“Is that you, Mr. Holmes?” Inspector Gregson’s voice was easy to recognize.
“Yes, it is me. Are you testing this device?”
“No, sir. The chimes rang down here in the basement. You must have pulled the handle.”
Holmes looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Perhaps we did, Inspector. If so, it was accidental. We are finished up here. Are the servants available for questioning?”
“Yes, they are here in the kitchen.”
Stepping away from the call device, he said, “When I opened the front, it stretched the wire going down to the basement. That is what caused those bells to ring,”
We looked at each other, knowing that the mystery was essentially solved.
“Any questions?” asked Holmes.
I shook my head. “When will you tell Gregson?”
Holmes smiled. “Watson, your head told me no, but your voice asked a question.”
My companion, fresh from solving a riddle, was in a good mood and having some fun at my small expense.
“You remind me,” said I, “of my old commanding officer, Major Smyth. He once told me to stand up straight and keep my head down. I had no response then or now.”
As we walked from the depressing chamber, Holmes had more to say. “We know the how of the crime, and most likely one of the perpetrators, but who installed the device and why? It was probably put in place when the room was redecorated. We still need to learn more details and the motive. I am a bit selfish in that I would like us to present the inspector with a complete explanation. If this is related to the girl who was confined here...” Holmes’s voice trailed off and he paused for a moment. I knew he was considering the possibilities. “Watson, the motive must be revenge. Lord Garrod had many enemies for many reasons, but his treatment of Emma Brunnel must be at the top of our list. Whoever planned his death was not satisfied with such punishment as was given to him at the time, and we shall proceed with that assumption.” Holmes and I were now in Lord Garrod’s former bedroom. “Look there, Watson. Another servant’s call device, but this one looks to be older and of a different design.” There was no box - simply a pull chain. The bells were higher up on the wall and the speaking tube was hung by a hook.
“Before we go to the basement,” said Holmes, “I would like to see if I can formulate a rough chain of events.” We walked over to a large window that looked down on an unkempt garden. “I speculate that this crime was a year in the making - beginning with the redecoration of that room. At least one of the contractors was somehow connected to Emma Brunnel. He designed and installed the device, leaving the pistol loaded, but uncocked.”
“Why would he not leave it armed when the job was finished?” I asked.
“I can think of two reasons,” Holmes replied. “Perhaps the man finished while other workers had not. He could not leave it armed and risk one of them using the device. In addition he might have wanted some time to pass to separate his involvement from the crime.”
I picked at the loose window leading. “It seems to me that the man had skills as a carpenter and a metal worker.”
“True,” said Holmes, “but the workmanship I saw was only adequate for the task. I think the average homeowner could fabricate such a device. We will not seek him out among the upper classes. It looks as though there is more than one person involved, but we must not be too quick to speculate. We need more information, and perhaps it is waiting for us in the basement.”
The two servants, a woman and a man - quite young - were huddled around a small table. Due to the narrow windows, the lighting was barely adequate. It was a dismal work place. We sat opposite them while reading the statements given to the inspector, who excused himself and left on an errand.
According to the notes, there were seven tenant farmers that stayed on through the whole ordeal, but they never had reason to visit the house other than a daily delivery of milk, eggs, and various garden produce. None were interviewed. The two house servants were employed shortly after the now-deceased Lord had settled his legal and financial problems. They agreed that he was cold and aloof, but was otherwise an adequate master. Both assumed that he lived in fear of the authorities and would do nothing to bring them around. Neither had any previous connection to Lord Garrod or any of the tenants - so they stated.
Holmes set aside the papers. “The two of you are key witnesses to the tragedy - the only witnesses.” He turned his attention to the small dark-haired girl. “Now, Miss Jade, I know you have told the story to the police, but I need to hear it directly from you. You are the cook, and you took the breakfast tray to Lord Garrod’s chamber yesterday morning.”
“I did, sir,” said she, with a squeaky voice.
“Did he summon you?”
“No, sir. I delivers it at eight sharp. I does it every day, always the same time.”
“What food did you deliver?”
This seemed to startle the girl. I thought it might be a question she had not been asked.
“Ah, ’twas porridge and some tea, if I remember proper.”
“When you approached the locked door, what did you do?”
“I knocks and stands in front of the door. He has a peep hole, he does. He opens the door, I take the tray in, and leave it on the great desk. Then I leave.”
“What was Lord Garrod doing while you were in the room?”
“I know naught, sir. I keeps me eyes down.”
“You saw nothing out of the ordinary?”
“No, sir. Same as every day.”
“You came directly down to the kitchen?”
“I did, sir.”
“Mr. Langdale was here?”
“For certain he was, sir.”
“What did you do then?”
“I served up the porridge to me and Darwin - Mr. Langdale.”
“And then?”
“We sat at this table and ate until we heard the chimes and the shot.”
Holmes turned to the man. “Mr. Langdale, do you have anything to add to what Miss Jade has told me?”
“No, sir, except when we heard the chimes and the shot, we both ran up to the master’s chamber, but it was locked solid. We came back here and used the telephone to call the police. We waited at the front door until they arrived.”
“Miss Jade,” said Holmes, “do you agree with Mr. Langdale’s statement?”
She nodded. “I do, sir. The master dead and all had me in pieces.”
Holmes tapped the index finger of his left hand on the table. I knew he was considering his next move. He looked at me for a moment and then stood up. “Please wait here with Dr. Watson. I shall return soon.”
I had no idea what my companion had in mind. I reviewed the recent testimony, but I could shed no light on our mystery. I suspected I was probably in a room with the guilty party - a girl who was now making tea for us.
It was a good pot and Holmes returned before I had finished my cup. Miss Jade poured a cup for him as he joined the three of us. After a few sips, he addressed the two servants. “I know this has been a trying time for both of you, and unfortunately the next few days will be no easier. Dr. Watson and I will be leaving shortly, as will the police, but we will return in the morning. Since we have no answers, we must investigate in depth. We will require a complete history from both of you - place of birth, relatives, former employers, and your travels in general. It will be very intrusive, but I am sure you can see the necessity.”
I was as bewildered as the maid and butler, but I tried not to show it as we left them huddled in the kitchen. Gregson was waiting for us in his wagon. He had nothing to say for the whole return drive until he let us off at our door.
“Mr. Holmes, I am a bit nervous just now, but I think we made the right decision - to let them worry overnight. We will know tomorrow.”
Mrs. Hudson met us at the door and informed us that our dinner would arrive in thirty minutes. This was welcome news because I was hungry, but I was also curious. Holmes was silent until he stoked the fire and retrieved his oily clay pipe. He picked up the carton that held the papers that we were studying earlier and shuffled through the pile.
“So, my friend,” said he, as he looked at the clippings, “do you know where this is going?”
“I think I do.”
“Excellent,” said Holmes. “Let me relax here with my pipe while you tell the tale.”
I had my own briar in one hand and a small glass of sherry in the other. I took an appreciative sip and began: “From the first, I believed that the maid, Ada Jade, had to be the person who set the trigger. That particular day was unimportant. She delivered food under the watchful eye of Lord Garrod, so she had to wait until such time as he was distracted. Perhaps on the fateful day he went behind the screen. No matter. She saw her opportunity and took it.
“At the table in the kitchen, Darwin Langdale’s story was lacking. When you opened the call device, it rang the chimes in the basement kitchen. If Ada did the same then Darwin, who said he waited at the table, had to have heard the ringing, but he said nothing. That was when I was sure of the events. The two of them were in league in some manner.
“What I do not know is why you decided to leave more questioning until tomorrow, and why you left the kitchen for a time. Based upon what I heard when Inspector Gregson departed, I assume it was to make the two worry. You must have made a plan, but I will hazard no guess at this point.”
All the while, Holmes was sorting through the papers on his lap. As I finished, he picked up a clipping, smiled, and turned his attention back to me. “You have my congratulations, Watson. You have described the events accurately. As I talked to the two, I was also considering the entire chain of events, beginning with the death of Emma Brunnel. I thought about his abominable treatment of her and his treatment of others. At the time, I was also angered to learn that he suffered only a financial penalty.
“Near the end of my session with them, I suddenly remembered an article that I had read earlier this morning when we went through the clippings.” He handed the slip of paper to me. “It is about the deceased girl’s family in Australia. Read down to where they give the names of her brother and sister.”
I scanned the brief story and quickly found the names. “Great Scott,” I exclaimed, “her sister’s name is Adaline Brunnel and her brother is Dawson Brunell.” I set the paper aside and retrieved my glass of sherry. “Incredible, the two of them came from Australia and devoted a year to extract their revenge.”
“Quite so,” said Holmes. “They retained versions of their first names to make the transition easier. The article also notes that Dawson was an apprentice clockmaker, which gives him the skill to fabricate the call device.”
I jumped up from my chair. “Obviously you decided to give them the opportunity to flee, but damn it, man, they’ll be fleeing back to Australia as we speak. You all but told them they were done. They can’t be fool enough to think the truth won’t out during the ‘intrusive’ investigations you described.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes, puffing on his pipe, “Justice, Watson... it’s a funny thing. What moral obligation does one have if such terrible and awful abominations as were suffered by Emily Brunell go unpunished? Should one simply accept it and move on? This, I think, was the quandary that faced the two siblings, and indeed the quandary faced by myself in these past hours.”
I sat down again. “Is it justice or revenge we’re talking about here, Holmes?”
Holmes looked at the fire. “I have oft thought of asking the hangman the same.” He was silent for a moment. “The inspector will join us once again for lunch. I have asked Mrs. Hudson to make enough for four. After we have eaten, we will travel to Sevenoaks and, if I am correct, we shall show considerable surprise to find them gone. I am sure they have long had passage secured. And if they are not, well then, you shall have your justice, such as it is.”
Conversation over lunch the next day was very amiable. Inspector Gregson sampled one of Holmes fine cigars over coffee, and Alfie the driver received a full share. The trip was uneventful and, as expected, the two servants were absent. Gregson made a show of questioning the tenants, but Holmes and I declined to participate. The disposition of Lord Garrod’s estate was of no concern to us.
As we were leaving, the inspector said to Holmes, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you deliberately gave them warning, Holmes.”
My friend did not reply and nothing more was said on the matter.
Back at 221b, we relaxed before a small fire where we spent some time discussing the adventure. Holmes summed it up very well. “I feel rather good about all of this. Come. Pick up your cane and hat. I will treat you to a celebratory dinner at Wagner’s.”
I got up from my chair, but somewhat slower this time. “Do you know, Holmes, I feel quite good about it myself. Quite good indeed.”
The afternoon sun gave us elongated shadows that we followed up the street. Somehow, even they reflected our good mood. Everything was satisfactory.
A Brush With Death
by Dick Gillman
Chapter 1: A Corpse in Surrey
It was late in the afternoon, one day in late August 1898, that Holmes and I were to begin the case that I have here recorded as that of “A Brush with Death”.
I had spent the morning in my former practice and, upon the completion of my surgery, I had endeavoured to carry out a small, but supremely important, errand. Before returning to Baker Street, I had ventured towards Carlin’s, the tobacconist’s. There I hoped to discover something that might provide, at least, some small distraction for Holmes.
For the past week, I had endured the growing impatience of a man whose mind desperately craved stimulation. Finding nothing to intrigue him, Holmes had begun that descent towards darkness which might again lead to his use of the syringe. For several months he had resisted, but I now feared that he might see it as his only means of escape.
At the entrance to Carlin’s, the wonderful tobacco emporium, I was almost overwhelmed by the aroma released by a multitude of tobaccos. These, I knew, had been gathered from as far afield as the Americas, the Ottoman Empire and even Africa.
Looking about me, I was drawn to the vast, glass-fronted display cabinet that seemed to fill one complete side of the shop. Upon its surface were small china bowls filled with, perhaps, an ounce or so of different tobaccos. Each was labelled, in fine copperplate script, with its name, price per ounce, and its origin. As I moved from bowl to bowl, dipping my head towards each like some inquisitive heron, I marvelled at how the pungency, colour, and texture varied between each one.
I must confess that I was entranced. Several minutes passed before I determined to buy an ounce of three quite different tobaccos. These I judged to be the most obscure and, therefore, difficult to identify. Paying for my purchases and gathering up the small, brown-paper packages, I joyfully hurried back to our rooms, hopeful that I might lift Holmes’s spirits with this intriguing challenge.
Upon entering our sitting room, I could see from the wildly torn and tossed newspapers that his mind had continued to turn inwards upon itself. Holmes was slumped in his leather armchair, his old dressing gown draped roughly around his shoulders, his head bowed and his chiselled chin resting firmly upon his chest.
I was dismayed when he made no effort to greet me on my return. It was as I walked past this sorry figure that I sought to engage him by asking, brightly, “I have made a small purchase on my way back to Baker Street, Holmes. I was hoping that you might indulge me by helping to identify...”
Without looking up or raising his head, Holmes interrupted me, saying “Your visit to Carlin’s was not a single purchase, Watson, for you have clearly bought two... no, three different
tobaccos. I presume that this is some pale attempt, on your part, to stir me from my lethargy.” Holmes paused before adding, “I am sorry, but at present, I am not in the mood.”
On hearing this, I was immediately crestfallen and sank down heavily into my chair. I sat in silence for some minutes before taking the bundles from my jacket pocket and arranging them on the arm of my chair.
It was just as I opened the third package that our doorbell in the hallway below rang loudly. Looking up, I observed that Holmes had stirred slightly, his eyes, I thought, brightening as he strained to hear even a snippet of the conversation at our front door.
A few moments later, the door closed and the familiar footsteps of Mrs. Hudson could then be heard upon the stairs to our rooms. Holmes, I saw, had slipped his dressing gown from his shoulders and moved a little way forwards in his chair. The gentle knock on our sitting room door announced our landlady and, as she entered, I saw that she was holding before her a buff-coloured envelope.
Holmes had taken all this in with a single glance and had risen, striding towards her, asking, “I hope the government messenger bringing mail from my brother did not greatly disturb you, Mrs. Hudson?”
Mrs. Hudson smiled as she passed the envelope to him. “Oh, no, Mr. Holmes. I was only just beginning to crochet some small jam-pot covers for your breakfast tray,”
Holmes smiled in return, announcing, “As always, Mrs. Hudson, I look forward to seeing the fruits of your labour.”
Mrs. Hudson beamed, closing the door behind her. I frowned and strained to observe the envelope in Holmes’s hand. “As the afternoon post has already been delivered, I appreciate that any further post would be brought by messenger... but knowing it to be from Mycroft? It is beyond me, Holmes.”
Holmes smiled thinly. “The envelope is clearly one from Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, given its distinctive colour and size.” I pursed my lips and let Holmes continue. “I had the advantage, Watson, as from my chair I was able to discern not one, but two, wax seals upon its reverse.”
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X Page 21
