“Very good.” The inspector rose from his chair. “That will also give you a chance to meet the lady in question. She will be at the house, as will the butler, Fitzsimmons.”
* * * *
We were all silent for a good ten minutes, as our cab rattled towards Mayfair. Half London seemed to be up and about. Ladies in fine dress were inspecting the wares laid out in shop windows, gentlemen were strolling the sidewalks, cigar in hand; I noticed postmen delivering letters, workers behind a truck shovelling coal into a cellar, a flower girl accosting a young toff, newspaper boys crying out headlines, a shabbily dressed character eyeing a matron’s handbag, and on every corner vendors were hawking their produce. Between the milling crowds, there scampered street urchins, always on the lookout for a dropped penny or an apple that might be swiped from a pushcart. So much life, so much activity, in such a narrowly circumscribed arena! London seemed like a vast machine at full steam, though not running entirely without friction. But then again, perhaps it was the very fact that some of the machine’s myriad components were not fitted perfectly that kept the whole monstrous thing chugging along.
Holmes spoke up: “You knew Cavendish, didn’t you, Watson?”
“I would not go so far as to say I knew him. Perhaps we shook hands twice in a club in Bombay. He also went to Afghanistan, though our paths never crossed there.”
“How did he strike you?” asked Lestrade.
I do not care to dwell much on the years of my life spent in the East, seeing as how they contain few pleasant memories. Now, however, I made an effort to resurrect the images of the past. There had been a reception of some form or another, all gentlemen in gala uniform, their wives in evening dress, much toasting with champagne. I had had a touch of fever and was awaiting the time when I could retire. Neville Cavendish and his wife sat across from me at a large round table. She, a short, rather plain looking woman with sandy hair and a pale complexion, was making conversation with a gentleman next to her. Cavendish, heavy set with fleshy jowls and a reddish-brown moustache, was quietly eating his steak, while listening to the conversation unfolding to his side, or at least pretending to do so.
“He was rather unassuming, if I recall correctly,” I now said, “for a military man. When I later read of his bravery in the field, at Sherpur and Maiwand, I was somewhat surprised. Of course, I should have known better. When I met him—it must have been in ’78 or ’79—he was already quite famous.”
Lestrade nodded. “The Empire was built by men like him. I’ve looked into his biography. He was everywhere. Malaya, Guiana, Sierra Leone, the Far East, India…” The inspector trailed off.
“A man who might have made many enemies throughout his life,” I suggested.
“That may be so,” Lestrade agreed. “But what is certain is that he also made many friends, and has many admirers. The press has been hounding me the entire week. Also, I’ve received communication by well-placed people indicating that they expect this case to be cleared up as fast as possible.”
“What have you done to that effect?” asked Holmes.
“The obvious. I’m having all the fences in London shadowed, everyone who might be capable of moving such a haul. Also, I’m requiring lists of new sellers from every jeweller and gold dealer. But my hope rests on the diamonds. Lloyds holds detailed descriptions, and in their present form the stones can hardly be sold. They will have to be re-cut, and there are only a few men who might be willing to undertake such a task if the provenance of the stones cannot be established. Most of these men reside in Antwerp. The ports from which ships leave to Belgium are being watched, and I have contacted my Belgian colleagues to request their assistance. So far nothing has come of it,” he added, dejection in his voice.
While Lestrade spoke, the cab drew up before a red-brick Georgian mansion. We alighted, and the inspector paid the fare. A constable in uniform was standing guard outside a wrought-iron gate, presumably to keep the purveyors of news at bay. Lestrade gave him a curt nod and we stepped onto the premises.
“The criminal entered through the back of the house,” the inspector said, as we walked up the gravel path towards the main entrance. “He broke open the kitchen door. It only has a cheap lock that offered no resistance.”
As we neared the portico, Lestrade nodded to the right, “Follow me.” He led the way along the side of the house. Boxwood and rose bushes had been planted two yards from the wall and only left a narrow passage. The scent of blossoms filled the air, and birds flitted amongst the branches. It was hard to imagine that only a few days ago this house, situated in an idyllic setting that allowed one to forget the hubbub of London, had been the scene of a grisly murder.
We turned a corner, and the inspector pointed.
“It’s been a few days, of course, but I made sure to leave things as we found them.”
“Well, let’s have a look,” sighed Holmes and stepped forward to inspect the door. Its white paint was peeling in some areas; two squares of glass, both intact, formed the upper quarter. The lock had been rudely forced, probably with a crowbar jammed between the door and the frame. The face-plate was hanging from one screw. The other one had broken as the latch bolt gave way under the pressure.
My companion examined the nut and spindle in a cursory fashion, then focused his eyes on an area of the door a foot and half above the lock. About where an average man’s shoulder might be, the paint had been scuffed, exposing the underlying wood, and the dent made by a crowbar was clearly visible.
“I’ve seen enough,” said Holmes. “Please lead the way to the study, Lestrade.”
We stepped into a scrupulously clean kitchen and from there into a hallway that led to the vestibule. To our left the grand staircase rose to the first floor. A deep carpet showing Indian motifs in red and golden hues covered the steps. On the walls hung items that testified to a lifetime spent in the colonies. Hunting trophies, African masks, rifles, spears, knives and swords, two Massai shields, the head-dress of a South-American Indian, a blow tube, framed maps, and paintings of various land and sea engagements covered every square foot of space. There seemed to be a loose geographical order to the collection.
As we climbed the stairs, a door opened somewhere above us, and a man dressed in a butler’s uniform appeared at the top of the landing. “Good day, gentleman,” he said in a rich baritone, as we reached the final steps.
“Jacob Fitzsimmons,” the inspector introduced. “You will recall, he discovered the body.”
The butler, a stoutly built, handsome man, bowed slightly. Some streaks of grey on his temples belied his youthful, ruddy complexion. I guessed him to be in his late thirties. “It is a distinct honour to meet you, sirs,” he said.
Holmes and I politely nodded to our new acquaintance. I had caught a trace of an Irish brogue and thus added: “Far from Erin’s pleasant shores.”
Fitzsimmons smiled genially and quoted Dickens: “‘Lord, keep my memory green.’” Then, a little too hastily for my taste, he made a gesture towards the front of the house. “If you will please follow me, I shall show you the room you have no doubt come to inspect.”
Cavendish’s study faced east. It lay in a pleasant, mellow light; a great chestnut blocked much of the sunshine, and also ensured that the room could not be observed from the neighbouring house. About a yard from the door, Fitzsimmons pointed to the carpet. On it, there was a stain, roughly a foot in diameter.
We stood surveying the crust of rusty brown, and the butler said: “This is the spot where Mr Cavendish’s head came to rest. He was on his back.” Then Fitzsimmons gestured towards a cushion that lay some feet away in front of a book case. The cushion showed specks of dried blood, as well as a hole through which some of the stuffing protruded. “The cushion was next to the body.”
“Did the shot kill him immediately?” Holmes asked no one in particular.
The butler replied: “Yes, Dr Lanyon said that was certainly the case. It appears the bullet passed through Mr Cavendish’s brain and
then lodged in his spinal column. Life must have been eclipsed instantaneously.”
I could not help but note the calm detachment with which Fitzsimmons reported on his former employer’s fate. It was on the tip of my tongue to say something to that effect, but Holmes was already nodding in an absent-minded fashion. His eyes sought out the safe, an old-fashioned contraption that stood some fifteen feet away beside a mahogany desk.
My companion looked at the floor, again at the safe, and then crossed the room.
We all followed, and Holmes knelt to inspect the safe’s door, which hung slightly ajar.
“It took the fellow a number of attempts to find the right spot. See here,” Lestrade pointed to two holes drilled slightly below the centre of the door’s right side. “These missed the bolt.”
“Evidently,” muttered Holmes, then swung open the door with his fingertips. The safe was empty.
“The contents are at the station, I take it?”
“I took only the valuables, that is, the stock certificates,” Lestrade replied. “The items of lesser value or of a delicate nature I felt it would be all right to lock away here.” He pointed towards the desk.
“May I see them?”
“Certainly.” The inspector produced a key from his hip pocket and unlocked one of the desk drawers. Reaching inside, he brought out two stamp albums as well as a stack of sepia-coloured photographs and laid everything on the leather writing surface.
Holmes took up the photographs and began flipping through them. I peered over his shoulder, and I must confess to feeling a twinge of embarrassment. This line of work occasionally affords one glimpses into your fellow men’s privacy that suggest a wide margin between their lives as they lead them and as they imagine them. The pictures showed a young lady in various stages of undress and made up to appear as a member of a harem. She was lounging on divans or by Moorish-looking fountains; once or twice, she appeared to be engaged in that strange oriental custom of belly-dancing. Holmes checked the reverse of the photographs for inscriptions, of which there were none, and then laid the stack aside.
Next he began looking through the stamp albums in the same methodical fashion. It appeared the Major General had been a philatelist throughout his long and illustrious career. The little, coloured rectangles came from all parts of the Empire. I saw stamps from East Africa, Gibraltar, and India, and many other places that have come under the crown’s protection for their advancement and benefit. The stamps were mounted in neat rows on the cardboard of the album page. Once in a while, I noticed, Holmes would carefully move his fingertips across the gaps between the stamps that signified the as-yet incomplete nature of the collection.
Suddenly, Fitzsimmons spoke up behind us. “Madam, these gentlemen have come to aid Inspector Lestrade in his investigation.”
We turned. In the doorway stood a woman in a black silk dress. I recognized Miss Cavendish immediately from the etchings I had seen advertising her public appearances. She was one of those relentless campaigners for the right of women to abandon the safety and tranquillity of the domestic sphere and to venture forth into the tarnished world with which to contend has been the allotment of the male sex. She appeared to be her late brother’s junior by a decade, and she had preserved much of what in her youth must have been an astonishing beauty. Her figure still displayed shapely curves, and she stood well over five feet tall. Her features were lean, with high cheek bones and a small pointy nose. Most of her hair glowed a deep auburn, while some strands had paled to the colour of single malt. A bun at the back of her head lent her a regrettably severe appearance. Now she advanced into the room with precise, soldierly steps, and both Holmes and I bowed and expressed our condolences.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” she said. “I certainly appreciate your help.” Her voice had volume without being loud; I could easily imagine it filling a lecture hall.
“And I am delighted to meet you,” she continued. “Occasionally, I do find time to leaf through the Strand Magazine, and I have come to admire your acumen, Mr Holmes, and to enjoy your narratives of the investigations, Dr Watson.”
Holmes smiled graciously, and I, too—fidgeting somewhat with my hands, I am afraid to say—expressed my appreciation of her complimentary opinion.
“Do you have any idea who is responsible for this dastardly crime?” she now asked in a clipped tone, looking at Holmes.
My companion sidestepped the question by posing one himself: “Tell me, please, Miss Cavendish, why do you believe your brother kept gold bullion in this safe?”
“Well, he told me so himself on a number of occasions, and my brother never made unfounded assertions. You see, Mr Holmes, my family lost quite a substantial amount of money in the panic of 1825, and one of the lessons our father inculcated in us was not to place undue trust in banks or paper money. ‘I have yet to see a place where people don’t value gold,’ he used to say. ‘You can’t go wrong with gold.’”
“Hard to argue with that,” Holmes nodded. “And who, besides yourself, might have been privy to the knowledge that this safe contained a small fortune?”
“I understand why you should ask this question, Mr Holmes, and I’ve had similar thoughts,” replied the lady. “But I cannot see that this line of reasoning will lead us anywhere. My brother certainly did not hold back when it came to expressing his dim view of banks, but the fact that he kept gold bullion in the house he would, if at all, only have mentioned to a few friends. Those would all be elderly gentleman themselves, and besides, the personages with whom my brother was on a more intimate footing are all of sound character and of secure financial standing.”
“Sometimes we find ourselves surprised at the company people keep,” Lestrade interjected at this point.
Instantly, a deep flush rose up the lady’s neck into her cheeks, and she spun around. “Mr Lestrade, there were many issues on which we did not see eye to eye. But this much I will say, my brother was a gentleman in every respect. I have already expressed my resentment at these insinuations that the company he kept was anything less than that befitting a man of sound morals.”
The inspector lifted his palms outward in a placating gesture, but Miss Cavendish was not yet finished.
“I believe it most likely that the general air of abandonment made this house appear an easy target, occasioned by the fact that the person responsible for the property left his post.” She shot Fitzsimmons a glance that might have chilled a band of drunken mercenaries to the bone. “Unfortunately, my brother returned home while the burglary was underway, and thus fell victim to this hideous crime.”
* * * *
The butler’s features tightened in an effort to remain silent, but he could not help himself: “Madam, I have repeatedly expressed my chagrin at the events, and while I admit to a certain amount of responsibility, I would like to emphasize that Mr Cavendish had expressly stated his intention of staying in the countryside till Wednesday. Otherwise, I should never have gone out of town.” He turned to my companion, his voice now raspy. “Mr Holmes, I appeal to your reasonableness. I have been in the employ of the Cavendish family for eleven years, and my loyalty and dedication have always been exemplary.”
“That may be so, Mr Fitzsimmons,” said Holmes, “but I have a sense you will not be receiving the best of references.” He looked out of the window at the houses across the street and continued: “In any case, I am sure we shall get to the bottom of all this. I should now like to have a word with the doctor you called in to help. I believe the gentleman lives close by. Do you think we might find him at home?”
The butler appeared somewhat taken aback at Holmes’s brusqueness, but he pulled himself together. “Yes, there is a good chance. Dr Lanyon retired some years ago from general practice. Professionally he is only available to his old friends and patients.”
“Splendid,” said my companion. “If you would be so good as to lead the way, Mr Fitzsimmons.”
* * * *
We followed the butler out of the house
and along the gravel path we had walked up less than an hour before. Dr Lanyon’s house stood diagonally across from the Major General’s. It was not quite as impressive and lacked a front garden. Nonetheless, the unstained, sand-coloured façade and the wide windows suggested a degree of affluence far beyond that achieved by your humble author in the profession he shared with the owner.
Fitzsimmons reached for the brass knocker and gave two sharp raps. Immediately, a shuffling noise could be heard, and an elderly woman with broad, friendly features and wearing an apron opened the lacquered black door. To the butler’s question as to whether the doctor was in she replied in the affirmative. She showed us into a well-appointed parlour that clearly received little usage. The atmosphere had a stale quality to it, and I noticed some dust inside an empty decanter. I had just been inspecting an old microscope standing on a sideboard, when the door swung open and Dr Lanyon stepped into the room with the air of a man in a hurry.
“Good day, ladies and gentleman,” he said in a mannered voice, bowed to Miss Cavendish and shook hands with Holmes and myself.
“How can I be of assistance?”
The doctor had a full head of white hair and was wearing spectacles. The blue eyes behind them sparkled with intelligence, and his wrinkled features displayed a scholastic, even monkish appearance. I judged him to be in his seventh decade, but he seemed hale and hearty, and the grip of his hand might have been that of a man half his age.
“Tell me, Doctor,” said Holmes after the usual preliminaries had been exchanged. “Do you believe Major General Cavendish was a man content with the circumstance of his life?”
The doctor was, I daresay, a trifle surprised at the question, as was I. While he was tilting his head left and right with the mien of someone weighing a problem, Holmes added:
“You knew each other quite well, I understand.”
“Yes,” replied Dr Lanyon. “Ever since the Major General retired here five years ago, I have had the honour of being his physician, and I believe I can state that a friendship developed.”
Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine #10 Page 13
