir, until tonight.”

  The Inspector excused himself and I found myself alone with Holmes. With a smile I watched him pull a gold ring from his vest pocket. He tossed it in the air and caught it.

  “I must say, Holmes, I was watching you closely and still I did not see you make the exchange.”

  “I am quite practiced at sleight of hand illusions, Doctor,” he said. “Occasionally the skill is a handy one.”

  “It certainly was on this occasion, Holmes.”

  “It is amazing, Doctor,” said he. “For a brief moment I held them both in my hand. They look identical, but one of them is worth a small fortune while the other is a mere bauble.”

  “All that gleams is not gold, Holmes,” said I.

  “That is really quite apt, Doctor.”

  “I don’t suppose you would like to tell me what you have planned for this evening.”

  “It is still formulating in my mind, Watson. Events are proceeding faster than I had supposed, but I promise the evening will be interesting.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I spent most of the latter part of the afternoon in a stall at St. James’s Hall listening to a violin concert. The performer was above average and the selection of music was impeccable. I saw by my watch that it was half past six. Holmes had arranged for the two parties to arrive at Baker Street at eight. Knowing this, I called for a cab and made my way home, as I did not wish to miss the proceedings.

  When I arrived, I discovered that Holmes was nowhere to be found. He had left no word on when he would return or where he had gone. I resolved to wait for him and entertain our guests, should he miss their arrival.

  I settled down with a book and had barely begun reading, when the taciturn detective made his appearance. He flung himself into his chair and filled his pipe with shag.

  “Where have you been, Holmes?” I asked.

  “I have had an interesting conversation with Flora Bloomfield’s doctor.”

  “Indeed. To what purpose?”

  “I wished to know the cause of her illness.”

  “What did you discover?”

  “Her doctor is of the opinion that she was poisoned with arsenic.”

  “Why did he not share that opinion with the police immediately?”

  “Because he is a cautious and obstinate man. He only admitted it to me because I already knew. I merely wanted confirmation.”

  “You already knew it, Holmes? But how?”

  “It was partly surmise, but certain circumstances drove that surmise.”r />
  “This is madness, Holmes. First Arthur and Berta Bloomfield are murdered and now an attempt is made on the life of Florence Bloomfield. Is the entire family in jeopardy?”

  “It is an ugly business, Doctor, and one that I will bring to a close, I promise you.”

  Holmes’s eyes flashed as he spoke. It was a familiar sight to me and one that I usually saw when the case was solved or nearly so.

  “At any rate,” he continued, “I have forwarded the doctor’s diagnosis to Hopkins. It was also the good doctor’s opinion that it was safe for Florence Bloomfield to leave her sickbed in spite of her relapse.”

  Holmes would say no more of tonight’s programme other than to tell me that Charles Bloomfield was also well enough to attend. That meant, of course, that we would have a full complement of guests.

  The appointed hour finally came and our guests arrived en masse. Holmes and I seated everyone. An offer of a drink was made, but only Edward Bloomfield accepted.

  I had been worried about whether Charles Bloomfield would have the strength to attend, but I was surprised to see that it was his wife Dora who was absent. Charles Bloomfield looked much the same as he had on my last visit with them. He was still dressed in clothes that looked a size too large for him. I wondered how much weight he had lost during his illness.

  Edward Bloomfield was dressed very nattily in what appeared to be a new suit. It certainly seemed as if he was already spending his new inheritance. His wife intrigued me the most of our guests, as I had not had the opportunity to meet her before this night. She was a slender, even delicate woman with long auburn hair. Her late illness showed on her face, as she was still ashen.

  Inspector Hopkins brought up the rear of the group and he alone of our guests remained standing.

  Once everyone was settled in, Holmes stood in front of the assemblage.

  “I wish to thank you all for coming tonight, and most especially Florence Bloomfield,” he said. “I have put all of my energies into solving the mystery of the murder of Arthur and Berta Bloomfield. I am distressed that your wife is not here, Mr. Bloomfield.”

  “She took ill suddenly today,” replied Charles Bloomfield. “It is likely the strain of events. And, of course, taking care of an invalid such as myself is no help.”

  I felt for the man, but I wondered about his wife’s sudden illness. Florence Bloomfield had fallen ill after the murders, as well. Was it possible that the illnesses were connected?

  “It is of no matter,” said Holmes. “We can proceed without her. I have gathered you here so that I might relate to you my solution of the case.”

  “What is this news, Mr. Holmes?” asked a clearly startled Inspector Hopkins. “I had no idea you had solved the case.”

  “I had thought to take several more days to clear up a few minor issues, but events have forced me to move at a faster pace. When I was first called to this case and saw the bodies, I noticed a number of things at once. The method of the murders puzzled me.”

  “But, Mr. Holmes, the method was very straightforward. Mr. Bloomfield was stabbed to death and his wife was strangled,” said Hopkins.

  “That is just the problem, Inspector. The stage is set so that we are to believe that Mr. Bloomfield catches a thief in flagrante delicto. There is a violent struggle and Mr. Bloomfield is stabbed.”

  “I still do not see your point, sir,” said Hopkins.

  “My point is, why then was Mrs. Bloomfield strangled? Are we to believe that after seeing her husband murdered she sat calmly and waited to be strangled? That asks too much of the imagination.”

  “Then how was it done, Holmes?” I asked.

  “It was accomplished because both Mr. Bloomfield and Mrs. Bloomfield were in drug induced comas.”

  “Are you suggesting that they were drugged first and then murdered?” asked Edward Bloomfield.

  “I am,” replied Holmes, “I examined the arms of the two closely and observed several needle marks on the arms of both victims.”

  “Perhaps they were habitual drug users, Holmes,” I volunteered.

  “No, Doctor. As I said, there were several needle marks, not many. Now, I had convinced myself that the couple were drugged, but even that does not explain why Berta Bloomfield was strangled. It finally occurred to me why that was necessary.”

  Holmes paused and I glanced around the room at anxious faces.

  “Doctor, what happens when a person is strangled?” asked Holmes.

  “Why, you saw it yourself. In the circumstance where a ligature is tied around the neck the face purples and the features become distorted.”

  “Exactly,” said Holmes. “It was a method of disguising her looks in a subtle way. All of these things led me to believe that the real Arthur and Berta Bloomfield never took possession of their new home. Instead, they were drugged in their cabin on the ship after it docked. Their place was taken by two people disguised to look close enough to them that when the bodies were discovered no one would realize the switch had been made.”

  “Are you saying the staff never met the real Bloomfields?” asked the Inspector.

  “It’s too fantastic,” said Florence Bloomfield in a small voice.

  “I agree,” growled Charles Bloomfield. “It is complete rubbish. Are we to be forced to listen to such rot, Inspector?”

  “I have learned to give Mr. Holmes much leeway over the years,” said Hopkins. “We will hear him out.”

  Before Holmes could begin again, I had a thought.

  “Holmes, you say the woman was strangled to change her appearance, but why was Arthur Bloomfield not strangled as well?”

  “Because Arthur Bloomfield was a strong vital man and people might wonder how such a man could be strangled while his wife watched and did not even scream for help. Besides, the person playing the role of Arthur Bloomfield already looked a great deal like the man. All that was needed was a false beard. Someone like Charles Bloomfield, for instance, could play the part easily.”

  “Now see here, Mr. Holmes,” said an angry Charles Bloomfield. “That is complete fiction. I will not stay.”

  “Yes, you will, sir,” said Hopkins evenly. “We will let Mr. Holmes make his case.”

  “Thank you, Hopkins. The moment when the bodies are discovered is an important time. Because although Charles Bloomfield looked enough like his brother with a fake beard, his wife Dora resembled Berta Bloomfield only superficially. The purple face makes for a macabre appearance. The maid testified that she could barely stand to look at the body and the cook did not even enter the room. Only Martinez took a good look at both of them.”

  “And identified them both, Holmes, I remind you,” said Charles Bloomfield.

  “We will come back to that. Let me tell you how it was done. Charles Bloomfield sends a letter to his brother telling him they will meet them when the ship docks. Remember that East Ham is actually quite close to Arthur Dock. They slip aboard the ship. People are coming and going. Who will remember two people coming aboard who are never seen to leave? They meet in the cabin and Arthur and his wife are dosed with drugs, possibly in a celebratory drink. There is now a problem. They must get the bodies off the ship. The trunks are the obvious solution, but they are filled with clothes. They empty two trunks and throw the clothes that are in them overboard out of their porthole. If someone sees the clothes in the water it will have no connection to a crime that will be committed days later.

  “The trunks with the Bloomfields inside in a drugged state are loaded by the porters and they are driven to their new home. They are accompanied by Mr. Nelson, whom they instructed to meet them on the pier. This was doubtless done to prevent him from interfering with the switch. During the next two days no one who knew the couple before they left ever sees them. The servants are all new and Edward Bloomfield is denied entrance. Only Florence Bloomfield, who has never seen either of her new in-laws, is admitted to the house. It was dangerous, but it served a purpose to allow her in. You see, she was poisoned at her meeting with D
ora Bloomfield. It was undoubtedly in the tea.”

  “You mean they meant to murder Florence Bloomfield?” asked Hopkins. “Why?”

  “I shall come to that. We jump ahead to the murder,” said Holmes. “The scene is set. The murder happens around midnight and Dora Bloomfield slips out of the house and returns to East Ham. Mr. Bloomfield stays and makes sure that the scene plays out correctly.”

  “How did he manage that?” I asked in wonder.

  “Because Charles Bloomfield was playing the part of Martinez.”

  “But the description of Martinez looks nothing like Mr. Bloomfield,” protested Hopkins.

  “The differences are all superficial,” said Holmes. “The men are of the same build. Make-up can darken the skin; thick glasses cover the eyes, and a large scar that everyone focuses on. I spoke to the servants extensively. No one ever reports seeing the two men together. Indeed, once Martinez arrives, Mr. Bloomfield is rarely seen at all. It was cleverly done.”

  I looked to Charles Bloomfield and saw his angry look had been replaced by a sly expression, as if he were thinking furiously.

  “All that is left to do is to have Martinez disappear. That is accomplished and everyone naturally thinks that Martinez is the killer. He is a mysterious foreigner, after all.”

  “Playing the part of Martinez was quite dangerous, Holmes,” I said.

  “Dangerous, but vital to the plan. Without an obvious suspect like Martinez, the police might have thought more about the motives of those who benefited from the deaths.”

  “But, Holmes, Charles does not benefit from the deaths,” I said.

  “Not yet, but that is part of the reason Florence Bloomfield was let in the house. The long-term plan was to kill all the people who stood between them and the fortune. Were Arthur, Dora, and Florence Bloomfield all killed in one fell swoop, then only Edward Bloomfield would be left. And remember, he has been a sickly person much of his life. It is possible that Edward might even come to be suspected of all three deaths. Failing that, would anyone suspect anything if he were to die at some future date while being ministered to by his loving aunt? Dora Bloomfield was a nurse if you will recall, Doctor. Charles and Dora would be the last of the Bloomfields. They must inherit.”