“Perhaps the killer did not know there would be a second pillow requiring a case?” he said.
“No, I knew it could not be that,” Holmes replied with a frown. “Whoever did the killing, they were meticulous in laying out the room. Had they been short of a pillow case, they would have removed the pillow and made do with only one.”
He bent over the bed and carefully examined each of the pillows. “The cleaner of the two cases was removed,” he said, “and the pillow replaced. Note in the photograph that the right edge of the lower one is dark with blood, then there is a white, unbloodied gap before the top pillow overlaps it. Initially, the lower pillow was more closely aligned with the top, meaning that blood could only stain the small, exposed section. The killer did not replace it exactly after removing the case, however, leaving a portion of unstained material on display.”
Even Potter could not help but look down at the photograph and then at the bed in front of us. It was exactly as Holmes had said, though the import of his discovery eluded me.
“What of it?” Potter growled. “I am still waiting for an explanation regarding your suspiciously swift discovery of this dagger. If you hope to deflect attention by means of this pointless distraction, you will be disappointed, I warn you.”
In reply, Holmes scooped up the sack he had just discarded and carefully smoothed it out on top of the less stained pillow. Laid flat, it was obviously a perfect fit. Any remaining doubts that the filthy object was also the missing pillow case were allayed by a dark slash of colour at one end, which exactly matched the bloodstain on the pillow.
Lestrade lifted one corner and let it fall again, his thin face a mask of confusion. “So, the killer hid the knife in the pillow case?” he asked slowly.
“In a manner of speaking,” Holmes replied. “It is possible that the murderer concealed the knife inside the pillow case, intending to carry it away with him, but he would, I think, swiftly have become aware that a sharp knife will easily tear a hole in even good quality linen.” He turned slightly to address me. “I assume the girl who accosted you had no such item on her person, Watson?”
I shook my head. I had almost forgotten the girl, but Holmes obviously had not.
“Of course not,” he said briskly. “But the knife is with the pillow case, even so.” He mimed picking something up from the bed. “The lady lies dead, her killer standing over her, bloody knife still in his hand. It is a substantial weapon, and so cannot be tucked into a belt or dropped into a jacket pocket. The girl is long gone, was perhaps never in the room, and now he is alone. He crosses to the window and crouches down, fearing someone will see him framed against the candlelight. He presses his fingers against the glass – you can see two full sets of fingerprints at chest height, here and here – and peers as best he can down the street. If there is nobody about, he might be able temporarily to conceal the knife about himself, and drop it down a drain somewhere nearby.
“But there are people in the street. He might be seen! The girl will be meeting with Watson soon, and the killer knows he must be gone before he arrives, but he cannot leave the knife, not if he wishes Watson to take the blame. He presses his face more closely against the glass, and remembers the scaffolding next door. It hides him from view for now, but he must act quickly. He pulls the cleaner pillow case from the bed and drops the knife in its bottom. A few tiny drops of blood escape the blade as he does so, falling here” – he pointed to a spot a foot or so from the bed – “and here,” indicating another spot nearer the window. “He opens the window carefully and leans out as far as he dares. Whirling the now weighted pillow case about him—” he leaned out of the window and matched his actions to his words “—he lets it go, and watches it land among the builders’ detritus next door. He closes the window and slips away, observed only by a neighbour who thinks he has witnessed a handkerchief being waved.”
“That’s a fine story, Mr. Holmes; one worthy of Dr. Watson himself. But there is no proof that anyone other than Dr. Watson was in the room that night. He could as easily have done as you suggested.”
The burgeoning hope I had felt stir in me during Holmes’s recital was crushed at once by Potter’s insistence that I was the guilty party. He was right in what he said, of course. Nothing that Holmes had said so far exonerated me in the slightest.
“He could,” Holmes admitted, breaking into my gloomy thoughts. “But Watson has never owned a knife such as this, and I would lay even money that Major McLachlan is missing a kukri from his collection of military paraphernalia.”
“A koo-kree, Mr. Holmes?” In Lestrade’s mouth the foreign word was stretched out and pronounced with the exaggerated care of a man who has never spoken any language but English.
“A sort of everyday curved dagger, popular in Nepal, but found throughout south Asia.” I had seen several of them in Afghanistan, where they were popular souvenirs among our soldiers. “Holmes is right. I’ve never owned one, but Major McLachlan’s would be a strange collection if it did not contain at least one.”
“Exactly so, Watson,” Holmes added. “You will note the small nick in the hilt, however. A serious collector, such as the major is reputed to be, would not keep a flawed item such as this on show, so it may not have been missed yet.” He eyed Potter in a sidelong fashion, weighing something up before he spoke. “Perhaps you could make enquiries at the major’s household, Inspector, and ascertain whether he is missing a kukri?”
“There is no need to remind me of the fundamentals of my job, Mr. Holmes,” Potter snapped. “I will make such enquiries – and other enquiries into any knick-knacks which the doctor here might have brought back from his time in the army.”
Holmes was unabashed. “You might also usefully make enquiry of the landlady whether she heard anything at the time. I know she claims to have known nothing of the murder, but the thump of the knife landing among the scaffolding next door would have made a substantial noise.”
“There I must disappoint you, Mr. Holmes,” Potter smiled. “The lady has gone to stay with family in the country while we sequester her house. She may never return, apparently.”
“You do not know where she has gone?” The anger in Holmes’s voice was unmistakable as Potter shrugged his shoulders. “Just as you cannot find the girl.”
“We only have Dr. Watson’s word that she even exists,” Potter countered, and it was all I could do to restrain myself from knocking some of the discourtesy out of him. But I was in trouble enough without adding the assault of a police officer to my list of charges.
Holmes too was silent, but Lestrade spoke up suddenly. “There are the fellows who helped Constable Howie break in the door,” he suggested. “Perhaps they might have heard something or seen the knife being thrown?”
“A capital idea, Lestrade! You are definitely improving! I had almost forgotten those gentlemen as I concentrated on other avenues, but you are quite right; I should speak to them at once.”
“As they committed no crime, they are not in custody, so that may prove difficult,” Potter replied on Lestrade’s behalf, glaring at his colleague. “Or will you blame the police for failing to hold them too?”
“Not at all. But they can presumably be found?”
“Howie is on duty in the area,” Lestrade offered, crossing to the door. “Shall I send Constable Schell to find him? He may be able to shed some light on these three gentlemen.”
He sent the constable scurrying down the stairs before anyone could reply, and a matter of minutes later, Constable Howie entered, breathless from running.
Chapter Thirteen
At our previous meeting, I had – understandably, I think – failed to take much notice of Constable Howie, but now that he stood before us, helmet under his arm, it was clear that he was a reliable and sensible man. A little over six foot tall, he was about thirty years of age, slim and broad shouldered, and already showing signs of a receding hairline.
He spoke slowly, but not dully, obviously meticulous in his work an
d keen to make no missteps in front of two senior Scotland Yard inspectors.
“The street, and surrounding areas, were all but deserted that night, sir,” he said in reply to Holmes’s enquiry. “As I said previously, the only people I had seen in the preceding period were the three souls who assisted me in breaking down the door.”
“You had seen them before then?” asked Holmes, with interest.
“A few minutes earlier, yes, sir. They were standing drinking on the corner of the street. I would have moved them on, but they were doing no real harm, so I made sure they saw me watching them instead. Giving them a chance to be on their way before I came back down the street.”
“Admirable, Constable,” Holmes commented approvingly. He crossed to the little table and poured the dregs of the water from the jug over his dirty hands, then dried them on his handkerchief. “If you could tell me everything you can recall about the men as we take a short stroll down to the street corner, I shall be in your debt.”
Howie glanced across at Lestrade and Potter. I distinctly saw Potter’s mouth begin to form an objection, but fortunately Lestrade was the quicker and he barked, “On you go then,” before his fellow inspector could say a word.
* * *
Linhope Street came to an end where it met Ivor Place. A thin sliver of grass had grown in a slice of muddy ground that ran alongside the wall of the last house in the street, and it was there that Constable Howie led us.
“They were standing here, sir,” he said, indicating the grassy area. “The taller two were leaning back against the wall, and the smaller one was facing them. The bottle was getting passed back and forward a fair bit, but they were talking quietly and laughing friendly enough.”
“One of the men was noticeably smaller than the others?” asked Holmes. “Did you get a good look at him? The man with his back to you?”
“I did, sir.” I stood across the street from them for about a minute, letting them know I had my eye on them. The two facing me soon stopped talking, and the little one turned round to see why. He turned away sharpish, but I’d know the three of them again, even without having them help me out with the door.”
Holmes clapped his hands together. “Splendid! I foresee a long and successful career in the police for you, Howie, if this is the usual standard of your work. But,” he went on, his eyes narrowing in concentration, “perhaps you could describe the smaller man for me? In as much detail as you can recall, if you please.”
I was puzzled by Holmes’s concentration on this one man, and doubted whether Howie’s description would be of use in any case. Five foot five at most, clean-shaven with brown hair, and wearing a brown suit and battered bowler hat, it could be any of a thousand men in the surrounding streets, and a hundred thousand in London as whole.
“Would you like a description of the other two, Mr. Holmes?” Howie asked, but Holmes shook his head distractedly and crouched down by the grassy strip.
“There was definitely no one else in the area who should not have been, Constable?” he asked after a minute. “Nobody acting suspiciously, or who seemed out of place?”
“Nobody, sir. The streets were quiet as the grave.”
I winced inwardly at Howie’s unfortunate choice of words, but Holmes seemed satisfied.
“And had you seen any of these men before?”
“The taller two, yes, sir. I can’t say that I know their names, but they live in the area. One of them works as a rat catcher now and again. The other used to be a sailor, if I remember right. Doesn’t do much of anything now. The little one’s new in the area though. I’d never laid eyes on him before.”
Holmes rose to his feet and brushed some dirt from his hands. “Thank you, Constable,” he said. “You have been very useful.”
“I think we have seen all we need here,” he said, addressing himself to the two inspectors. “If you would make the finding of these three gentlemen, particularly the smallest one, your priority, I believe it entirely possible that I can demonstrate Watson’s innocence even to Scotland Yard’s satisfaction.”
Of course, Holmes’s words were music to my ears, but I knew from previous experience that he would not explain himself prematurely. I had to be content with a sidelong glance and the merest hint of a smile.
Potter, however, was not so sanguine. “Are we permitted to ask why it is so important that we turn up these three tramps? Is your contention now that one of them murdered Miss McLachlan, then waited around afterwards in order to be present when the body was discovered?” He laughed, without warmth. “Did one of them perhaps also dress himself as a young girl and lure Watson away with his blandishments?”
Holmes simply ignored Potter and, turning to Lestrade, repeated his belief that he might be able to present a solution to the case, should the three tramps be found.
The inspector’s face twisted and coloured at Holmes’s request. “It is not actually my case, Mr. Holmes,” he began apologetically. “I’m only here in an unofficial capacity, remember. But,” he continued, looking directly at Potter, “I am certain that Inspector Potter wouldn’t dream of allowing any potential lead in the case to be missed. Isn’t that right, Inspector?”
Potter glared between the three of us. “I don’t need you telling me my job any more than I need him,” he said, flicking his hand at Holmes. “If I can spare a man, I’ll put him on the job, don’t worry.”
“We will endeavour not to,” Holmes replied dryly. “Perhaps Howie here could be the man you spare? He seems an observant fellow, and already knows two of the men.”
Potter’s eyes narrowed in irritation, but in the end he nodded his agreement. “As you wish. Constable Howie, tomorrow your job will be to seek out these three vagrants. I would hate Dr. Watson to feel he was not given every possible assistance in his attempts to escape the noose.”
He did not appear happy to make the concession, but succeeded in turning the grimace on his face into a tight smile before bidding us a collective good day. I watched him walk away from us, back towards his carriage. In spite of the rain, which had increased in strength throughout the morning, he strode along with a straight back and his head held high. I could picture the water dripping steadily from the brim of his hat, and imagine his refusal to allow anything so inconsequential as the weather to influence him.
It would be no simple task to convince a man such as he to change his opinion, I reflected unhappily. Even with the murder weapon now discovered, and Holmes apparently convinced a solution lay with the missing tramps, I struggled to convince myself that all would be well in the end. Not with Inspector Potter’s intransigence between me and that happy conclusion.
My thoughts mirrored by the downpour which had turned London grey and sodden, I watched Potter disappear into the gloom, and wished futilely that I had never entered Linhope Street at all.
Chapter Fourteen
Holmes had seen all he wished in the murder room, and so we left Lestrade and Howie to close up, while we walked in the steady rain towards Baker Street, each of us lost in our own thoughts.
We had covered only half the distance when Holmes came to a sudden stop. I thought at first he had spotted a hansom or growler for hire, the road having been conspicuously free of them, and indeed one trotted round the corner just at that moment. Marvelling at my friend’s ability to deduce even when a horse might come into view, I signalled to the driver to halt and gratefully bundled myself inside, with Holmes on my heels.
“Baker Street first, then Chesham Place please, driver.”
Holmes had spoken before I could give any directions. I looked across at him and he explained.
“Chesham Place is the London address of Major Sir Campbell McLachlan. Having set the bloodhounds of Scotland Yard on the trail of three members of the lowest class of people, I thought it more fitting that you and I interview one of the highest.”
He grinned and drummed his fingers quickly on the left leg of his trousers, then leaned forward and explained his plan.
&
nbsp; * * *
By the time we arrived at McLachlan’s house Holmes had finished his explanation. He intended to pose as Inspector Alexander, brought in from the country to assist Potter in this vitally important case. Naturally, I was to play the part of his devoted sergeant.
“Flattery, Watson, is meat and drink to the politician,” he concluded with a smile. “But remember at all times that McLachlan is renowned for two things. First, he is ferociously jealous of any perceived slight to his family name. He is rumoured to have killed a fellow officer in a duel after he was overheard disparaging the military capabilities of a distant cousin of McLachlan’s. Secondly, though it is perhaps linked to the first, he is famously intolerant of uninvited visitors. It is said of him that he is at any man’s bidding while sitting in Parliament – where he is applauded as an industrious and approachable MP – and no man’s while sitting at home. We must tread carefully with him.”
* * *
McLachlan’s home was a distinguished town house on several floors, surprisingly modern in style. Our carriage came to a stop behind another, on which were emblazoned the horns of a roebuck. Holmes brushed the top of the bowler hat he had collected from Baker Street and, adopting a slightly hangdog expression, knocked diffidently on the front door.
After a delay just long enough for me to wonder if anybody was at home, the door opened and an elderly, stooped butler enquired after our business in a weak, reedy voice. Holmes explained our fictitious police errand and we followed the butler inside.
Major Sir Campbell J. McLachlan stood with his back to the embers of a dying fire as we were shown into an unusually decorated reception room. Every inch of the walls was decorated either with the mounted head of an animal, or one of a selection of swords, knives and pistols. The jumbled mass of dead-eyed faces and shining blades was unappealing and in questionable taste, in my opinion.
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Improbable Prisoner Page 10
