Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 9

by Marvin Kaye

  “Please, sit down gentlemen,” I said. “I assume, in spite of your doubts, that you heeded my request and had the coroner sequester the body.”

  “Well,” Lestrade admitted sheepishly, “Seeing as you have been a help to Scotland Yard from time to time, I did as you asked but I hope that we can put this matter quickly to rest as I am a busy man, you know.”

  “Quite. Well, seeing as we have some luxury of time before tomorrow’s autopsy we can discuss the matter rationally.”

  Watson interrupted, “You were there, Holmes. It was plain that Hubert John was crushed at the bottom of the scrum. Death would have been unpleasant but, mercifully, it would have been quick.”

  “Surely the doctor would recognize a traumatic death,” Lestrade added. “Spent enough time in Burma…”

  “Afghanistan,” Watson corrected, “The Northumberland Fusiliers…”

  “…Afghanistan, to know what’s what.”

  “Often we see but fail to observe,” I cautioned. “Let us examine the facts. A pile of men fall upon one another in the midst of a rough and tumble sporting event. A man is found dead at the bottom of the heap and the first, natural, conclusion is that he was crushed by the combined weight of the throng. We had the unique opportunity to be on hand at the moment of demise and observe the corpus delicti. All the evidence is before us—we just need to be able to deduce from the facts the one true conclusion.” My guests looked at one another, thinking I had taken leave of my senses, poor chaps. “In your experience, Watson, what are the mechanisms of death produced by a crushing injury?”

  Watson stroked his mustache as he thought. “Well, if one is struck in the head, say by a hammer or club, the caving cranium may cause bleeding about the brain…but that doesn’t seem to be the case here, there was no indication of skull fracture. An injury to the spinal cord in the neck will cause instant paralysis.”

  “Yet we know that this could not have happened,” I interposed.

  “Why not?” Lestrade and Watson answered simultaneously.

  “In the excitement, you may be forgiven, or you may have forgotten, Watson, that you attempted to revive Hubert by means of assisted respiration and coronary massage—therefore, he was not instantly dead from a snapped neck, he was failing but not quite dead when you tended to him.”

  “You are correct, Holmes,” Watson said. “I had completely forgotten. I suppose then, death came from crushing of the chest. A fractured rib could puncture the lung causing a dangerous bleed or pocket of air to collect around the heart, or,” he added quickly, “he may have asphyxiated.”

  “If he had asphyxiated, he would have had an ashen or blue pallor, would he not?” Lestrade asked, pleased with his observation.

  “Quite so. Bravo, inspector, your tenuous grasp of the obvious still holds. In the situation you describe, Watson, a filling of the chest cavity with blood or leaking air, what are the physical signs?”

  “The side of the injury will be dull to percussion, the trachea will deviate away from the side of the injury, escaping air will enter the interstices of the soft tissues and the skin will swell, crackle, and crunch to palpation like a piece of toast.”

  A look of surprised realization came over my friend’s face, which was sufficient for all present to indicate that none of these signs were present on the victim.

  “Well, it would appear that we all have work to do,” I said. “Monday, then, gentlemen, I suggest that we meet at the morgue and attend the autopsy. You will be so kind as to send word of the time of the inquest?”

  Lestrade had removed a notebook from his breast pocket and was writing furiously “What?” he muttered, brow furrowed, looking up. “Oh, yes, certainly.”

  “I might further suggest that you obtain a list of all the members of both teams at the game today and make subtle inquiries as to why anyone would wish Hubert John dead.”

  Lestrade held up one finger in acknowledgement as he wrote. When finished, he turned abruptly and left, forgetting his coat.

  The laboratory and morgue, which to the public may seem places of macabre machinations, are as a second home to the doctor and scientist who forge their many happy relations with both the living and the dead. Only from the study of the dead can much be gleaned about the living. In fact, Watson and I had first made acquaintance in the lab at St. Bart’s during my study of the nature of the corpuscles of the blood. While the strict maintenance of a detached clinicism is necessary for our pathological investigation, it is perhaps much to ask when the subject for study on the slab is an acquaintance. And so I found the experience of witnessing the autopsy of Hubert John could cloud Watson’s judgment (although he must have witnessed the death of comrades in Afghanistan—tasked with repairing what war had torn apart—I suspect that even a seasoned veteran would have little experience in the willful post mortem dissection of someone he knew). The work of the office of the coroner was, at best, erratic, and seeing as an extra medical opinion could do no harm, I took the liberty of wiring Watson’s friend Dr Arthur Conan Doyle, and requested he meet our party at the morgue. The robust fellow was waiting for us when we arrived.

  “Arthur,” Watson said, obviously glad to see a familiar face in front of the house of death, “what an odd coincidence.”

  “No coincidence, John,” Doyle said, embracing his friend warmly, “I’m here at the request of your friend, Mr. Holmes. Naturally, I read the sad news in yesterday’s paper and came right away. Besides, I have been eager to meet the man about whom you have told me so much.” Doyle extended his hand to me. “An honour to meet you, Mr. Holmes. John has permitted me to read some of the accounts of your cases. Quite stunning. I fancy myself something of a writer, but I have already contacted some publishers on Watson’s behalf. There is some interest in publishing his stories; although, I have to admit some of the powers of observation he describes seem a bit…”

  “Farfetched?” I ventured. “Yes, I fear that Watson has a gift for the dramatic. I’ve read a few drafts of his accounts of my cases—too much chasing of criminals and not enough of the process of detection.” I checked my watch, noting that Lestrade, as usual, was late.

  “In my studies at Edinburgh I had two professors, Doctors Bell and Cristinson, who made some astounding demonstrations using diagnostic forensics. Quite extraordinary,” Doyle said.

  I scanned the street unsuccessfully for signs of Lestrade. “Watson, Doctor Doyle was only at his surgery briefly today.”

  “He’s quite right,” Doyle admitted. “How…?”

  “Quite elementary, Doctor,” I said. “Once receiving my missive, you, no doubt, left in haste to join us. The whiskers on the side of your face are incompletely shaven and a bit of dry shaving soap has congealed in your ear. As I sent the telegram late in the morning, you, therefore, must have been doing something before your morning toilet, which would hardly include going to your medical practice ungroomed—morning exercise comes to mind; Watson mentioned you are fond of cricket but there would have been scant time for a match to conclude this early in the day—tennis, then seems more likely as bits of clay still cling to your stockings. After tennis, you felt a strain in your right shoulder, an awkward service or overhead shot I should think, and on the way home you stopped at your surgery to get some liniment as evidenced by the distinct odour of camphor and wintergreen, which I noticed when shaking your hand, accompanied by the unmistakable wince of pain in your shoulder when I shook it.”

  “Astounding!” Doyle said as Watson flushed with pride.

  “Ah, Lestrade, nice of you to join us.”

  “Sorry, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade said, out of breath, “Been rushing about all morning, taking down as many of the rugby players’ statements as possible.” He acknowledged the doctors and led us into the laboratory, signing in with the duty officer who granted us entry to the building. We proceeded down a narrow stairway to the basement morgue where the autopsy was already in progress. Henderson, a good man, had already entered the chest cavity and as Watson app
roached, thoughtfully ordered his assistant to cover Hubert John’s face with a cloth.

  “Mr Holmes,” Henderson said, “I am thankful for your interest in this case. Curious. Most curious.” He held up one finger spotted in congealed blood and he reached into the chest cavity and conducted the removal of the heart. He turned the organ over in his hand for us to examine. “There is no significant evidence of enlargement to indicate a likely coronary.” He placed the heart on a nearby bench and split it like an apple with a deft stroke of the scalpel. “The muscle tissue appears intact, the vessels show no abnormality.” He shook his head.

  “And I take it you found no blood or sign of a collapsed lung when you examined the chest,” I stated.

  “No, sir. You are quite correct. I admit, I was astounded to find the heart and lungs intact, as the description of the events of death were described as a crush injury during a rugby match.”

  “Curious. Damn curious,” Doyle said. “Then, Dr Henderson, what is your diagnosis of the probable cause of death?”

  “Did anyone know if the man was ill in the days prior to the event?” Henderson asked.

  Lestrade spoke up. “I have interviewed his colleagues and teammates and all have informed me that he was in the most robust health.”

  “Then the most probable diagnosis would be a rupture of a brain aneurysm or embolus,” Henderson concluded matter-of-factly, wiping his hands on his apron. “It will take some time to take apart the head of course, messy stuff for the funeral director to reassemble, but I am happy to do it.”

  “No need for that at the moment,” I said. “But if it is acceptable to Inspector Lestrade, I ask you to refrain from signing a final report until we can clear up a matter or two.”

  “I have other work to do, I suppose I can take a break and come back to this later.” He turned to Lestrade who shrugged and scratched his head. Henderson motioned for the body to be covered completely.

  “Come, gentleman. Doctor Doyle, if you could come with us, I think your presence would prove invaluable to solve this little puzzle.” Doyle agreed that he would be delighted to assist, and I led the party back to the street to meet Lestrade’s waiting coach.

  Lestrade said, “As there was no ring on the body I assume Mr John was unmarried.”

  “Sportsmen often remove their jewelry before competition,” Doyle said.

  “But the ring would still have left a mark on the finger, so we must still assume that he was a bachelor. Where should I direct the driver, Mr Holmes?” Lestrade asked.

  “That would depend. We must answer the question of how Hubert died,” I pondered aloud.

  “Why aren’t we considering a brain embolism as Dr Henderson suggested?” Lestrade asked, removing his infernal notebook and commenced his scribbling.

  “What is the probability that the embolism should strike exactly at the beginning of the rugby match?” I asked Watson.

  “Slim, bloody slim.”

  “Couldn’t something have been, you know, jarred loose in his head during the play?” Lestrade asked.

  “Can’t say I’ve ever heard of that happening,” said Doyle.

  “Furthermore, in any suspicious death we must also ask: ‘Who would have benefited from the murder?’ Also: ‘By what means was the act committed?’” I gazed through the small window of the coach. “If we eliminate the possibility of embolism for now, and there is no obvious sign of brain injury, nor is there evidence of lung collapse, then the only possible cause of death could be a sudden abnormality of the rhythm of the heart.”

  “A fibrillation or sudden cardiac arrest might not be detectible on gross examination at autopsy,” Doyle agreed, his excitement rising.

  “What agents could bring about such sudden collapse of circulation?” I asked.

  “Toxins,” Doyle said, “Perhaps the sting of a wasp or the bite of an arachnid.”

  Lestrade’s head was pivoting rapidly back and forth between the speakers as the air grew heavy inside the crowded carriage. He was running out of pages in his notebook.

  “Too early in the year for such creatures,” I noted.

  “And, no doubt, Henderson would have seen evidence of such at the site of envenomation. Poison, then. Hubert John was poisoned,” Watson concluded, his grave statement halting Lestrade’s persistent pencil. “If there are no external marks of poison, such as would be found with a dart or arrow as the savages of the tropics are known to do.…”

  “Then,” Doyle interrupted, absently rubbing his sore shoulder, “the poison must have been ingested in some way!”

  “Lestrade, have your driver take us to the Blackheath Clubhouse,” I said.

  We arrived at the quiet rugby grounds, which only two days ago had been a hive of excitement and sorrow, and made our way through the clubhouse to the locker room. We found Jackson, the attendant, about his duties organizing the place for the next practice session.

  “Good to see you again, Dr Watson,” Jackson said. “How may I help you?”

  “Has anyone claimed Hubert John’s personal affects?”

  “I gave his wallet, watch, and clothing to the men from the coroner. All that remains are a few items in his locker. I haven’t had the heart to clear them out yet—a spare jersey, hair brush, towel, and a few toilet articles.” He gestured to John’s locker.

  “His family wouldn’t want them?” Lestrade asked.

  “Doubt it, Inspector,” Jackson said. “Mr John was a bachelor.” (Here Lestrade, pleased with having his deduction confirmed, eyed me with satisfaction as if he had solved the Ripper murders). “The only family I recall is a brother, an invalid, poor chap—polio, I think it was—and a sister who brought him to a match once. Very sad, really, one brother robust and running about the pitch, the other with no control over his arms or legs.”

  We approached the sad cubicle where the clothes hung with the limp pall of a flag at half mast. Lestrade removed a hairbrush from the shelf and reached for a small jar placed behind it. “I wouldn’t touch that, Lestrade,” I said. Lestrade withdrew his hand as if stung with an electric shock. “Dr Doyle, you have been invaluable in unlocking the key to this case,” I said, removing a kerchief from my pocket and using it to remove the jar.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Doyle said.

  “Yes, it makes sense,” Watson said.

  “What does? Nothing makes sense!” Lestrade exclaimed, taking a few involuntary steps backward with Jackson peering over his shoulder.

  “One method of poisoning is to ingest the compound, such as with strychnine or arsenic,” Watson said.

  “But the skin, Inspector,” Doyle rushed in, unable to avoid finishing the doctor’s conclusion, “is the largest organ of the body. And many toxins are readily absorbed through the dermis. A poison liniment would be a perfect vehicle!”

  “Lord, have mercy,” Jackson said. “Mr John did complain of a backache this week and he applied the liniment to his sore muscles before the game. I saw him do it.”

  “Poisoned ointment,” Lestrade said, shaking his head.

  “The next question we must ponder is: ‘Who would have something to gain by Hubert’s demise?’” I put before the committee. “In your inquiries, Lestrade, did Hubert have any enemies?”

  “He was well-liked by his teammates.”

  “I’ll vouch for that,” Jackson said.

  “I also inquired at his club and place of business,” Lestrade said, flipping through his notebook. “No one seemed to harbour any ill will.” Lestrade suddenly looked up, struck with a thought. “Maybe it was the brother! That’s the ticket—he was jealous that he couldn’t do the things Hubert could and wanted revenge.”

  “The final element to our questions, as you must know as an officer of the law, Lestrade, is to add motive, opportunity, and means of committing the crime. The killer must have had the opportunity to commit the act and I doubt his paralyzed brother would have been able to execute the heinous task. Jackson, do you by chance recall the name of Hubert’s sister?” Jacks
on thought for a moment, “Yes, I do remember, a pleasant lady…Mrs Lamson.”

  “You have been most helpful, Jackson,” I said. “Dr Doyle, if I am not mistaken, we are not far from your surgery. Might we impose upon you to make use of your rooms for our investigation?”

  “By all means,” Doyle said.

  Conan Doyle opened his modest surgery where a second-hand desk and a fine layer of dust over his clinical bench suggested a medical practice that was far from busy. A servant, happy for some occupation of the vacant rooms, offered tea, to which Watson and Lestrade readily accepted, needing some restorative against the trying development of events.

  “Do you have a London directory, Dr Doyle?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course. Daphne, bring it at once, with the tea.”

  As the maid returned with the booklet and tea, I set out the jar of liniment on the desk. Removing the lid, I detected the peculiar odour I had scented on the body when it was removed to the locker room from the field. “Dr Doyle, do you possess tincture of atropine or belladonna?”

  “Yes, of course. I have both.” He removed two vials from a rack of chemicals.

  “Excellent.” I took a small spatula and extracted a small sample of liniment from the jar. “Watson, kindly pour Inspector Lestrade a cup of tea, won’t you? Dr Doyle, if you would be so kind as to prepare a hypodermic of both the belladonna and atropine; I venture you may find them presently invaluable.” Doyle raised an eyebrow and did as he was asked. “Inspector, kindly consult the directory and see if a Mrs Lamson resides in Cheltenham.” Lestrade rested his cup on the bench and paged through the directory. While he was thus occupied, I removed a small cube of sugar from the dish, applied the spatula to it, and dropped the laced sweet into the policeman’s tea. Watson and Doyle stood aghast.

  “Here it is, Mr Holmes: a Dr George Henry and Mrs Kitty Lamson, 38 Malvern Road, Cheltenham, Gloucestershire.”