Only then did he light a cigarette, offering one to me and another to Inspector Lestrade, who I realised had now entered the room. The inspector shook his head in refusal, rubbing his eyes as he took a seat. He had not shaved and his collar was askew, I noticed; sure signs that he had been roused from sleep.
“I was sound in bed when Mr. Holmes’s lad came rapping on my door, Doctor,” he confirmed, though with no indication of annoyance or irritation in his voice. “I’d have sent him on his way with a flea in his ear, too, if he’d not said he’d been told to say that Dr. Watson had grave need of my assistance.”
He opened a brown folder he had brought in with him, and consulted the first of two typewritten sheets it contained.
“And the boy spoke truly, did he not?” he asked rhetorically, glancing up from his reading. “This is Constable Howie’s report, taken from his notebook, and it makes for uncomfortable reading, Doctor.”
Holmes held out a hand. “If I may,” he said. He scanned the pages quickly, then, with a nod of assent from Lestrade, read aloud from them:
At 11.04 p.m., I was making my way along Linhope Street, near Regent’s Park. I would not usually have been in the area at the time, but I had been instructed to check on number 14, on which maintenance work was being carried out, and being unsure of the honesty of the nearby inhabitants I had made certain to keep a close eye on so insecure a dwelling.
I had barely begun checking number 14 when I became aware of a man’s raised voice coming from the next door along, number 16. A lady, who I knew to be the landlady, Mrs. Elizabeth Soames, met me in the doorway of number 16, and informed me that “a maniac is screaming murder in one of the rooms”.
Arriving at the door to the room in question, the sound of booted feet could be heard from within, banging heavily against the door. A male voice, crying “open, damn you!” accompanied this banging. Mrs. Soames informed me that the occupant, an elderly lady, had taken a room earlier that evening, having been brought to the house by a girl describing herself as her granddaughter. A gentleman had been the occupant’s only visitor, though she had not herself spoken to him. Mrs. Soames had seen nobody leave before hearing banging from the room.
Upon investigation, I discovered that the door was locked. No key could be seen and Mrs. Soames admitted that she had no spare, that key having been lost some time previously. With no means of access, I made enquiries through the door as to the reason for the commotion. A man’s voice – I believe the same as I had earlier heard cursing – replied, “There is no key and I have been locked inside! Murder has been committed!”
At this point, believing life to be at risk within, I asked Mrs. Soames to send a boy to the local station for assistance, and attempted to break down the door. I was unable to do so at first, until I enlisted the help of several men from the area who helped me to effect entrance.
The room contained little furniture. In addition to a small table and a wardrobe, the only other furnishing was a large bed, on which could clearly be seen the body of an elderly lady. The lady had suffered several severe, visible wounds.
The only living occupant of the room was a middle-aged gentleman. His clothes and hands were soiled by significant amounts of blood and he appeared confused, saying, “Sorry. I don’t know that poor woman. My mind must have wandered.”
Upon questioning, the gentleman identified himself as Dr. John Watson and claimed to have been led to the room by a young lady, who stated that her grandmother was seriously ill and in danger of death. Upon arrival, he further stated, he had discovered the room exactly as seen by myself and had been locked inside, he claimed, by the same young woman. He was unable to supply the woman’s name, though he did provide a detailed description (overleaf).
A bag, of the type used by doctors and identified by Dr. Watson as his own, was found to contain several sharp knives, though each was clean of blood. No other potential weapon was discovered.
Further investigation revealed that, contrary to Dr. Watson’s claims, the key was still in the door lock. This being put to him, he was unable to provide any explanation.
No sign could be found of the young woman.
“And then the usual formalities of such reports,” Holmes concluded, dropping the folder onto the desk which took up a large portion of the room.
Inspector Lestrade pulled it towards himself and glanced down before he spoke. “A nasty tale, Doctor,” he said, looking back up at me. “But I think I’m a good enough judge of character to know that you had no part in it. No malicious part, at least.”
If I had been confused earlier, Lestrade’s words, comforting though they were intended to be, brought my predicament into sharp focus. The inspector was not exactly a friend, but we had worked together sufficiently often – and shared enough of Holmes’s thoughtless comments – for a bond of sorts to have formed between us. He might be willing to say that my involvement in the murder of the old woman was innocent of malice, but what of others, with less reason to believe my story?
As though reading my thoughts, Holmes nodded briskly. “You are quite correct, Watson, to wonder if the remainder of Scotland Yard will be so quick to put their trust in your honesty. Lestrade knows you well, but others do not, and will be less likely to give you the benefit of their doubt.”
“How—” I began to ask, but Holmes was already answering my question.
“We really do not have time to waste on explanation of every deduction I make, Watson, but I shall indulge you on this occasion. You heard Lestrade’s words with a small smile of pleasure, then your eyes dropped to the folder containing the constable’s report, and your face fell. Next you glanced at the door, clearly considering those outside, and your brow became noticeably furrowed. What else could you be thinking, but that you might not be so readily believed elsewhere?”
As ever, Holmes’s reasoning was faultless. Lestrade, though, seemed unimpressed.
“These parlour tricks are all very well, Mr. Holmes, but I should tell you that the very fact of my acquaintance with Dr. Watson makes it unlikely I will be appointed to this case. There is no saying how another officer might view the evidence, and Howie’s statement is damning in several respects. The Doctor has good reason to worry.”
Holmes had little time for Scotland Yard or its representatives, and the withering look he now aimed at Lestrade did nothing to mask this negative opinion.
“Of course he does!” he snapped. “He has been discovered with a dead woman, covered in blood, and with no explanation for his presence beyond a mysterious girl and an unsupported tale of a sick grandmother. Additionally, the only knives on the scene belong to him, and the room in which he was found was, it is claimed, locked from the inside, the key still present in the door after your doughty constable broke it down. He has a great deal to worry about!
“But still, there are already points of interest which we might consider to his advantage. For instance, the key found in the door. It was definitely the original, which should have been in the possession of the tenant, and not a copy?”
Lestrade shook his head. “It would seem so, Mr. Holmes, but Howie’s just outside if you’d care to speak with him?”
Without waiting for a response, the inspector leaned into the hallway and asked Howie to come in. I nodded a greeting at the constable, who was taller than I remembered, but he failed to return the gesture and instead came to attention before Lestrade.
“Right then, lad. Mr. Holmes here is wondering whether it’s certain that the key you found in the door was the usual one, the one given by the landlady to the tenant of the room. It could not be a copy, made by persons unknown?”
“No sir, it could not,” Howie replied. “Mrs. Soames identified the key by various marks on the barrel as the same one she’d handed to the dead lady earlier.”
“And the lock?” Holmes leant forward in his chair eagerly, his face lighting up as his great brain came alive. “The door was definitely locked? It could not have simply been jammed shut with a
piece of wood?”
“No such jam was found in the room, sir, and the splintering of the wood around the keyhole indicated that it had been locked prior to the door being broken down.”
“And how long would you say passed between you first hearing a raised voice from number sixteen and the breaking down of the door?”
“No more than five minutes, sir.”
“You are certain, Constable? It could not have been closer to ten?”
“Not ten, sir, no. Maybe a minute or two beyond the five, but I’d swear it was no longer than that.”
“As much as seven minutes, then.” Holmes’s long fingers tapped a rhythm on his legs. “In which time you saw nobody other than those persons mentioned in your report?”
“I took a note of everyone who entered or was present in the house, sir. There was nobody else there, or I’d have taken note of them too.”
Holmes considered this, his head cocked to one side. “Thank you, Constable Howie,” he said finally. “You have been of great assistance.”
Lestrade gestured that the officer might depart, which he did with relieved alacrity, leaving the three of us alone in the room once more. In the sudden silence, I felt my spirits fall. I stared down at my shoes, my thoughts unhappy ones.
I heard Lestrade’s voice as though from a distance. “For the moment, we should see what we can do to keep Dr. Watson out of a cell, and his name out of the newspapers.”
“We will need to be quick to catch the early editions,” Holmes replied thoughtfully. “Watson will be charged with murder, and while I cast no aspersions on your officers, there is always someone who will speak to a journalist, if the financial inducement is suitable. But I believe that there is someone I can speak to who will be able to ensure that the case is allowed to disappear, at least so far as the gutter press are concerned.”
Holmes’s reluctance to mention his brother Mycroft in front of Lestrade was understandable, for his role in government was a complicated and largely secret one, but he was spared the need to explain further as the door of the office chose that moment to creak noisily and open a little. A tall, dark-headed man stood framed in the doorway for a moment, then pushed his way inside.
“Good evening, Lestrade,” he said with a nod. “I’m surprised to see you here. Isn’t this your night off?”
The man could not have been more obviously a policeman, from the tips of his closely cropped hair to his polished regulation boots. He was thin to the point of emaciation, with the sharp bones in his face straining against his skin, and a wide, crooked nose, below which a sparse moustache struggled to be seen. His eyes darted quickly about the room as he made his way behind the desk and took a seat.
“Won’t you make the introductions then?” he said, pulling the folder, which still sat on the desk, towards him as he spoke.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, meet Inspector Potter,” Lestrade growled quietly, making little effort to hide a clear dislike of his colleague. “Potter, before we proceed further, you should know that the Doctor has been a good friend to the Yard.”
It was a name I had heard before, though I could not immediately say where. I nodded a greeting and mumbled, “Inspector,” while Holmes merely closed his eyes and allowed a half-smile to play on his lips.
The effect of these introductions on Inspector Potter was, however, far more marked. At the mention of Holmes’s name, he sat forward and stared directly at my friend, keeping his eyes upon him for what felt like at least a minute. Finally, he spoke, though he directed his comments not to Holmes but to Lestrade.
“Well, let’s be clear from the off, Lestrade. There’ll be no favours here. Your good friend” – and here he stressed the word mockingly – “will be treated the same as any other person suspected of murder, beginning with a night in the cells and a trip to court in the morning where, I’m certain, he’ll be invited to spend a good deal longer in our custody.”
Lestrade, to his credit, protested immediately and with force. “Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes have given great assistance to the force in the past, Potter. Without them there’s many a villain who’d even now be free and easy, and we none the wiser.”
It must have pained him to make such an admission, especially in front of Holmes, but whatever discomfort he felt was surely doubled by Potter’s reply.
“That may be so, Lestrade, but that is exactly the sort of appeal for special favour to which I referred. The fact that these gentlemen have been able to shore up your own shortcomings as a detective is hardly germane to whether one of them is a killer or not.” He paused for a moment. “Be assured that I have no need of their assistance.”
He rose from his seat and stretched his long frame. “Now, all we need is a handy constable and we can have your friend” – again he stressed the word – “tucked up in a cell, quick smart.”
My heart fell as his hand closed on the door handle and I turned to Holmes, who had remained silent since Potter had entered the room. Now, with the smallest of nods, he spoke.
“Are we to assume that you have already been formally appointed to Dr. Watson’s case, Inspector?” he asked.
“Not yet. Not formally, no,” the inspector admitted grudgingly, turning back from the door.
“Then you have no more authority in this matter than, say, Inspector Lestrade. Is that correct?”
“I have been told by the Commissioner himself that I shall be given the investigation,” Potter blustered.
“Shall be,” repeated Holmes. “Not have been.”
“In which case, Inspector Potter,” interjected Lestrade, with the beginnings of a smile, “I’ll continue to deal with Dr. Watson for the present. It’s getting late, though, and there’s no need for the two of us to be here. Why don’t you take yourself off home, and I’ll see to it that suitable accommodation is arranged for the Doctor?”
So long did Potter take to reply that I felt sure he would protest, but in the end he simply shrugged. “As you wish,” he muttered. “I shall return later in the morning, with the appropriate paperwork to hand, and relieve you of the responsibility. I’m sure you have a good deal of your own work which requires attention.”
With that, he left the room, closing the door firmly behind him. I heard him call the name of a colleague, and his feet retreating down the corridor outside, and then everything fell silent.
Holmes was the first to speak. “An interesting man, for a policeman. Do you know his story, Watson?” I shook my head. “Lestrade will no doubt correct me if my information is erroneous, but my understanding is that Inspector Potter had, until relatively recently, enjoyed a meteoric rise through the ranks of his chosen profession. Too fond of the rulebook, his critics have said, but that is perhaps no bad thing. He is currently the youngest inspector on the force, I believe. Lestrade?”
The inspector nodded, a sour expression on his face. “Very popular with the higher-ups is Potter, yes,” he admitted.
“He had even been mentioned in senior police circles as a potential future Chief Constable, or so I am told.” Holmes cocked his head at an angle. “That, of course, is not what makes him interesting. To be the most senior of a gaggle of incompetents and paper pushers is no great boast, after all. One may as well congratulate oneself on being chief madman in the asylum.”
He smiled at his own jest and, suddenly, I was irritated by his insistence on drawing out his every minor thought as though it were spun gold.
“For goodness’ sake, Holmes, why is he interesting then?” I snapped.
Holmes was immediately contrite. “I am sorry, my dear fellow,” he said. “I’m sure you’re tired and naturally you are concerned, yet here I am, wandering off on a tangent of my own devising.” He straightened in his chair and continued. “Potter is interesting because his rapid ascent up the police ranks came to a juddering and, it once seemed, permanent end the year before last. He arrested, and insisted – in the face of opposition from his superiors – upon charging, the younger brother of one
of our most senior judges, along with several other members of prominent society families. The crimes were… well, let us simply say that they were more of a moral nature than a strictly criminal one and leave it at that. In any case, it was felt that Potter had pressed on with the case for reasons of personal publicity, and not in the best interests of the force or the country at large.
“The upshot of the whole affair was that pressure was brought to bear, the charges were quashed, and Potter’s ambitions left in tatters.”
“Or so it seemed at the time, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade interposed. “But this last year he’s arrested so many London criminals that the papers have started calling him the Capital’s Saviour. That’s the sort of thing to put anyone’s career back on track.”
Now I recalled where I had heard Potter’s name mentioned before. Even The Times had carried a few small pieces on his spectacular successes in infiltrating and exposing the work of the criminal gangs who currently infested the capital.
“Why has he been allocated my case then?” I asked. “Am I viewed as so important?”
Lestrade shrugged. “Who can say? Your name is a well-known one, as is Mr. Holmes’s, and Inspector Potter is back in favour among my superiors. What’s more, he has a nose for the popular cases. I wouldn’t put it past the man to have asked for the case, hoping thereby to have his name in the newspapers even more often. As though that’s the measure of good police work…”
It was plain that Lestrade did not care for his colleague. I had no more desire to listen to the inspector bemoaning his lot compared to that of Potter than I did to hear Holmes’s intellectual digressions, and so changed the subject as quickly as I could.
“Never mind Potter for now,” I said. “He can wait until the morning. Of more pressing concern is the question of what is to be done tonight.”
Lestrade indicated his agreement. “Of course, Doctor. Though there’s not a great deal anyone can do at this time of night. You’ve been charged with murder, and can hardly be allowed to return to Baker Street, at least until further investigation has taken place. But,” he smiled, “there’s nothing to say that you cannot pass the night comfortably enough in this room, in discussion with myself, officially speaking.” He considered his own words for a moment, then continued, “I can even get a couple of day beds brought in and you and Mr. Holmes can get your heads down for a few hours.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Improbable Prisoner Page 2
