“Your reasoning seems very sound,” I remarked. “I am fascinated!”
“Thank you,” said Holmes. “Now, when Falk came to examine the body, and identified it as that of Percival Slattery, he informed us that Slattery had been born and bred in Australia. This instantly strengthened my theory, for Claydon had remarked that the woman who met him at his front door, although well spoken, had had an accent that he had been unable to place. Perhaps, I conjectured, her accent was an Australian one, and perhaps she had known Slattery when they both lived there. If so, she had probably given the watch to him then. As I considered this, the meaning of the photograph of the child on the piano became all at once very clear to me. There was, if you recall, a pencilled inscription on the mount of the photograph, which read ‘Victoria, O Victoria’. This appeared to be an ejaculation or lament of some kind, although the significance was not clear. But what if the ‘O’ in the inscription was not an ejaculatory ‘O’, as it appeared to be, but had been intended as an abbreviation of the word ‘Of’? I examined the photograph closely through my lens and, sure enough, immediately after the ‘O’ was the very faintest of pencil marks, a mere tick, but one which had clearly been intended as an apostrophe. The child’s name was therefore Victoria, and, evidently in a moment of whimsy, someone, probably the child’s mother, had inscribed the photograph ‘Victoria of Victoria’, Victoria being, of course, one of the colonies of Australia. That, therefore, was where the child had been living at the time the photograph was taken.
“But the presence of this mysterious and previously unseen photograph in the room where Slattery was met by Rosemary Quinn’s sister could, realistically, mean only one thing: that the child was his. The presence, furthermore, of the old picture of a church suggested that something to do with a wedding was the issue between them. Either he had married her and then deserted her, or he had perhaps jilted her at the altar rail. In either event, the whole case seemed now as clear as crystal, and I was able to conjecture – accurately as it turned out – the reason Falk had been invited there, and what it was that had caused Slattery to have a seizure. The only task that remained was to unsettle the housekeeper’s composure, so that when I mentioned her sister she would already be in a nervous state, be unable to conceal her surprise, and would very likely give herself away. She herself had presented me with the opportunity to ask unsettling questions by her somewhat vague description of the telegram she claimed to have received, and its unlikely contents.
‘‘Of course, logically speaking, if the telegram really had included a reference to the tobacco jar on the mantelpiece, it would, although surprising, not necessarily have proved anything one way or the other against the woman. But I perceived as soon as I questioned her on the point that she herself could see that it sounded distinctly unlikely. At that moment, her edifice of untruth began to collapse about her, and the rest you know.”
I stopped, turned to my companion and held out my hand. “Congratulations!” said I warmly.
“What is this?” returned he with a puzzled smile, shaking my hand.
“Your conduct of the case was exemplary,” I explained. “I have known you some years now, Holmes, and have seen you solve a good many cases – many, no doubt, of greater difficulty than this one. But I don’t know that I have ever seen a more accomplished and workmanlike demonstration of the art of detection!”
“Well, thank you, Watson,” said my friend, and I could see that he was quite affected by my sincere approbation. “It is kind of you to say so. Now, here is something else for you to consider,” he continued in a lighter tone, “as we traverse these seemingly endless streets of south London. Many of them are not entirely unattractive – indeed, Kendal Terrace itself is only wanting a tree or two to make it a very pleasant little thoroughfare – but they are, in the main, somewhat banal and unromantic. That can scarcely be denied. Is it not strange, then, that in such unpromising terrain should bloom such brilliant and fascinating flowers as these cases, which it is my delight to investigate, and yours to record? For it cannot be denied that the dull grey streets of London present the finest field there is for those who take pleasure in such things. It is as if Nature must always find a way of compensating, just as, in the densest of tropical jungles, so I am informed, where the trees grow so closely together that the ground is in constant shade, there flourish the brightest and most spectacular blooms that nature can show.”
“It seems a somewhat fanciful notion,” I remarked. “What about sparrows? The sparrow is undoubtedly the most common bird in cities and towns, and should, therefore, on your theory, be surpassingly beautiful. But whatever other good points it may have, the sparrow is undoubtedly the dullest-looking bird imaginable.”
Holmes laughed, in that strange, silent way that was peculiar to him.
“You are a good fellow, Watson,” said he at length. “You anchor me to reality when my flights of fancy threaten, like a runaway balloon, to carry me off to the dangerous reaches of the upper atmosphere! But here is a cab, trundling empty back to town!” he continued, stepping to the edge of the pavement and holding up his hand. “Let us take a ride to the Strand. I understand that a new restaurant has recently opened there, of which very favourable reports have been given!”
A HAIR’S BREADTH
THE WEEKS that immediately succeeded my marriage were a hectic time for me. As every married man will know from his own experience, so much that is new must be attended to then, and all the careful planning and preparation one has done beforehand inevitably turns out to have been either inadequate or misguided. For some weeks, therefore, I had seen nothing whatever of my friends. Indeed, so dramatically did the free time at my disposal seem to have shrunk since my bachelor days, when I had shared rooms with Sherlock Holmes in Baker Street, that I had scarcely had a moment to consider anything beyond the immediate concerns of my new household. I certainly did not expect to see Holmes for some time, and was surprised, therefore, as I stood one afternoon upon the kerb in Holborn, to hear through the noise and bustle about me that familiar, somewhat strident voice calling my name. It was a cold and wintry day, with a strong wind blowing, and I had been preoccupied with finding a cab. Now I turned to see Holmes standing at my elbow.
“My dear Watson!” said he, clapping me upon the shoulder. “It is good to see you looking so well. Your recent translation from solitary bachelorhood to the joys of married life has clearly been a success! You have the air of one happy with his lot!”
“And you, Holmes,” I returned with a smile, “you, too, appear in good spirits.”
“Well, well! I, too, have my little triumphs and pleasures! Just three weeks ago I was pleased to drink a toast in your honour, Watson, and to congratulate you upon your happiness. Now it is for you to congratulate me!”
“My dear fellow! I had no idea!”
“We have been regrettably out of touch lately,” said he with a shake of the head. “But it is true. Congratulations are in order! I have solved the Yelverton murder case!”
“What!” I cried.
“I can see that I have surprised you!”
I laughed. “You amaze me, Holmes! But I had no idea you were involved.”
“I was consulted at a late stage, at the express request of Lady Yelverton’s nephew, when it was apparent that the police were making no progress whatever. I take it you have followed the case?”
“I could hardly have failed to do so. It has been impossible to pick up a newspaper in the last week without reading something of the matter. It is undoubtedly the most sensational crime of the year!”
“Certainly, in terms of the publicity it has received, although in itself it is really a very trifling affair.”
“And you have found the murderer, you say?”
My companion nodded. “Indeed. I am hoping to pay a call on him later this afternoon, at his lodgings.”
“He is not yet in custody, then?” I asked in surprise.
“No.”
“But you know
his whereabouts?”
“Precisely.”
“You have informed the police, no doubt?”
Holmes shook his head.
“Why ever not?” I cried in surprise. “Surely you must act quickly, before he has a chance to make his escape once more.”
“It is not quite so straightforward as you seem to imagine, Watson. I do not yet have all the evidence in my hands.”
“Evidence? But the case is as plain as a pikestaff! The man was practically seen to commit the crime!”
“Come, come,” said my companion, chuckling. “It is too cold a day to stand debating the matter on the pavement like this. You are having a busy day, I perceive.”
“That is true, but how—?”
“No matter. You know my methods, Watson! You have had one appointment already, this morning, and you have another one this afternoon. Can you break it?”
I shook my head. “I have to see a solicitor in Cheapside in ten minutes,” I replied, glancing at my watch.
“But no doubt you could make the appointment a brief one?”
“If necessary.”
“Good. I am meeting Inspector Lanner in Brown’s Coffee Shop on Ludgate Hill, at three o’clock. If you could be there by that time, Watson, you might find it an interesting experience!”
I drove to Cheapside with a thrill of excitement rising in my breast. The Yelverton case had been the single topic of conversation on everyone’s lips for the past week. That I might be able to play a part in the matter, if only as a spectator, sent the blood coursing through my veins. The meeting with Mr Scrimgeour, the solicitor, which had been dominating my thoughts for days, now struck me as a mundane matter indeed, and little more than an irksome distraction. I was determined to get it over with as quickly as possible, in order to get to the meeting place by three o’clock.
In the cab, as it made its slow way through the dense traffic along Holborn, and in the solicitor’s anteroom, I turned over and over in my mind all that I had read of the Yelverton case. The chief difficulty in the matter, as I understood it, was not so much in discovering who had committed the terrible crime, as in tracking down the culprit, for he had so far defeated all attempts to find him.
The facts of the matter were simple enough. Lady Yelverton had been a delicate old lady of seventy-odd, living alone quietly in the house in South Audley Street in which she had lived for more than fifty years, with a large staff of servants, some of whom were almost as old as their mistress. She had been widowed for nearly twenty years and had suffered ill-health for almost as long. Two years previously she had been very ill, and for several months her life had been despaired of, but much to everyone’s surprise, she had at length recovered. It was said that the gratitude she felt to her physician, one Dr Illingworth, was so great that she had subsequently included a substantial bequest to him in her will. But though her health had recovered, her illness had left her somewhat debilitated, with both her hearing and her eyesight, which had in any case been failing for years, severely weakened. As a consequence of this decline in her faculties, she rarely went out, but was always pleased to receive visitors, and offered a warm and hospitable welcome to everyone. Her visitors were not numerous, however, for many of her old friends had died, or were, like Lady Yelverton herself, somewhat frail, and she had but one surviving near relation, Mr Basil Thorne, a gentleman of about forty, the only son of her late husband’s younger brother. A man well known in London society, he would occasionally call by at his aunt’s house to bring her the latest news and gossip of London life, which she was always pleased to hear.
In recent years, she had taken a particular interest in charitable causes, and acted as honorary patron for several of them. Though debarred by her frailty from taking an active part in charitable work, her financial donations were said to be munificent. This, then, was the quiet household into which brutal violence had erupted in such a startling manner.
About three months previously, an elderly gentleman by the name of Quinlivan, with an untidy mane of white hair and a beard to match, had paid his first call upon Lady Yelverton. Her servants, noting the sheaf of pamphlets in his grasp, and his odd, jerky way of talking, had marked him down as some kind of eccentric, and had been disinclined to admit him to the house. Upon receiving his card, however, which indicated that his interests were charitable and religious in character, she had asked for him to be shown into her drawing room. There he had stayed for an hour, in deep discussion with Lady Yelverton, and it was evident that he had made a favourable impression upon her, for she had informed the servants afterwards that he would be returning at the same time the following week, and was to be admitted without demur.
After four weeks, the frequency of his visits increased occasionally to twice a week. None of the servants was ever present during these interviews, but it was clear from the sound of Quinlivan’s raised voice that he was a voluble and impassioned speaker. After each visit he would leave behind him a fresh religious tract, but although the language and sentiments contained in these were sometimes excessively vehement, they appeared unexceptionable. Nevertheless, Lady Yelverton’s old housekeeper, Mrs Edwards, became worried that her mistress was falling too much under Quinlivan’s influence, for Lady Yelverton had begun to lose interest in her other visitors. She therefore raised the matter in confidence with Basil Thorne, when next he called. He had previously been unaware of Quinlivan’s visits, for his aunt had mentioned the man but once, and then only in a passing remark which Thorne had not followed up. He was both surprised and concerned, therefore, to learn from Mrs Edwards that his aunt had lately become more withdrawn and silent, and generally less interested in the world about her. As delicately as he could, he raised the matter with his aunt at the first opportunity, but she brushed his remarks aside. The second time he mentioned the subject, a week later, she became, he said, quite angry, and forbade him from ever raising the matter again.
Having failed in this direction, then, and becoming increasingly concerned at the influence that this stranger appeared to be gaining over his aunt, Thorne determined to speak directly to the man upon his next visit, in order to form his own opinion of him. He therefore waited in a carriage in South Audley Street at the hour that Lady Yelverton’s servants believed Quinlivan would call, but his vigil proved fruitless, for the man never came at all that day. Twice this occurred, which made Thorne suspect that it was the presence of the carriage in the street which had deterred him, or that he had been forewarned in some other way. In either event, the implication as to his character was hardly reassuring, and Thorne therefore set about trying to discover anything he could of the man’s antecedents. Despite making enquiries, however, he had, at the time of the tragedy, made no progress in this direction either.
At about this time, Lady Yelverton’s domestic staff noted with alarm that the vehemence of Quinlivan’s manner was increasing with each visit. Lady Yelverton’s footman, Alfred King, a young relative of the housekeeper’s, who had twice lost positions through insolence, took it upon himself to speak to the man one day as he was leaving, informing him in no uncertain terms that he did not think it right that he should “go about shouting and agitating everyone”. Quinlivan responded in what was later described as an offensive and aggressive manner, whereupon the footman, well known for his short temper, struck the older man and knocked him to the floor. What might have happened next could only be conjectured, for at that moment Lady Yelverton herself appeared in the hallway. Informed of what had occurred, she at once gave the footman notice. He left the house the next day, words of bitter recrimination upon his lips.
One week after this incident came the dreadful event that so shocked all who read of it, and brought the name of Lady Yelverton and her quiet house in South Audley Street to national attention. It was a cold Tuesday afternoon, and Quinlivan had called and been shown directly into the drawing room, as usual. No sooner had the door closed behind him than his raised voice was heard, although no words could be discerne
d. After perhaps a minute, a complete silence descended, then the door of the room was opened abruptly and Quinlivan ran out, shouting angrily and incoherently at a maid, Susan Moore, who was in the hallway outside. She ran to the kitchen in terror, informing the other staff that Mr Quinlivan looked fit to kill someone. Anxious for the safety of her mistress, Mrs Edwards ascended at once to the drawing room. Receiving no answer to her knock, she opened the door and saw to her horror that her mistress lay slumped in her chair, her head and face a mass of blood. Of Quinlivan there was no sign, and it was clear that he had let himself out of the front door, for it stood open onto the street. Dr Illingworth was quickly summoned, and arrived within minutes, but pronounced Lady Yelverton dead almost at once.
This, then, was the crime that had taken place in South Audley Street, as horrific and brutal a murder as could be imagined, made yet more monstrous by the frailty and kindliness of the victim. The cause of death was given as repeated blows from a blunt instrument, possibly a life preserver, and a warrant was at once issued for Quinlivan’s arrest. So universal were the shock and horror with which the crime was regarded that it was thought inconceivable that anyone would shield the criminal, and without such help, it was believed, a man of such distinctive appearance could not evade discovery for long. But the police were soon to learn that Quinlivan’s arrest and prosecution were not to be as straightforward as they had supposed, for several days’ enquiries produced no result, and he appeared to have vanished without trace.
I opened the Standard one morning to read that, acting on information they had received, the police had moved their search from London to Leicester. It was soon evident that their quarry had once again escaped the net, however, for I later read that the search had moved on to other places. Such was the state of the matter, so far as I and other newspaper readers were aware, on the day I ran across Sherlock Holmes in Holborn. It will be appreciated, then, how eager I was not to miss the appointment with Holmes and the police inspector. But Mr Scrimgeour, a slow and careful solicitor of the old school, unaware of the thoughts that were now uppermost in my mind, discoursed in his measured and guarded manner like a lumbering, low-geared piece of machinery, so that an interview of less than an hour seemed to my impatient mind practically interminable.
The Mammoth Book of the Lost Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes Page 9
