Sherlock Holmes and The Folk Tale Mysteries

by Gayle Lange Puhl

  “What?”

  “Holmes is working on the case. He doesn’t believe Piper is involved, but the police…”

  I was interrupted by the entrance into the ward of Inspector Lestrade and a burly constable. The Scotland Yard inspector bustled up to us and I introduced him to Stamford. Lestrade pointed at the still figure on the bed. “Dr. Stamford, is that is your patient, Willie Piper? I arrest him for the kidnapping of Charles and Stephen Sellars. Grimes, take him into custody.”

  The policemen made a move toward the bed, but Stamford stepped in front of him. “Wait a moment! Inspector, that is my patient and he is in very serious condition. I won’t have him manhandled, not even by Scotland Yard. He is quite weak and cannot walk. There is no need to move him. In fact, it would endanger his life.”

  Lestrade’s ferret-like face had glowed with victory when he entered but his manner turned belligerent at being thwarted in front of witnesses. “Doctor, who do you think you are? Don’t hinder the police or you’ll find yourself sharing a cell with Piper. Grimes, do your duty!”

  “Wait a bit, Lestrade,” I said. “The man is ill. He can’t be moved. Why not post a guard here until a police surgeon can assess him and give his medical opinion? You want him able to answer questions, don’t you? Drag him off in a carriage to prison now and he may not survive the night.”

  The inspector frowned at me, but finally admitted that clearly the suspect wasn’t going to escape in his present condition. He did insist that Piper’s wrist be handcuffed to the bed frame over Stamford’s protests. Grimes was posted as a guard and Lestrade announced that he would bring a police doctor to the ward first thing the following morning.

  Just as Lestrade was turning to go, another man came into the ward. He was above medium height and broad-shouldered, about forty years old and dressed in a somber suit. He carried a bowler hat in one hand and his blonde hair fell in a great thatch over his high forehead. His snapping pale blue eyes and the short blonde beard and mustache that covered most of his face didn’t hide the agitation that he was feeling at the sight of our little group.

  “Inspector Lestrade! Is what I hear the truth? You have found him? What did he say? Where are my boys?”

  Lestrade hastily introduced him to Stamford and me, but stopped him before he could approach the bed where Grimes stood guard.

  “Mr. Sellars, we have the suspect in custody. He is ill, but I will question him tomorrow. Meanwhile, you can help by answering one question. Can you identify this man as the Willie Piper that worked at your home as a rat catcher last week?”

  Sellars looked earnestly at the old man’s sleeping face. “Yes, that is he. I’ll swear to it. The monster!”

  “That is enough. Please leave, gentlemen,” said Stamford. “My patient must not be disturbed.” Rufus Sellars, Lestrade and I retreated through the halls of the old hospital to emerge on the street in front of the arched entrance.

  We had walked just a few yards down the pavement when suddenly we were surrounded by an unruly gang of children. The tattered little rascals clutched our coats and set up a clamor. “Give a penny, sir! A penny for a bit of bread! Just a penny, please!” Dirty little fingers patted our pockets and snatched at our hands.

  “Get off me, you devils!” Lestrade shouted. “I’ll have you all arrested, you little beggars!” He twisted away from the ragged child who was poking at his waistcoat.

  I tried to step away from the assault but found myself pressed back against the wall with no way to escape. There were at least eight children crowded around us and the air was filled with their cacophony. I had half-raised my stick when I recognized Wiggins in the center of the mob, covered with more dirt than usual, grinning at me.

  “Hey!” he shouted. A moment later the urchins fell back except for two, who stood quite still and pulled off their caps. Flaxen hair gleamed in the late afternoon sun. Rufus Sellars stared at them in amazement, then cried out and threw his arms around the pair. “My boys! My boys!” He buried his face in their hair. The two hugged their father as he gathered them into his welcoming embrace.

  Lestrade and I looked on in wonderment at this touching reunion. Behind us, a four-wheeler clattered up and a familiar voice called out, “Inspector Lestrade, I hope you don’t mind, but I decided to interest myself in your missing children case after all.”

  Sherlock Holmes was leaning out of the cab window and beckoning to us. I ran up and shook his hand. “Marvelous, Holmes! A triumph! But how did you find them?”

  Lestrade proffered his hand to the great detective, who accepted it. “You’ve found the boys, Mr. Holmes, but I found the kidnapper. Willie Piper is under guard and will go to trial for his crimes.”

  “I will lay you a fiver, Inspector Lestrade, that Willie Piper will never see the inside of a gaol cell or stand before a judge. You won’t take it? Oh, ye of little faith! I think Mr. Sellars and his sons have had enough excitement for one day. Send them home in this cab and let us retire to some quiet pub for dinner. Ah, Wiggins! Accept these treasures of Mrs. Hudson’s and take them back to her. Here’s some money for you and the others and more for the omnibus.” He dropped coins into the urchin’s grimy little hand. “Give Mrs. Hudson my compliments. Tell her I couldn’t have solved the case without her help.”

  The other children had stepped back in silence, but Holmes’ little lieutenant was front and center. In a few moments all had been arranged. Wiggins went in one direction, the broom and mop bobbing at us over his shoulder. The other boys scattered. Lestrade introduced Holmes to Mr. Sellars. The detective spoke to Mr. Sellars as if the success of the boys’ return had come from Inspector Lestrade’s efforts alone.

  The happy Sellars family left for home in the growler. The brothers had hesitated before entering the cab, but Holmes whispered something to them that caused them to smile at him and follow their father. Mr. Rufus Sellars had regained his composure and looked a little embarrassed at his display of emotion before us all. He offered his thanks through the window, his sons sitting on either side. Inspector Lestrade promised to visit them in the morning and explain the resolution of the case.

  I walked with Holmes a few blocks to a pub I knew. I managed in a few words to tell him what I had discovered at the “Drowned Rat”. Holmes’ murmured, “Excellent, Watson, your information confirms my theories,” just as Lestrade joined us at the door.

  Holmes’ garb prevented us from entering a high-class establishment, but this place had not changed from when I was a student. Back in those halcyon days the beer was good and the meat pies were memorable. We ordered both for three as Holmes, Lestrade and I took a corner table.

  Lestrade dug into his meat pie and took a swallow of beer before getting to the heart of the matter. “Alright, Mr. Holmes, what’s all this about Willie Piper not being guilty?”

  Sherlock Holmes smiled. He neatly cut into the pie on his plate and addressed the Scotland Yard man. “You do not know that I knew where Willie Piper was when you came round to our rooms today.”

  “What? No, I did not!”

  “I had solved an identity problem for a friend of Dr. Watson earlier in the day. The unknown man was Willie Piper. When you told me that he was wanted for abducting two young boys, I already had good evidence that he was not guilty of the charge. You were focused on Piper’s guilt. I did not think you would believe me when I told you he was innocent, so I refused to help you with the case. After you left, I launched my own investigation to discover what had happened to the boys.

  “I sent Watson to Whitechapel to gather what information he could about Piper. I posed as a broom seller and chatted up the cook and the scullery girl at Rufus Sellars’ house. Wiggins was with me, but he stayed in the road.

  “Cook told me that she liked Willie Piper and enjoyed the stories he told the boys. They led a dull, colorless life in that big house since Mrs. Sellars died, she said, and th
e bit of romance and adventure he brought them was welcomed. His tales were of India, the South Seas, Cuba and the Americas. The tricks of an old fakir, a struggle with a shark after falling off his ship, chasing a thief through the markets of Havana; Willie Piper had a generous fund of such stories to tell. Life in the big house was quiet and uneventful. The old rat catcher wove his own kind of spell over the residents downstairs, and made friends of them all.

  “Mr. Rufus Sellars spent a lot of his time at work or traveling for his firm. The tutor was a bit of a dried-up stick who talked only of Druids. The children knew that Piper would leave when the job was finished and they were resigned to that. But after he was paid, the boys were shocked to find out that their father had complained about bad service and given him only part of what he was owed.

  “All the clues indicate that they resolved to make up the difference and that is why they emptied their money boxes. They waited until early this morning to creep out of the house through the box room window and set out to find Piper. From the scullery maid I found out Piper had talked of his life in Whitechapel, glossing over the bad parts but mentioning Mr. and Mrs. Tillotson, his favorite pub and the room he rented. I figured that the boys were heading for one of those places, so I bid farewell to the charming female members of the Sellars’ kitchen staff and found Wiggins.

  “But why wouldn’t the boys confront their father about such an injustice?” I asked.

  “Ah, Watson, that speaks to the modern Victorian family dynamic. The cook was full of bits of gossip. Rufus Sellars’ wife died six years ago and it turned his life upside down. To cope with his grief he threw himself into his business. It took up all his attention. The resulting neglect of his sons created an atmosphere of distance in his home. He was unable to cope with the boys emotionally. He left their care to others. In return, the children grew to see him as an all-powerful but remote figure. I deduced that the two boys would walk for miles alone through an unknown part of London in search of one old man rather than question the actions of their own father. Rather than to expect him to redress the wrong he committed, they would sacrifice their own money.

  “My instructions to Wiggins were simple. He was to gather up some of the Irregulars and mount a lookout for the boys at the pawn shop and at Piper’s old room. I stood watch over the “Drowned Rat” from the street. I left the broom and mop with Wiggins and turned my coat inside out. An old red scarf tied around my neck and a stiff leg completed my disguise. You didn’t notice that old pensioner who lounged up and down the pavement in front of the pub asking for the price of a drink, did you, Watson? No, well, I imagine your conversations with that thirsty crowd at the “Drowned Rat” were much more interesting than the sight of an old guy hanging about outside the window.

  “Charlie and Stephen showed up at the pawn shop and Wiggins struck up a conversation with them. He offered to take them to their old friend and brought them to me. It was very fortunate for those two that they met only honest people during their excursion. Whitechapel is not the neighborhood for the naive or the innocent.

  “I plied them with apples and sandwiches and soon got the story out of them. I promised to take them to Willie Piper and called for a four-wheeler. Wiggins gathered up the other children and we all piled in to go to St. Bart’s. Ah, that ride, Watson! It wasn’t until I saw you two and Mr. Sellars on the pavement in front of the hospital that I decided on that little subterfuge that returned the missing boys to their father. I do hope, having witnessed his reaction to their re-appearance that Mr. Rufus Sellars has seen the error of his ways and the relationship between he and his sons will improve. The rest you know.”

  “What did you whisper to the boys when they were getting into the coach?” I asked.

  “I merely told them that they could see Willie Piper tomorrow and give him his money then. You will see to that, Lestrade.”

  Inspector Lestrade pushed back from his empty plate and drained the last drop from his tankard. “You appear to have done it again, Mr. Holmes. I suppose I should be grateful. I will say that it’s nothing the Yard couldn’t have done, given the time and opportunity, of course. It seems that I now must go back to St. Bart’s, speak to Dr. Stamford and send Grimes home.”

  “Don’t forget to take that handcuff off Willie Piper while you are there, Inspector,” I said.

  “What? Yes, of course, yes. Good evening, gentlemen.” Lestrade tipped his hat to the barmaid and walked out.

  Holmes settled the bill and joined me outside. It was a lovely June evening. The summer sun hung low in the sky, reluctant to leave the lengthened day. A soft breeze floated fluffy clouds over the rooftops and moved the blossoms growing in tubs by the public house door. The mellow red brick of the façade glowed in the light. It was not yet eight o’clock and the streets were full of people and carriages out to get the most benefit from the mild weather.

  “You’ve had a busy day, my dear Watson. Should we take a hansom back to Baker Street?”

  I felt invigorated at the thought of those two little boys tucked into their own beds instead of wandering in the wilderness that is London. It made me glad to again have been of help to my friend.

  “I don’t feel a bit tired, Holmes. If you don’t mind, I’d like to finish our walk.”

  We learned the rest of the story from Stamford a few days later. Charlie and Stephen Sellars had returned the next day, accompanied by their father. Willie Piper got his full fee and even spoke a few words. Mrs. Tillotson decided to take him as a lodger when he was released by the hospital. “He doesn’t have to worry about any rent with me,” she told Stamford. “Listening to his stories will be payment enough. I’ve been lonely since my Theodore died, and Willie Piper will be fine company. I may even write down one or two of his tales and see if any one would like to publish them.”

  She was true to her word. Months later Mrs. Tillotson sent us a marked copy of an illustrated weekly paper. Holmes read with interest and I thoroughly enjoyed an adventure story about a sailor who chased a thief through the native markets of Havana. It was advertised as the first in a series.

  The Case of Whittlestick Woods

  From the depths of his seat in the first-class railway carriage, Sherlock Holmes tossed me a crumpled telegram. Its message flamed from the page. “Two murders, one assault. Suspect captured, but questions remain. Rooms arranged at the “Dragon’s Flagon” in Lakeworth, Bucks. Will meet all trains. Sarpent.”

  “I’m sorry that I hustled you out of Baker Street in such a hurry, Watson, and without an explanation, but it was necessary. As you can see, there was no time to lose. At least you had some breakfast first. Inspector Wilfred Sarpent is a good man, one of the brighter lights of the Buckinghamshire Constabulary. He solved the Poison Stones case with promising ability. I have worked with him twice. If he has questions, the case must be murky indeed.”

  “You know I’m always glad to be of use, Holmes.”

  “Well, the crime hasn’t been reported in the papers yet, so we have no other information. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. We’ll be met at the station, so all we can do now is possess our souls in patience and admire the passing scenery.”

  The scenery visible out of the windows of the train was pleasing enough for anyone who had no thoughts of murder on his mind. A clear blue summer sky curved out overhead in all directions. Green fields rimmed with stone walls draped in ivy spread out as far as the eye could see. The sight was punctuated with clumps of trees and little farm buildings built of dressed stone. Shrubs tipped with white and pink blossoms bloomed in the dooryards and the growing crops of wheat and barley waved in a gentle breeze. The train was an express and we rattled past little hamlets of quaint red brick and half-timbered houses. In the far distance a blue haze indicated a distant forest. The East Midlands never appeared to better advantage. I looked at my watch. The train from St. Pancras was on time and would arrive in Lakeworth i
n an hour.

  Inspector Sarpent greeted us on the platform. Lakeworth was a large village consisting mainly of half-timbered houses and cobblestoned streets. Flowers waved from numerous boxes that hung from every visible window up and down the street. It looked as if Queen Elizabeth I just trotted off beyond the city limits on her palfrey. Wilfred Sarpent was about forty, a man of medium height, with a military air and a bushy mustache over a thick lower lip. Eyes of bright blue shone from his round face and the brass buttons on his uniform coat gleamed in the sunlight. He smiled and shook hands as Holmes introduced me. Then he ushered us into a waiting cab, gave a word to the driver, and plunged into the details of the case.

  “Mrs. Arthur Gradmutter lived in Stone Cottage deep in Whittlestick Woods outside of Lakeworth. That’s where we are going. A local girl came in “to do” daily. Mrs. Gradmutter’s late husband was a timber merchant and owned a big piece of the forest. He died ten years ago and left her rather well off. In fact, she sold a small piece of the woods to a local lumbering firm just a couple of days ago. After his death she retired to this little house. The family home was given over to her daughter, Mrs. Cowell, also a widow, and her granddaughter. The grandmother visited them every Thursday afternoon and little Rose Cowell was accustomed to go to her grandmother’s house at least once a week.

  “I must tell you that after these statements were given the young girl collapsed and she and her mother were both put under the care of a doctor. He refuses to allow further questioning. The inquest will be delayed until they recover.

  “Yesterday, on Thursday, Mrs. Gradmutter’s maid came by Mrs. Cowell’s house. She said that the old woman was ill and confined to bed, but had insisted that Nancy, the maid, take her usual half day off. Mrs. Cowell decided to send some nourishing treats to her mother, along with a bottle of her own strawberry wine. Rose, a young lady of twelve years, had a new dress she wanted to show to her grandmother, and asked to deliver the food and drink. She’d often made the trip before and her mother had no objections.