The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X

by Marcum, David;

  “You saw no one,” asked Holmes, “for all this time?”

  “The entire scene was deserted, up to then. I rapped upon the door with my stick, without any response, several times. When I realised that this was futile, I took the narrow path at the side of the house, in the hope that I could attract the attention of someone in the downstairs rooms or in the garden. At one point, I stopped to peer into the largest of the windows, and was appalled by what I saw. There was no furniture visible, no inhabitants, or anything else! The sun shone in, illuminating a room containing nothing but a broken chair, at such an angle that I could see through an open door that the next room was much the same. I confess that I was mystified for, if this were some sort of practical joke, then what purpose could it have? Mr. Smith had seemed such an agreeable sort, befriending me during our brief association, that I could not believe it of him.

  “I could see that there was nothing else to be done, so I returned to the towpath and was about to retrace my steps when I realised that I was no longer alone. Almost opposite on the other bank stood a red-roofed house that looked as if it were about to fall down, and to my surprise a woman stood at the gate of the small garden watching me intently. She was of striking appearance, past her youth, but still dark-haired and handsome, and wearing a scarlet dress. I called to her but she did not reply, instead producing a spy-glass from a case and proceeding to watch me through it. I concluded that the unfortunate woman must be very short-sighted and raised a hand to show that I had seen her, whereupon she lowered the instrument and turned away abruptly to retreat into the house.”

  I saw that Holmes’s face was alight with interest. His eyes glittered.

  “Can you remember which hand you raised to wave?” he enquired.

  Mr. Jackman paused thoughtfully, wearing a puzzled expression at such a question. “I believe... yes, I recall clearly,” he said at last. “I held my travelling-case in my left hand, and waved with my right.”

  “You are certain?”

  He hesitated. “Quite certain. Is that significant?”

  “Perhaps. What action did you take then?”

  “I could see that I would learn nothing at Canal Reach,” our visitor resumed, “so I resolved to ask questions at the house where the woman had appeared. During my approach, I had seen no bridge to take me across to the opposite bank, so I knew that I would have to walk further. In fact, it was almost a mile before I was able to cross. Immediately upon reaching the house, I knocked upon the door. Then, having received no reply, I hammered upon it impatiently. This brought no result and so I encircled the place, only to find it as empty as Canal Reach, and with no sign of recent habitation. Finally, after peering through several windows, I retraced my steps. When I eventually came to the trap, I drove back to the station and returned to London.”

  “To return to work on Monday, where you eventually explained your confused demeanour to Mr. Mycroft Holmes,” I finished.

  “That was the conclusion of it.”

  There was a moment of silence, broken only by the traffic in the street below.

  Holmes said to our visitor, “Pray describe Mr. Peter Smith to us, as accurately and precisely as you can.”

  “He is rather above average height. His hair is black, but greying at the temples. His moustache has a rather elaborate curl and his skin is dark or well-tanned. The style of his clothing is rather more flamboyant than is usual, and appears well-cut. I noticed a faint foreign accent creeping into his speech when he became excited, as he did several times in the course of our historical ventures and during conversation. He explained that he spent some time abroad in his youth.”

  “Excellent. A most concise appraisal,” Holmes said approvingly. “Is there anything else unusual about him that comes to mind?”

  Mr. Jackman considered, then recollected, “I distinctly remember overhearing an exchange between Mr. Smith and the receptionist at the booking-desk, shortly after I arrived. He was apparently desperate to secure a room, which he subsequently did, although he mentioned to me later that he had booked in advance. Probably I have misunderstood the situation, and my referring to it has no value.”

  “Much to the contrary, I consider the incident to have great significance.”

  “Indeed? Your ways are a mystery to me, sir.”

  “I will endeavour to clear up all that is strange from this affair before too long. Now, Mr. Jackman, is there anything more about this curious encounter and its aftermath that you wish to tell us?”

  Our client sat very still, then shook his head. “I can think of nothing further.”

  “When you returned to your residence in London, was there anything amiss?”

  “Nothing. All was as before.”

  Holmes rose from his chair. “Then we will wish you good day. Be so good as to convey my compliments to my brother, and to inform him that I expect to be able to throw some light on all this in a day or two.”

  Mr. Jackman left us then, looking more bemused than ever. When I returned from showing him to the door, Holmes stood at the window where I joined him.

  “Can you make anything of this, Watson?” he asked as we looked down to see Mr. Jackman hail a hansom.

  “It does seem as if Mr. Jackman’s original conclusion that he has been the victim of a rather pointless practical joke could be correct. Certainly, this man Smith cannot have profited from it.”

  “Not financially, I agree. However, there are several points that require explanation.”

  “I can see none.”

  We turned from the window and resumed our seats.

  “Consider,” Holmes began, “the incident at the booking-desk. Why do you think Smith lied to Mr. Jackman about having made a booking in advance?”

  “It appears to have been an oversight of some sort. It may have caused some embarrassment.”

  My friend smiled, perhaps at my lack of suspicion. “No, Watson, I consider it far more likely that Smith followed Mr. Jackman to the hotel, and could not have booked ahead because he did not know the destination beforehand.”

  “Good heavens! Was the whole thing arranged, and not a chance meeting?”

  “Undoubtedly. Next, there is the woman on the canal. Why did she need the spy-glass to see our client?”

  “The lady sounds regrettably short-sighted.”

  “And yet she saw him arrive, and only then went into the garden. She produced the spy-glass from a case, but not until she had drawn near.”

  “The significance of that eludes me,” I confessed.

  “It is simply that the spy-glass was necessary to confirm some detail. She could not approach Mr. Jackman because of the body of water that lay between them, so she obtained a closer view with the instrument. What small feature could have been so important, do you think? What is unusual about our client?”

  I considered for a moment. As far as I could recall, Mr. Jackman had but one distinguishing mark. “His missing finger!”

  Holmes beamed. “Excellent, Watson. I have said before that I never get your measure. His finger, indeed. If I have interpreted this situation correctly, the lack of that finger may have saved his life.”

  “You understand all of this?”

  “At this stage I am still uncertain, although I have arrived at a partial explanation. Another point in question, and there are probably others, is that of Mr. Peter Smith himself. If I describe to you a rather dark-skinned man who speaks with a faintly foreign accent and wears clothes of an unusual cut or colour, what do you conclude?”

  “That he is from outside these shores, surely. But Smith explained to Mr. Jackman that his speech was influenced by time spent abroad.”

  “I am inclined to believe that the truth is the exact reverse, that Smith is foreign and learned his English from time spent previously in this country. His skin colouring, mode of dre
ss, and accent strongly suggest it. The final clue of course, is his choice of assumed name, that most English of surnames - ‘Smith’.”

  “I suppose you may be right. But what is the meaning of it all? Why would an unknown foreigner befriend Mr. Jackman and then play such a purposeless trick?”

  “The answer to that, I am hoping, lies in the vicinity of Canal Reach. If you are free, old fellow, you may like to accompany me there after lunch.”

  * * *

  We caught the afternoon train as it was about to pull out of the station. This new problem had lightened Holmes’s manner considerably, for he chattered uncharacteristically about varying subjects for almost the entire journey. On arrival at West Byfleet, we hired a trap, as Mr. Jackman has done before us, and obtained directions to the river. We turned off the road at a bridge that looked as if it had spanned the water for centuries and descended a gradual slope. Before long, the towpath grew narrow, and so Holmes tied the horse to an iron railing and we proceeded on foot.

  Mr. Jackman had been accurate in his description, I thought, for the water was still and choked with weed. An evil smell arose from it that reminded me of marsh-gas, and the houses lining both sides of the canal were remote from each other and, under a dull autumn sky, appeared long since abandoned.

  “This waterway was once the connection between West Byfleet and Basingstoke, as Mr. Jackman informed us,” Holmes remarked. “It was used to great extent by the boatyards that flourished here. Since most of them have now ceased to trade, the area has fallen into disuse. I doubt if a single house within sight is still occupied.”

  “It certainly seems so. We have seen no one.”

  We walked on, passing the mouldering craft moored at intervals. Presently we came to the plot of rough land that our client had described, and then to the ruined structure that we sought.

  Holmes’s keen eyes swept over the place as we stood in silence before it. I saw nothing but a dilapidated house, but his enthusiasm was unaffected, as if it was exactly as he had expected.

  “Wait here, Watson, while I make a short inspection.”

  With that, he proceeded to walk around the building, producing his lens to examine the doors and window-frames. When he emerged I asked him about his findings, but he had little to say.

  “There has been no one, with the exception of Mr. Jackman, on the surrounding path for a considerable time. The doors and windows have not been opened for a good deal longer.” He looked across the canal. “However, I am far more interested in the red-roofed house over there, so we will now make our way to it.”

  We continued on until we came to the bridge that Mr. Jackman had described to us. After crossing, we passed a good many abandoned houses, some far apart and some much closer, but all in various stages of ruination.

  At last we approached the one we sought, and entered through the tiny garden. Holmes again examined every side of the house with the aid of his lens after rapping on the door without response.

  “Here also, there are signs that Mr. Jackman was here before us,” he observed. “However, this door at the side of the house has different footprints nearby. Also, it has been forced open recently.”

  “Then here we may learn something.”

  “We shall see.” Holmes turned the door-handle and braced himself to shoulder his way in, but it proved unnecessary. The door opened with a groan from hinges that were in need of oil. “Stay where you are, Watson. Do not move!”

  His sudden exclamation startled me, and I imagined for a moment that some hideous trap had been left to ensnare further entrants. As it was, my friend merely sought to ensure that we made no disturbance to the dust that lay thickly inside.

  He stepped into the short corridor carefully. “Tread only where I do, with your back to the wall.”

  I complied, brushing away cobwebs as he walked slowly ahead with his eyes fixed upon the floor. When we reached the living-room, he was silent until he had studied the marks in the surrounding grime.

  “It is quite clear what has taken place here,” he said then. “Two people, a man and a woman from the shape of their footprints, entered by the side door as we did. They then came in here and the man dragged that heavy table from the centre of the room to a position near the window. He then brought over those two chairs that you see, and the lady sat at this side of the table.” He gestured at the dust-laden surface. “Here is where she placed something, probably the spy-glass case, and that odd-shaped mark on the floor near the corner will be where the butt of a rifle rested when the weapon was propped against the wall.”

  “So their intent was murder?”

  “At first, at least. At some point, the woman retraced her steps to the side door and walked to the garden gate, which would have been when Mr. Jackman saw her, and then returned. Afterwards, they both left the premises.”

  “You have deduced all this, from the patterns in the dust?”

  “It is not difficult, if you form a hypothesis of what must have occurred and then check carefully that this is confirmed by the traces that have been left. As I have explained before, confusion arises when one attempts to bend the evidence to fit a supposition.”

  “What have you found?” I asked, as he took an envelope from his pocket and scraped something from the floor into it.

  “A small pile of ash, from a cigarette or cigar. It may tell us something.”

  He spent a little more time looking around the room, then we returned to the corridor. The stairs received no more than a cursory glance, because the dust that lay thickly upon them remained in an undisturbed state.

  “Back to Baker Street now, I think.” Holmes said finally, and we began the walk to return to the trap.

  * * *

  We arrived back to find Mrs. Hudson poised to serve dinner. I ate my roast lamb with mint sauce heartily, since this afternoon’s exertions had given me a healthy appetite. Holmes, as often when caught in the throes of a case, displayed little enthusiasm and hardly touched his food. The moment I laid down my knife and fork, he leaped to his feet.

  “I have to analyse that tobacco, Watson. You can help me, if you will, by looking through the evening editions of the dailies and reporting to me anything, particularly of foreign activity in London, that strikes you as unusual.”

  “I am glad to assist,” I replied to his retreating back, “as always.”

  I scoured the news sheets, all the while aware of my friend at his workbench mixing chemicals and holding up test tubes to examine the results. After half-an-hour I gave up in disgust. I could find nothing of any relevance.

  At almost the same instant, Holmes turned to our sitting-room. “What have you discovered, Watson?”

  “Apart from the arrival in London of a group of Hungarian jugglers and the departure of a French count whose proposal of marriage to a society beauty was rejected, I can find nothing involving foreigners.”

  “No matter. I would appreciate it if you would subject tomorrow’s morning editions to a similar examination.”

  “Certainly. But have you made any progress?”

  His eyes shone with satisfaction. “It is as I had begun to suspect. The tobacco was of an Italian mixture.”

  “The woman described by Mr. Jackman would have fitted that description well.”

  “And so the threads begin to untangle. There is but one missing piece to the puzzle, I think, for our case to be complete.”

  “I confess to being confused, Holmes.”

  “Not for long, old fellow, for I expect to be able to present the entire sequence of events to Lestrade shortly. For now, however, I suggest that we repair to our beds for a good night’s sleep. I expect us to be busy in the morning. Good night, Watson.”

  With that, he turned abruptly and his bedroom door closed before I could reply. I realised then that weariness had settled upon me, and
so followed his example.

  Holmes was already halfway through his breakfast when I joined him. “The coffee is still warm in the pot,” was his greeting.

  I made trivial conversation throughout the meal, until I realised that he was irritated by it. It was clear to me that as soon as I mentioned the affair that we were engaged upon, he would either prove reticent or overwhelm me with his enthusiasm, and my enjoyment of my bacon and eggs would be ruined.

  “At last!” he exclaimed as I finished my last slice of toast. I put down my empty coffee cup as Mrs. Hudson appeared to clear the table.

  “I see that the papers have arrived,” I remarked. “I will begin now, if you wish.”

  “Pray do so, while I consult my index.”

  I took the morning editions to my armchair, while he began to turn pages and select newspaper cuttings, only to discard them moments later.

  I found something of significance soon after. “Holmes! I have it!”

  He was beside me immediately, and we stared at the picture together.

  “It is you, not I, who has solved this curious affair,” he said then.

  “The resemblance is very close, but Mr. Jackman and this man are not identical,” I observed. “It is not difficult to see how one could be mistaken for the other, nevertheless. We can be sure that this is indeed someone different, since we can see clearly that he has no missing fingers.”

  “Watson, you excel yourself,” Holmes beamed. “Not for the first time, I wonder which of us is the detective?”

  I felt a keen embarrassment at such accolades of praise from my friend, especially twice in as many breaths. “I am always pleased to be of some little help.”

  “Stout fellow! I see that the photograph is of the recently-appointed Italian Minister of Justice, Signor Carlo Caruso, who is here on a state visit. This adds considerable weight to my theory, especially as I believe that I have discovered the true identity of Mr. Peter Smith from my index. The article states that Signor Caruso will visit the National Gallery this afternoon, to view the exhibition of Italian old masters.”