The Mammoth Book of New Sherlock Holmes Adventures

by Mike Ashley (ed)

  He gave a slight grimace and adjusted his gloves. "As you know, I dislike periods of enforced inaction. Periods during which there is little to demand my attention." He clapped his hands together and his face beamed beneath his ear-flapped travelling-cap. "However, we are but some fifteen miles from our destination. There is a train leaving on the half-hour." With that, he lifted his bag and walked along the corridor to the door.

  Harrogate is a delightful town, a criss-cross of busy streets and thoroughfares surrounded by an interlocking grid of cultivated grassland called "The Two Hundred Acres" or, more commonly, "The Stray", which we had seen in all of its early-morning, mist-enshrouded finery as we approached the station.

  A brisk walk ensued and we arrived at the police station as a distant clock chimed ten, to be greeted by a tall, burly, uniformed sergeant whose face displayed a florid expression and the most singularly inquisitive eyes.

  "Now then, gentlemen," he boomed, "and what can we be doing for you this fine morning?"

  It transpired that my friend had telegraphed Inspector Gerald John Makinson the previous afternoon, informing him of our intended arrival time. "So you're Mr Sherlock Holmes, then?" the officer enquired.

  Holmes set down his bag on the station steps, removed the glove from his right hand and held it out. "I am he," he said.

  The officer gave, I thought, a somewhat forced smile and shook the proffered hand once. "And you must be Mr Watson," he said turning to me.

  "I am, indeed, Doctor Watson," I said, accepting the hand. The shake was as brusque as his manner.

  "I'm Sergeant Hewitt. Come on inside," he said, lifting both of our overnight bags. "There's a fresh pot of tea made and it'll take but a minute to do you some toast. Inspector Makinson will be along presently. Perhaps you'd be kind enough to wait in here, gentlemen," he said, ushering us into a small, square room ringed by chairs around a circular table. He rested our bags on one of the chairs and proceeded to help us off with our coats and hats, which he then placed on a hatstand next to a blazing fire. "Tea'll be along in a minute. Will you be having toast?"

  "That would be most welcome," Holmes said.

  "Right then, toast it —" The sound of a door banging outside interrupted him and he turned to see who had just entered. "Ah," he said, turning back to us, "Inspector Makinson has arrived. I'll be back presently."

  Hewitt stepped back to permit entrance to a short gentleman with quite the most bristling moustache I have ever seen. The man removed his bowler and nodded to the officer who backed out and closed the door gently behind him. "Good morning, gentlemen," he said offering his hand which, ungloved, was freezing cold to the touch. "Gerald Makinson."

  We made our introductions and took seats by the fire.

  "Mr Holmes, it's a great pleasure to meet you again, sir," Makinson began as he rubbed his hands together vigorously in front of the flames, "though we might've hoped for more pleasant circumstances."

  "While Patience may well be a card game from which I have derived some considerable pleasure," Holmes responded with a thin smile, "it is not, I fear, my strongest suit. I wonder if you might give us some indication of your situation. If I am not mistaken there had been further developments in the case even as we were travelling here from London."

  "Quite so, quite so. Well, it's like this, gentlemen.

  "Almost two weeks ago — the second of November, to be precise — the body of Terence Wetherall, one of the town's most

  prominent landlords, was discovered by one of his tenants. Murdered."

  The Inspector imbued the last word with an almost absurd theatrical flourish and I had to stifle a smile, thankfully unobserved.

  "What was the manner of his death?" Holmes enquired.

  "He'd been strangled. No instrument was found but the nature of the marks around his neck suggests some kind of rope or string. We found traces of coarse hair in the wound. But the worst thing was the man's heart had been removed."

  "Good Lord!" I ventured.

  "Quite, Doctor Watson, his chest had been slit open and the unfortunate organ torn out. It was a messy affair, I can tell you," he added. "There was no indication of careful surgical procedure — we've had a local surgeon examine the wound and it appears that the heart was just pulled out. His chest looked like a pack of wild dogs had been at it ..."

  "Suspects?"

  The Inspector shook his head. "Mr Wetherall was extremely well-liked as far as we can make out. His wife — sorry: widow — knew of no reason why anyone would wish him harm. And certainly she knows of no one who would conceivably wish to defile his body in such a way."

  "I wonder if we might see the body," I said.

  "Of course, Doctor. You can see them all."

  I glanced across at Holmes who tented his fingers in front of his face and carefully studied the tips. "Do continue, Inspector."

  At that moment, Sergeant Hewitt reappeared with a tray containing a teapot, three cups and saucers, a small jug of milk, a large plate of buttered toast, a small phial of marmalade and one of honey, and three side plates. It was a meal which, despite its simplicity, was a sight for weary eyes. We set to pouring tea and helping ourselves to the toast, and Inspector Makinson resumed his story.

  "A few days later, 7 November, a farmer was brutally slain in the nearby village of Hampsthwaite. Shotgun-blasted in the back of the head, point blank range. He'd gone outside to check his livestock — something he did every evening at the same time — and the killer must've been waiting."

  The Inspector took a sip of tea and returned the cup to his saucer.

  "And, once again, the heart of the unfortunate victim had been removed, though this time the damage to the body was less.

  "The third slaying was last week, the eleventh, and this was maybe the most heinous of them all. A young woman, Gertrude Ridge, a schoolteacher in the town, was reported missing on the morning of the tenth when she didn't appear at school. She was discovered on the embankment by the side of the railway line ... or, should I say, some of her was discovered."

  Holmes leaned forward. "Some, you say?"

  The Inspector nodded gravely and reached for his cup of tea. "Only the torso was found — it was identified by her clothes. Both legs, both arms and the unfortunate girl's head were missing."

  "But her heart?" I said.

  "Her torso was intact, Doctor Watson. And we've since found both legs, the head and one of the arms."

  "Where were these limbs found, Inspector?" Holmes enquired.

  "A little way along the embankment, in the bushes."

  "Were they close together?"

  Inspector Makinson frowned. "Yes, yes I believe they were." "And the embankment has been thoroughly searched?"

  "In both directions, and with a toothcomb, Mr Holmes. The other arm wasn't there."

  Holmes lifted his coffee and stared into the swirling liquid. "And now you have another murder, I take it."

  Makinson nodded and twirled his moustache. "Yes, a fourth body was reported in the early hours of this morning to a Bobby on the beat. Down a small alleyway alongside the market buildings in the town square. Another shotgun blast, this time in the face at point blank range. Took most of his head with it, it did. We identified the corpse from what we found in his pockets. William Fitzhue Crosby, the manager of our local branch of Daleside Bank."

  "And the man's heart?" I enquired.

  "Ripped out like the first two."

  "Who reported the body?" asked Holmes.

  "An old cleaner woman for the market buildings. She lives

  there all the time. She heard the shot, looked out of her windows and saw the body."

  I watched my friend drain his cup and return it to the tray before him. He settled back into his seat and glanced first at me and then at the Inspector.

  "Tell me, Inspector," he said at last. "How much disturbance had there been around the teacher's body?"

  Gerald Makinson frowned. "Disturbance?"

  I recognized a touch of impat
ience in the way my friend waved his hand. "Blood, Inspector. How much blood was there on the ground?"

  "Very little, Mr Holmes. But our doctor tells me that once the heart was removed there wouldn't be much blood loss. The girl's clothes were soaked, mind you."

  Holmes nodded. "Were there any traces of blood on the grass leading to and from the severed limbs?"

  Makinson shook his head. "None as we could find," he said dolefully.

  Holmes considered this before asking, "And what signs were about the body of the banker?"

  "Again, very little. We put it down again to — "

  "to the removal of the heart."

  "Yes," Inspector Makinson agreed.

  "Quite so." Holmes nodded slowly and then closed his eyes. "And why would anyone want to steal a heart? Or, more significantly, three hearts plus an assortment of severed limbs and a head? For that matter, why would they leave the young woman's heart in place?"

  "It's like I say," said the Inspector, "it's a puzzle and no denying which is, I might add, why I called upon your services. And those of the good doctor," he added with a peremptory nod in my direction.

  "And we are both delighted that you did so, Inspector," said Holmes. "But what if," he continued, leaning forward suddenly in his chair, "the murderer simply forgot to take the girl's heart."

  "Forgot it!" I was so astounded by the seeming preposterous nature of my friend's suggestion that I almost choked on a mouthful of toast. "Why ever would he do that when that was his entire objective?"

  "But was it his objective, old fellow?" said Holmes.

  "What are you saying, Mr Holmes?" "Just this: suppose the removal of the hearts was simply to cover up some other reason for the murders?"

  "I cannot imagine any reason for murder which is so despicable that the murderer would want to cover it up with the removal of a heart," I observed.

  "No, perhaps not, Watson. Not a despicable reason, I agree. But perhaps a reason that might lead us to his identity."

  While Inspector Makinson and I considered this, my friend continued.

  "Inspector, did your men find any traces of blood or tissue ... perhaps even bone fragments ... on the wall which took the shotgun blast?"

  Inspector Makinson's eyes widened. "Why, I don't believe we did."

  "Quite, Inspector. That fact and the fact that was little or no evidence of blood around the body, despite the removal of the heart, means that the murder was committed somewhere else and the body carried to the alleyway.

  "I sense a confusion of red herrings," Holmes continued. "Red herrings?"

  "Quite so, Watson," Holmes said as he got to his feet. "But before we go any further, I think we should see the bodies."

  Without further ado, Inspector Makinson led us out of the room, along a series of corridors and then down a long staircase.

  Finally, we arrived at a large oaken door inlaid with sheets of metal and an iron bar manacled through two support frames. The door opened onto a narrow corridor through whose windows we got our first glimpse of the unfortunate victims.

  The entrance to the "resting" room was at the far end of the corridor and, as we walked along, I could not help but stare at the series of cots covered over with bottle-green sheets, and at the unmistakable human shapes beneath.

  The room itself smelled of death, the familiar aroma — to me, at least — of putrefying flesh, a mixed scent of ruined fruit and

  stale milk. There is something about dead bodies which causes the living to speak in hushed tones in their presence. Indeed, it was several months of concentrated autopsy work before even I myself could overcome the need to affect some kind of

  reverence. But a dead body is not a person.This knowledge, too, comes only with practice and repeated exposure.

  Makinson walked across to the first cot and crouched down to read the label tied to the support. "This one, Mr Holmes,

  is ,,

  "Could we have them in the order they were murdered, Inspector?" Holmes boomed. "And I don't think there's any need to whisper. Nothing we say in here will be any revelation to the victims."

  Makinson stood up, ran a finger across his moustache and coughed loudly. He walked across to the second cot, studied the label and then crossed to the third. "This," he announced in grand tones, "is Mr Wetherall."

  I followed Holmes across to the cot and watched as Makinson pulled back the sheet.

  Decomposition was well underway, despite the cool temperature of the room.

  I could see that the man had been in his mid forties although the sunken eyes and hollowing cheeks were giving him a countenance of someone considerably older. A wide ligature around the neck had discoloured to a dull brown shade.

  "What do you make of that, Watson?" Holmes said, pointing to the man's chest.

  The wound was extensive, apparently caused by a series of slashes into the flesh, some of which extended vertically from the collarbone almost to the waist while others crossed the sternum either horizontally or diagonally. "These wounds were presumably made to expose the heart," I concluded, "but it looks like a frenzied attack. Considering that the man would have been dead when these were committed, I can only conclude that the murderer was in a terrible hurry. See here, several sections of flesh appear to have been hacked out."

  Holmes stepped in front of Makinson, who shuffled to one side, and bent over the body. "Did you find these pieces of flesh, Inspector?"

  "No. But we had noticed they was missing. We presumed that the killer took them with the heart."

  "By mistake or in haste, you mean?" I shook my head. "That does not make sense. The flesh is entirely separate to the heart. Once exposed — as these wounds would surely have done easily — the heart would be encased within the sternum. You can see where he broke the lower ribs to get at it. Once he had the heart, it would be unlikely that he would take a large piece of flesh with it."

  "Then why would he take it?" said Holmes. He turned to the Inspector who started to shrug. "Let us look at the next one, Inspector, the farmer, I believe."

  We moved back to the second cot and Makinson pulled back the sheet.

  This man had been much older, possibly sixty. The Inspector had been right. The damage to the chest was markedly less than that on the first victim, a simple cross-cut over the sternum and two vertical wounds, each less than a foot in length, which enabled the flesh to be pulled back to expose the heart. "It almost seems to be the work of a different person," I observed. "It's certainly not the work of a professional, however, despite its relative neatness. Perhaps he had more time. Or perhaps he was simply not so nervous."

  I pulled the head to one side and looked at the damage at the back. The neck appeared to be almost completely destroyed right up to the hairline. The base of the skull was exposed and fragmented. Bending over, I could see that the wound extended down onto the shoulders.

  "I wonder if we might turn him over," I said.

  Both Makinson and Holmes stepped forward and, between the three of us, we managed to twist the body onto its side.

  The shotgun blast had indeed been concentrated on his lower neck and upper back, right between the shoulder blades. The flesh there had been pulverized exposing portions of the spine and lower shoulder blades, themselves showing some fragmentation.

  I bent closer. "That's interesting ..."

  "What's that, old fellow? Found something?"

  "Perhaps, perhaps not," I said. "But there does seem to be some indication of another wound."

  Holmes and Makinson moved alongside me and looked where I was pointing. Just to the left of the start of the ruination caused by the shotgun blast, a tiny piece of skin appeared to have been removed. That piece of skin could, of course, have been merely the tip of a much larger piece and I mentioned this fact. "One has to consider it as cart tracks disappearing momentarily into

  a puddle from which they re-emerge on the other side," I said. "The puddle in this case is the shotgun wound."

  "Are you suggesting that
something was done to him before the shot was administered?" asked Makinson.

  I looked back at the top of the wound, where it met the hairline, and lifted the shreds of loose skin and matted hair. It was as I suspected. The base of the skull was badly depressed, suggesting a hard blow from a solid object.

  "He appears to have been struck from behind," I said. "And with a blunt instrument. See, the skin is not broken.The fracture of the skull suggests that such a blow would certainly have rendered the man immediately unconscious and, very probably, would have resulted in his death by haemorrhage. I would need to open up the brain pan to confirm that," I added, "but I would expect to find evidence of subdural haematoma plus bruising on the frontal lobes due to contra-coup."

  Holmes was smiling. "Capital, Watson, capital." He strode to the window overlooking the corridor and spread his hands on the shelf. "Before we go any further, let us make one or two assumptions." He turned around and checked them off on the fingers of his left hand.

  "The killer murders his first victim by strangulation," Holmes announced. "Then he sets about removing the victim's heart, a process during which a piece of flesh disappears. The means by which the chest is opened up suggests fear or haste ... it also, at least initially, makes the disappearance of the piece of flesh seemingly unimportant. I suspect neither fear nor haste played any part in these killings. Rather, it is the work of a severely deranged mind and one that is exceedingly cunning."

  He held up a second finger. "The killer strikes again. This time the method of slaying is inconclusive. Initial investigations suggest the cause of death to be a shotgun blast to the back but we now have evidence of a blow to the base of the skull. Which, not unnaturally, prompts the question why should he kill his victim twice? We also have suggested evidence which points to some kind of incision or skin removal immediately below the wound. The wound also extends, almost, to the site of the blow to the skull ... as though, perhaps, the murderer were wanting to conceal both of those events.

  "Certainly if, as we believe, the strike to the head rendered the victim unconscious at best, then it would have been a relatively simple matter to go about the removal of the heart without the need of further violence. This therefore suggests a further motive for the use of the shotgun, the second red herring."