The Murder of Sherlock Holmes

by David Fable

  Gregson slowly turned to me and said, “An extensive theory, he has.”

  I smiled apologetically. Then Gregson burst out with a hoarse laugh. “I suppose the lad is bucking to make chief inspector by this afternoon.”

  Christopher seemed to be unconcerned by Gregson’s ridicule. He smiled and nodded as if he were enjoying the joke as well. A young Scotland Yard detective exited the house with a leathery man in his late thirties, who I presumed was the owner of this farm. “Is he the one who discovered the body?” I asked Gregson.

  “That’s the one. Name’s Tannyhill.”

  “What has he to say?” I asked.

  “That he found the body. I’ve got to get back to London. You’re free to talk to him if you’d like. Discuss theories and such,” he said with a playful grin and then walked off to his car where the young detective was waiting for him. Before Gregson got in, he turned back around, “And, by the way, night before last, the local constable followed someone speeding down this road but lost him in the dark right about where it turns off into this farm. Maybe your Renault, hmmm?” Gregson climbed into police car and they drove off.

  When I looked back toward the house, the farmer had been joined on the porch by his wife and eight-year-old daughter. They were all three gazing out at us. “Do you want to talk to the farmer?” I asked Christopher.

  “No need,” he said curtly. “Gregson is right. The man found Holmes in his barn and that’s all he knows.”

  I was happy to learn that the pub on High Street was still in business. I ordered the bangers and mash and Christopher had the plough-man’s lunch. The food was as good as I had recollected. I required Christopher not to discuss the case during lunch as I have always found that constant rumination on these investigations can lead to an unhealthy compulsiveness and cyclical kind of thinking that hinders progress. Giving the mind a few hours of peace a day is of immeasurably benefit. I discovered this from studying certain Eastern philosophies during my long convalescence after returning from the war. Lying in my bed for months on end, I learned not to dwell on the recuperation of my physical state and to improve my mental state by clearing away all the negative emotions. I likened my mind to a room that I would sweep clean every day, leaving it free of dust, dirt and cobwebs and filled with only the useful, orderly things required to pursue one’s life.

  During lunch, we talked about Christopher’s interest in geology and the possibility that he might pursue a career in petroleum engineering. He said in the future there would be manmade islands on the North Sea pumping petroleum from beneath the ocean, that there would be huge transcontinental pipes carrying petrol to all ends of the world, that coal and coal mining would become extinct. The future, as always, was in new technologies and those on the cutting edge would reap huge rewards. The boy spoke like a true capitalist. I myself am no Bolshevik. I have always been a firm believer in the free-market system and equality for all. I even signed a petition in support of suffrage, although I think that some of the methods of the suffragettes are rather unladylike. I suppose, at heart, I am a Victorian gentleman, not as well suited to the twentieth century as to the nineteenth.

  I continued the moratorium on further conversation for the ride home as well, in truth, because I wanted to take a nap, and that would have been impossible with young Hudson rattling on obsessively about French tires and automobiles.

  When we returned to my flat, I found a letter had been pushed under the door. I opened it and found it was from Holmes’s solicitor, Henry Pearson. He requested that I come to see him at my earliest convenience. I rang up Pearson, finding him available and anxious to see me that afternoon. I asked if I could have young Hudson accompany me, and he replied, “By all means. This involves him, too.” This rather surprising response made me even more curious about the nature of the meeting.

  Hudson and I made the fifteen-minute drive to Mortimer Street and the offices of Henry Pearson and Associates. As far as I could tell, Pearson had never actually had any associates. He had a secretary named Dora, who looked rather like a tortoise with big, sad eyes and an expressionless mouth. There was also a Bob Cratchit-ish clerk named Snodgress, who seemed responsible for the filing and billing.

  Dora led us into Pearson’s office where the stout, red-faced solicitor sat behind a massive oak desk. I had known Pearson from the Commonwealth Club and used him on a couple of real estate matters. I could not remember whether I had recommended him to Holmes or vice versa. I know that Holmes abhorred anything that included contracts or legal entanglements and could not recall a single instance when he was involved in any legal matter.

  Pearson rose and ushered Hudson and me to a sitting area near a window that overlooked the street. “May I offer you gentlemen something to drink?” he asked.

  We declined and he twisted around toward his secretary and reached out his hand, “Dora, would you please hand me the Sherlock Holmes file from my desk.”

  She did as asked with a tortoise-like deliberateness. “Thank you. That will be all,” he said, and she sluggishly retreated to the outer office. He turned back to us. “Dr. Watson, I believe it will come as no surprise to you that you are executor of Mr. Holmes’s will.”

  It came as a surprise to me that Holmes had a will at all, for as scrupulously careful as he was with every investigation, he was rather disorganized regarding his personal affairs.

  “First, I want to offer my condolences to the both of you. Is what I read in the papers true?’

  “The important fact is true,” I answered. “Holmes was murdered.”

  Pearson shook his head in dismay. “I can’t see that this fact demands I approach my duties any differently, however the circumstances of his death might complicate your job. Let me give you the major points and then tell you the specific reason I asked you come here today.”

  Young Hudson remained respectfully silent through all this. Pearson had said that this matter concerned him as well, or I would have asked the young man to excuse himself. I was considering doing that in any event when Pearson preempted my words by opening the file on his lap and launching into his presentation of the particulars.

  “Mr. Holmes’s estate is approximately one million, four hundred thousand pounds,” he said without putting any particular emphasis on the figure. I was stunned. I knew that Holmes had often given his services to members of royalty and heads of state for large fees, but it never would have occurred to me that he could have amassed such a fortune.

  “After all real estate and other assets are liquidated, Mr. Holmes directs that Dr. John H. Watson distribute one half of his estate to the orphanage or orphanages of his choice. One quarter of the estate shall go to his brother, Mycroft Holmes. All Sherlock Holmes’s personal belongings, excluding those which Dr. Watson should wish to keep, are to be given to Christopher Hudson.”

  Even in death, Holmes continued to astonish. Could it be that he had anticipated Christopher’s acumen for detective work even before the youth realized it himself? But how could he have predicted he would die at such a young age? If Holmes had died at seventy, Christopher would have been thirty-three and well established in whatever field he had chosen. Holmes certainly wouldn’t have expected him to abandon a secure occupation to pursue a career in crime detection just because he was bequeathed a ballistics kit. It would make about as much sense as expecting him to become a boxer because he left the lad his set of boxing gloves.

  For his part, Christopher appeared dumbfounded. He was as surprised as anyone by his inclusion in the will, and, for a change of pace, rendered speechless.

  “And here is the specific reason I wanted to speak to you in advance, Doctor. Mr. Holmes makes only one more bequest; that being five hundred pounds and a stipend of fifty pounds a month to Delilah Church until her death. I was wondering if you knew who this person is. We have no information on Miss Church. We have done a cursory check of the phone books and birth records but have found no one by that name.”

  “I don’t believe I
know a Delilah Church,” I responded. “I might want to look at my journals. Perhaps a case I’m forgetting.”

  “If I may ask,” interjected Christopher, “what is the date of Mr. Holmes’s will?”

  “The will is dated June 17, 1910. It was amended a year later and witnessed by a notary in Sussex,” said Pearson.

  “And what was added?” Christopher continued with his examination.

  “The bequest to Miss Church. I drafted the underlying document and the codicil was added by Benjamin Braxton, Esq., in Sussex.”

  “And I assume he doesn’t know Miss Church, either.”

  Pearson nodded. “I suppose I will have to put a detective on this,” he concluded.

  “You have two on it already,” said Christopher, self-assured.

  “Right you are,” said the solicitor with a smile.

  “Have you a key to Holmes’s house?” I inquired.

  “Yes. I’ll have Snodgress give it to you on the way out.”

  Before leaving, Pearson called me back into his office. He produced an envelope from his file with my name written on it in Holmes’s hand. “This arrived with the amended will a year ago. Instructions were to give it to you upon his death.”

  “Thank you for your discretion, Mr. Pearson.” I pocketed the envelope.

  I left Pearson’s office with the envelope, a key to Holmes’s Sussex residence and another puzzle to consider, regarding Delilah Church. Christopher had his eyes on the pavement as we walked toward the automobile. “I feel quite flattered that he left his belongings to me,” he said without looking up.

  “You should,” I responded. “Many of those items were extremely precious to him, particularly the ones that concerned his work.”

  He stopped and looked at me earnestly. “But I feel badly that he had no one closer to give them to.”

  “Perhaps he felt you were the best one to make use of them.”

  Christopher considered that statement.

  “And by the way, he did say you could have only those things I didn’t want,” I added lightly, trying to ease his misgivings.

  He forced a smile, still feeling slightly guilty about the bequest.

  “Didn’t you feel close to him?” I asked. “You spent quite a bit of time in Baker Street B.”

  “I did. But I was never sure it was mutual. He was always so… distant.”

  “That was his way. He didn’t reveal his thoughts. One of the downsides of the trade I suppose.”

  As we reached the car, a ragged little boy and girl with a wheelbarrow selling kindling for “5 Pence a Bundle” rolled past. The boy wore coveralls with one strap broken. The little girl wore a tattered petticoat. Suddenly it hit me like a thunderbolt. Delilah Church. “Lilah!”

  5

  I t would take twenty minutes in the insufferable London traffic to get to Bedlam. I knew I’d seen her face before, that dark-haired woman with the haunted eyes. She had called herself Lilah and had been one of the gang of street urchins whom Holmes referred to as the “Baker Street Irregulars.” He often employed them for purposes of following suspects and gathering intelligence from every corner of the city. As Holmes put it, “They can go anywhere, see everything, overhear everyone.” I did not know Lilah’s last name. When I first saw her back in 1881, she was a wild-haired little child of seven. The Irregulars would swarm about the city directed by their sixteen-year-old leader, Wiggins, who ultimately used this early training to become a rather notorious crime figure in the East End.

  Lilah would be approximately thirty-eight years old now. I can’t remember the last time I had seen her before my recent visit to Bedlam. I remember that as a teenager she was quite pretty despite the smudged face, layers of boys’ clothes and kerchief on her head designed to conceal her long, dark ringlets. I imagine she wanted to pass as male in order to navigate the rough-and-tumble street life she had inherited. I could only guess what had transpired since her childhood to bring her to Bedlam. Even more mysterious was the reason for Holmes having made a provision for her in his will. Perhaps he had been informed of her present state. It would not be unlike Holmes to give assistance to those in need who had passed through his life, particularly the ones who had aided him in his professional efforts. He had always been quite generous to the Irregulars, and they returned that generosity with devotion. On numerous occasions they supplied us with a piece of information crucial to a case.

  When we arrived at Bedlam, it had been roughly twenty-four hours since my last visit, and it felt as if there had been a year’s worth of activity. This errand was a bit off the trail, but I wanted to resolve what I was almost certain was the case—that this fretful woman I observed the day before was actually the party named in Holmes’s will.

  A swirling afternoon wind stung my face as I remounted the stairs of the hospital, this time with Hudson at my side.

  The same pleasant, young woman from the day before was stationed at the reception desk.

  “Dr. Watson, I was not told to expect you,” she said.

  “Sorry about arriving unannounced. Something came up that requires I speak to one of the patients. Her name is Delilah Church.”

  “I can’t authorize that, sir.”

  “Then would you kindly advise Chaplain O’Donohue that I’m here?”

  “He’s out in the field today. I can have you talk to Dr. Leeds,” she offered.

  “Yes, please. If that is procedure, then please call him for me.”

  A few minutes later, a squat, harried doctor in his white coat soon joined us in the reception area. From his attitude, you would have thought he was the only doctor on duty for the entire hospital.

  “May I help you, gentlemen?” he said crisply and looked at me with faint recognition.

  “Dr. Leeds, we would like to visit with a patient who I believe is named Delilah or perhaps Lilah Church.”

  “Are you a relative or have you been authorized for a visit?” he asked officiously.

  “No.”

  “Then, as a matter of confidentiality, I cannot comment on the identity of our patients.”

  “This is a legal matter, Doctor Leeds.”

  “So is confidentiality,” he assured me.

  I refrained from pointing out that I could have Lestrade pull these records in a matter of hours, but I wanted to keep this nonconfrontational.

  “Doctor, I am simply trying to determine if one of your patients is in fact the person named in the will of Sherlock Holmes.”

  Doctor Leeds’s countenance transformed at the mention of Holmes’s name. “I knew you looked familiar. You’re Doctor Watson,” he beamed.

  “Yes, I am, and this is Christopher Hudson.”

  The receptionist piped in, “I told you it was Doctor Watson.”

  “I thought you said…No matter. I must have misheard.” He shook our hands heartily, then added with great solemnity, “I cannot tell you how disturbed I was to hear of Mr. Holmes’s death. I am a huge admirer. Has a funeral been scheduled? I would like to attend.”

  “A popular request,” Christopher said under his breath.

  “I will let you know,” I said with a forced smile.

  “As I have limited familiarity with the female patients, I will have to check the files. Would you please follow me, gentlemen?”

  He led us to a file room with three walls of floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with patient records. “Church, you said?” He moved over to the Cs, which occupied four long shelves near the top. Dr. Leeds dragged a stepladder over and climbed up.

  “Yes. Delilah Church,” I confirmed.

  Flipping through files, he mumbled, “Childress…Christin… Chubb…Claiborne…Sorry, no Church.”