Sherlock Holmes and The Folk Tale Mysteries

by Gayle Lange Puhl

  “Custennin wasn’t drugged. He had followed my later instructions carefully. He poured away the hot drink and pretended to sleep. It took a great deal of fortitude to sit quietly and watch his faithless wife drive off with her beguiling burglar and nearly half of his flock, but that was his choice. As the wagon rumbled down the hill he stepped forward and picked up the wedding ring his wife had pulled from her finger and flung to the ground. We stood on the steps together and watched them reach the main road and turn north.

  “She never liked the farm,” Magnus Custennin said sadly to me as the sound of the wheels died away. “It was too far away from the excitements of the village. Jack Climber was one of her suitors. She must have accepted me only because Climber had no money. He lived with his mother in a small cottage at the edge of the village. I remember he was a wild and foolish boy, full of tricks and deceptions.

  “What will you do?” I asked him.

  “She did not love me, I see,” the tall man replied, turning the little ring over and over in his massive palm. “I did love her, but now I do not know if she could love anyone, even Jack Climber. All her love is for herself. She was so young and so beautiful! Oh, let him have her! They belong together. He has not really hurt me. Neither of them knows how to care for geese so over time the birds won’t profit them much. They cannot come back to the village after this and when the money runs out both of them will have to go to work. Or he may abandon her, as she has abandoned me.”

  “The light from the open door gleamed upon his figure. The normal sadness Nature had etched upon my client’s face was accentuated by the thoughts and emotions that now permeated his entire being. Before my eyes Magnus Custennin seemed to grow older, to loose strength, yes, even to shrink in stature as he watched with helpless yet forgiving eyes as his wife disappeared into the darkness with her lover.

  “I left him there, Watson, standing on the steps of his farmhouse with the shining wedding ring in his hand. I later heard that he prospered with his geese that laid the unusual golden-hued eggs. He finally sold out and went to America, where he opened a successful chain of bakeries. Of Opal Custennin and Jack Climber I never heard another word.”

  I lay back against the pillows and closed my eyes, sleep already overtaking my senses. As Sherlock Holmes took up his violin and played me something soft and melodious, I dreamt of giants and beanstalks, of golden eggs and music boxes and a magic violin that soothed away the cares of anyone who listened to it.

  The Case of the Silent Client

  Early in my association with my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes I discovered that he regarded physical exercise for exercise’s sake as a waste of time. The very thought of lifting dumbbells in a repetitive manner, in running in circles for a predetermined length of time or distance or throwing a heavy medicine ball back and forth with others was abhorrent to his very soul. Yet he kept himself in prime physical form using a system he had developed for himself. One element was readily visible to anyone who knew him, however. Sherlock Holmes liked to take long walks.

  The wound I sustained at the fatal battle of Maiwand, which was severe enough to endanger my life for months and which resulted in my being invalided out of the Army and sent back to England did not always allow me to accompany Holmes on his rambles during our first months spent together at our rooms in Baker Street. It was only during the year of this adventure that my walks with him had become a routine part of our joint existence.

  The case of which I write started as a simple question, and then turned into one of the most urgent and unusual problems Holmes ever faced. It happened at a time when he had not had a new client in over two weeks. For days he had confined himself to our rooms until I was sickened by the resulting dense tobacco-laden atmosphere. I was fearful that his enforced idleness was about to bring out certain unpleasant habits that I would be forced to witness. So after an unusually early breakfast one morning I proposed a walk.

  Thus it was that we found ourselves standing across the street in front of the great entrance to St. Bart’s Hospital at late morning on a sunny day in June. We had walked for miles through busy London, both absorbed in our own thoughts, until we happened to pause for a moment outside the famous building. I was looking up at the statue of King Henry VIII that stood in a large niche over the entrance when my attention was attracted by a familiar figure that emerged from the archway of the old hospital.

  “Watson! John Watson! Wait!” the man shouted as he neared us. I was surprised to recognize young Stamford, my former dresser, who had introduced me to Sherlock Holmes in the laboratory of St. Bart’s years before.

  “Stamford! How are you? Surely you remember Sherlock Holmes?” I exclaimed as we shook hands. He turned and grasped my friend’s hand with delight.

  “Of course I do! Hello, Holmes! What a piece of luck finding the two of you right on my doorstep like this, so to speak! A new patient has just been admitted and presents a problem for the staff. Any assistance you can offer will be greatly appreciated.”

  Holmes eyed the young doctor in his customary way as we walked into the old hospital. “I see congratulations are in order, Stamford. How does your wife like your flat on Montague Place?”

  Our friend stopped short and stared at Holmes blankly. “What a start you have given me, Holmes! I had nearly forgotten how you work. How the devil did you know that I married and that Violet had agreed to start our life together in my old rooms?”

  “It is so simple I hesitate to explain, Doctor. You wear a wedding ring on your left hand, a sure sign of marital union. The letter peeping from the pocket of your coat bears a Montague Place return address, written in a feminine hand. Your wife gave it to you this morning with directions to slip it into the post on your way to work, but you forgot. That indicates that you have been married for over a year, for no new bridegroom would neglect such a simple chore for his beloved.”

  Stamford shook his head ruefully. “You are right on all counts, sir. I’m glad to see your powers are as sharp as ever. But I may have a problem here that even you can’t solve. Follow me, gentlemen.”

  Young Stamford led us through old corridors familiar to me, paved with stone and sporting dun-colored doors set in whitewashed walls, to the part of the hospital that housed the charity wards. I cannot say that it was a cheerful area, but the ceilings were high, sunlight streamed in through freshly-cleaned windows and the walls had been painted a soft green not long before. Busy nurses clad in grey uniforms and spotless starched white aprons with stiff coifs over their hair glided between single iron beds, tending to the patients under their care. In the men’s ward we stopped before an bed in the far corner, by a tall window, where a figure lay quietly under white sheets. At Stamford’s arrival a woman dressed in nursing garb handed him a chart from the foot of the bed and left us.

  “You may look at the chart, Watson, if you wish, but I fear it won’t tell you much. This man was admitted yesterday evening, brought in by two men and a constable. He had been found in a doorway on a nearby street. The men were visitors from out of town. He carried no identification. The policeman had never seen him before. I examined him and determined that he had suffered a fit of apoplexy. He must have collapsed in the street. However, it’s been impossible to determine anything more about him, because he seems unable to speak.”

  I handed the chart to Holmes and bent over the patient, who was clad in a hospital shift. He looked to be about sixty-five years old. His worn features were creased and wrinkled, and his nose rose up from his sunken cheeks like a sharp rock in the sea. A shock of white hair spread over the pillow, and a pair of veined, knobby hands lay on the coverlet. I could see as he lay on the bed that he was above the average height and very thin. As I touched him gently in my examination he opened his eyes. They were a deep blue and gave every sign of intelligence and attention.

  “My name is Doctor Watson,” I told him. “What is your name? Is there an
yone we can notify about your condition?”

  Slowly he shook his head and his eyes closed. He was silent as I asked more questions and soon I stopped. I rose and turned to the others.

  “The fit doesn’t appear to have been severe. I detect a weakness on his left side. He can hear. But it appears that the stroke he suffered has affected his ability to speak.”

  “He’s been offered broth but only takes a few sips, refusing the rest of the bowl. The nurses have kept a pan of it warm on a gas flame in their room and try to get him to take a little every hour. They don’t report much success,” said Stamford. “What do you think, Holmes?”

  My friend peered intently into the patient’s face and then carefully lifted and turned over each hand to expose the palms. He spoke quietly to the man. “My name is Sherlock Holmes. I wish to help you. Can you tell me anything about yourself?”

  The man on the bed slowly opened his eyes, looked at my friend, then lowered his eyelids and shook his head. Stamford frowned and stepped forward.

  “I think that is enough. We are tiring him. I’ll come back later, sir. Meanwhile, try to eat.” We walked far enough away to be out of his hearing.

  “I find your case most interesting, Stamford,” said Sherlock Holmes. “I will be glad to help identify your patient. Please show me his clothes and any personal items he had with him when he was admitted.”

  As we walked through a hallway to a nearby room where such items were kept, I glanced at Holmes’ face. The game was indeed afoot. I rejoiced to see again the eager eyes, the pursed lips, the determined set to the jaw that betrayed the fact that his great mind was again at work, idle days forgotten, the darker thoughts to which he was so prone set aside in the excitement of a new puzzle to solve.

  From a shelf Stamford brought down a wooden box, which he set upon a great bare table in the center of the room. Holmes brought out his magnifying glass, which he always carried, and carefully examined everything it contained.

  The box held no personal items but a ragged set of clothes, once of sound but rough construction, now far gone in usefulness. There was a tattered set of underclothes, a greasy cloth cap, thick hand-knitted socks bearing signs of long wear, worn brown boots and a pair of old leather gloves, marked with small punctures, scrapes and cuts. Holmes held up a threadbare collarless shirt, grey and frayed about the cuffs and seams. Next he brought out a pair of trousers, just as worn, with much wear visible on the knees and equipped with a frayed set of braces. The final item in the box was an old patched coat, made of black cloth. Holmes examined each item, paying special attention to the outer clothing. As he examined the coat he pulled a slip of buff cardboard from an inner pocket.

  “Aha! What do you make of this, Watson?”

  “It is a pawn ticket.”

  “A most useful thing to find in the pocket of an unknown man! Is there anything else in his pockets? Alas, no. Well, gentlemen, what have we here? The patient is an old man, from the working classes, poor and malnourished, but known to a woman, who put these patches on his coat. Note the fine stitches, the sign of a practiced hand, yet not quite the finished work of a professional tailor, who would not patch his coat at all. The socks are much-mended, but in a cruder manner, as though by a man who taught himself how to repair them. The boots are creased across the toes, showing that the user did much kneeling. The knees of the trousers back up that fact, and the fraying of the cloth indicates that the surface on which the knees rested was hard, such as wood or stone. The gloves are most interesting. Note the numerous cuts and scrapes. Some of these punctures penetrate right through the thick leather. The punctures come in semi-circular sets and within a small radius. They are the bites of a little animal, like a rodent. They match the marks he bears on his fingers. The grit on the clothing comes from the vicinity of Whitechapel. All the clothing is of ancient British manufacture. So here we have a man, a resident of long standing in Whitechapel making a poor living that forces him to do a lot of kneeling on hard surfaces. The scrapes and scratches on his gloves come from manipulating sharp wire catches and the punctures from handling small live rodents. In short, he is a rat catcher. Yet he carried no traps when he was brought into the hospital. Why? Because he had pawned them earlier, hence the ticket, probably in order to buy food.”

  “Then why would he refuse the broth now?” asked Stamford.

  Holmes turned to me. “That question may be better answered by Watson here.”

  I considered the problem a moment, then an idea came to me. “After such a hard life, would it not be surprising that the man has sunk into a deep melancholy and has given up? That stroke may have been the final straw. He has lost all hope and sees no reason to sustain his existence. Refusing food will only hasten the end.”

  Stamford shook his head. “Poor fellow. How can we help him?”

  “Watson and I will take this pawn ticket and follow where it leads us. You must keep an eye on your patient and urge the nurses to continue with their feeding schedule. Speak encouraging words to him and try to make him understand that every life has worth. We will make haste.”

  Stamford agreed and left us to go back to the charity ward. As Holmes and I made our way out of the venerable building, my friend murmured approvingly of the young doctor.

  “I am gratified to find that Stamford’s early character trait of kindness has not been withered by the harsh scenes he must have witnessed as a hospital doctor. It was his willingness to help others that led him to introduce you to me, Watson. Our association these past years owes much to that young man.”

  “You are right, Holmes. I’m glad we can return the favor by helping him with this patient.”

  A quick hansom brought us to the bustling business district of Whitechapel Road, where many shops catering to the plain people of the area gave a semblance of prosperity to the well-traveled street. It was just behind these brick buildings lining the Road where the crowded lanes and ill-lit alleys of the district began, twisting between crumbling brick tenements and rotten wooden structures and where the majority of the unfortunate residents of Whitechapel lived. There were honest men among them, but life was so precarious that many found it expedient to make their living by any means possible. It was among these residents that we sought information about our silent client.

  After dismissing our cab Sherlock Holmes stood on the pavement and examined the scrap of cardboard with his magnifying glass. A moment later he led the way down one of the many side streets into a maze of old lanes that finally led us to a small corner shop.

  It was in a narrow alley, the entryway tiny and the window made up of many thick hand-blown squares of glass. The three balls hanging in a cluster overhead drooped on their iron stalk. When we pushed open the door and entered, a canary in a wicker cage in the back corner sang a few notes, and then lapsed into silence. The shelves displayed a typical assortment of items brought to pawn by lower-class clients, yet there was an air of neglect in the crowded room that lingered like a musty smell. The place showed its age with stained floorboards and a smoke-darken ceiling. Even the pawnshop owner, a short old woman wearing a black dress who rose from an elderly armchair to greet us, had the appearance of being sprinkled in grey bits of the past. The long counter, divided into three stations by high wooden slabs, showed little signs of recent use.

  “Welcome to my shop, gentlemen! How may I help you?” The shopkeeper’s squeaky voice did not match her rotund frame. Her bright beady eyes swept us up and down. Holmes brought out the buff ticket and placed it on the counter.

  “Is this ticket from your establishment?”

  The little woman picked it up and turned it over to examine the back. Giving Holmes a sharp glance, she reached under the counter and brought out an ancient ledger book. She opened it to a particular page and ran an arthritic finger down a list of handwritten numbers.

  “Yes, this is my ticket. Where did you ge
t it? I have never seen either of you in my life and I know you never pawned anything here.”

  “My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my friend Dr. Watson. I am looking for information about a man and this ticket tells me you know him. He pawned his rat traps here. He is tall, old and thin, with white hair and blue eyes, dressed in a shabby black coat and brown boots. What can you tell me of him?”

  “Seems like you know everything about him already. I’ve heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I’ve heard you play fair with people who have done no wrong. Old Willie Piper owned those rodent traps fair and square. I was surprised when he brought them in, but he was insistent and since we had known him for so long I gave him the small amount he wanted.”

  “’We’?”

  “My husband Theodore Tillotson and I had this business here for over thirty years. There are living quarters upstairs. My Theodore died two years ago and frankly I lost interest in the shop. I kept it shuttered until only a month ago since we had no children to carry on. My husband left me well enough off so I didn’t have to continue the business, but I missed the company it brought in. I decided to keep it open just a few hours a day, but not to fuss. A few old customers have returned. I’m afraid that some former clients have switched to my competitors, a mean and untrustworthy lot, who would shortchange a widow with six children. Not me. Not Adaline Tillotson. I have standards and a good name to uphold.”