“Earlier than that,” Holmes insisted. “Before the police officer arrived.”
“Before? Well, we played a little pitch and toss and shared a rather unpleasant drink. Nothing else I can think of.”
“You did not see this gentleman?”
Holmes pointed to me, and the little man peered in my direction, as though seeing me for the first time.
“Well, it’s possible I did. I couldn’t say for sure, on account of the poor light, but someone very like your friend did pass by on the other side about five minutes before the constable. He was following a young girl, in a hurry from the look of things. I assumed it was a father and daughter making their way home and didn’t pay them much attention.”
It was not much, but I felt my heart skip a beat as he fell silent and took a step closer to me, staring up at my face.
“Yes, it could be the man,” he said finally. “I can’t say for sure, but yes, it could be him. Wait though,” he went on, “isn’t this Dr. Watson himself?” He shook his head ruefully, the beginnings of a smile on his face. “I should have realised straight away. Where Sherlock Holmes goes, Dr. Watson follows, eh?” A crafty look stole over his face, and with it a return of his confidence. “But you weren’t there that night, were you?” he continued, addressing Holmes. “Not when Dr. Watson was being led away, charged with murder.”
“No, unfortunately I was not. But what you can tell us may go a great way to clearing his name. For, if the window of time between Watson first entering the street and the constable hearing his cry has narrowed from thirty minutes to a mere five, how could he possibly have had sufficient time to kill Sarah McLachlan, far less prepare the scene?”
All signs of diffidence gone now, the reporter straightened his filthy coat and spoke in a more confident tone. “I can’t say I know what preparing the scene signifies, but it’s possible I can help. Or perhaps I can’t. Perhaps my memory’s improved, now I get a better look at your friend’s face. Maybe I didn’t see him at all, except when he came out of the house, covered in that poor woman’s blood.”
The implication was clear. Chilton-Smith cocked an eyebrow at us, and grinned. “It could be that my memory would improve even more – and in a way more to your liking – if Sherlock Holmes would agree to an interview. My readers would be fascinated to hear the great detective’s views on the cruel poverty in which his fellow Londoners are forced to exist.”
“Why—” Lestrade lunged at the reporter, but Holmes held out an arm and brought him to a premature halt.
“Control yourself, Lestrade,” he ordered, then turned his attention back to Chilton-Smith. “It would seem that now you have my friends and I at a disadvantage. If I understand you correctly, you are willing to give a truthful account of events only if I agree to speak to you for the purposes of publication. Is that correct?”
“That’s about the strength of it. A bit colder than I’d put it myself, but correct in the essentials.”
“And you would be willing to sign your name to any statement you make?”
“Of course. It’d hardly be worth your while if I didn’t, would it?”
It pained me to have my prospects of freedom in the hands of this odious little man, but at the same time I rejoiced that at last someone could corroborate my version of events, even if that would not be enough to establish my innocence completely. Selfishly, I hoped that Holmes would agree to his terms, but said nothing, for I knew how jealously my friend guarded his privacy.
Holmes, in fact, seemed unperturbed, and indeed almost distracted. Casually, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. “Very well,” he said, “and let us seal the bargain properly, with silver.” He flipped the coin towards Chilton-Smith, but his aim was awry and it fell to the ground at the feet of the newspaperman, who bent down to pick it up. As he did so, Holmes murmured, “You are a married man, I see, Mr. Chilton-Smith?”
“I am,” the reporter responded uncertainly. “Though what that’s to do with our current business, I don’t know.”
“Newly wed, too.”
At this, Chilton-Smith stiffened, rightly wary that something had changed in Holmes’s demeanour. “Six months past,” he agreed. “But how could you possibly know that?”
“A simple enough deduction,” Holmes replied. “I fancied that I had caught a glimpse of a silver chain round your neck earlier, and when you bent down just now I was able to confirm that fact. In the role you currently play, a chain such as that would long since have been sold for drink, or worse. One glimpse of it and you would be revealed as a fake.
“Why would you risk exposure in such a manner, unless the chain – or something hanging from it – was of particular value to you? A wedding ring seemed the most likely answer. There is also the very faintest of indentations on your left ring finger, such as might be made by a ring not long worn. Men who have been married for some time have a far more pronounced indentation – and besides, what man married twenty years would be sufficiently sentimental as to wear their wedding ring close to their heart, regardless of the risk?”
Chilton-Smith frowned suspiciously at Holmes. “Well, so I’m newly wed, what of it?”
“Just this,” said Holmes evenly. “I wonder how your new wife would react if Inspector Lestrade were to pay her a visit, and make mention of the disreputable company you have been keeping lately? Disreputable female company, that is.”
Chilton-Smith erupted in furious protestations. “What the devil are you suggesting?” he demanded. His hands balled into fists, and I took a step closer to Holmes, in case matters became violent, but for the moment the little man seemed content to bluster. “Standing in the company of any number of women is no crime, you know!” he insisted, which prompted Lestrade to respond, with a sly smile on his rat-like face.
“Right again, sir. You do know your law, I see. Obviously I would have no call to come to your door in pursuit of yourself. But how would it be if I were to visit your good lady wife, not looking for you, but for a common prostitute with whom, I have reason to believe, you are very good friends?”
Chilton-Smith glared at the inspector for an uncomfortably long time, then he shrugged in defeat and turned back to Holmes.
“Definitely no interview, then?” he smiled, and I had the sudden sense that he was a resilient sort, quick to recover from any setback. He probably had to be, in his line of work. Evidently, he had realised that he had no leverage in the current situation, and decided to make the best of it.
“In that case, here’s exactly what I saw that night. I cannot be certain beyond doubt, but I am almost sure that the man I saw walk along Linhope Street in the company of a young girl was the same gentleman whom I later saw in a locked room at number sixteen in the same street. That gentleman is Dr. John Watson, who now stands before me.
“I first saw Dr. Watson around five minutes before a police constable entered the street. Now, does that satisfy you?”
“Not quite,” said Holmes. “I have a few more questions. Did you see the girl leave either house or street?”
“No,” admitted the newspaperman, “but until the constable ran into the house, I wasn’t paying much attention. The street is open at both ends, too. She could have walked straight out, and I would never have noticed.”
“You did not see a white cloth at one of the house windows?”
“A white cloth? No, nothing of that sort.”
“And no other men entered or left the house or street, excepting Watson, the police constable and your companions and yourself, so far as you are aware?”
“Well, I can’t be certain, as I said, but I don’t believe so. Is that enough to satisfy you?”
Holmes nodded. “It is a beginning, certainly. But I have one further task for you, which will pay your debt off completely. Write a piece for your newspaper, following up the first, in which you state that evidence – strong evidence – has been uncovered which will lead to the exoneration of Watson.”
Chilton-Smith recoiled
as though struck. “That is a disgraceful suggestion!” he exclaimed. “The press in this country has a duty—”
Lestrade cut him off before he could launch into another speech. “Howie, you go on ahead to the Yard, and ascertain the home address of Mr. Chilton-Smith. It looks as if we may have need of it after all.”
The implication could hardly be missed. Chilton-Smith blanched and stammered a protest, then thought better of it and subsided into unwilling agreement. “Very well,” he muttered, “but I warn you that my editor is unlikely to print any such article.”
“That is your affair,” Holmes replied coldly. “But if I were you, I would do all I could to persuade him that publication is in everyone’s interests. Now,” he said more warmly, turning his back on the newspaperman, “I think we are finished here. A bath and a pipe are the order of the day, Watson, wouldn’t you say?”
I nodded, well pleased with the progress we had made. We bade the policemen good night, and made our way back to the street, in search of a hansom cab.
Chapter Sixteen
True to his word, Chilton-Smith’s article appeared in the evening edition of the following day’s newspaper. As Holmes had requested, it alluded to new evidence uncovered by the police which, it stated, would undoubtedly soon lead to my full exoneration and a thoroughgoing apology from the authorities. I read it with the curious mix of pleasure and embarrassment that comes from seeing one’s name in print, though leavened with a degree of caution, for I could not for the life of me see what Holmes actually hoped to achieve by it.
I said as much, but Holmes had an answer.
“Someone went to great pains to place your neck in the noose, Watson, and until now they have gone without serious challenge. This little article will, I hope, force their hands and bring them out into the open. Whoever they might be.”
It was a sensible plan, though not one designed to provoke an immediate response. I folded the newspaper and laid it to one side, then prodded the fire into greater activity, for it was a cold morning, the coldest of the year so far.
“What of Alistair McLachlan, Holmes? Have your street Arabs turned up anything useful concerning his activities?” I enquired, remembering Holmes’s mention of “the other matter”.
“Alistair McLachlan?” he replied with a puzzled look. “Wiggins and his motley crew have not been checking on McLachlan, Watson. I did, however, make enquiries of my own while I was out yesterday afternoon. Mr. McLachlan was at home on the night of the murder, according to a footman who was happy to share his memories in exchange for a half crown. Of course, that does not of itself prove his innocence, and I have sent a telegram to Potter, requesting that he should be investigated thoroughly.
“I have other news, however. I met a messenger from Lestrade as I returned with the newspaper, and he passed on the information that a kukri knife has indeed been found to be missing from Major McLachlan’s collection. An old and damaged specimen, kept in a drawer, apparently, and so not missed until now. It has been identified as the same weapon that killed Miss McLachlan.”
“Taken from a house I had never visited before now!”
“True, but we cannot prove it. At the moment, we are not in a position to provide certain proof of your innocence. But each new doubt that we cast, each new fact that we uncover; these are bricks in the wall we are constructing between you and the gallows.”
“Will it be enough, though, Holmes?”
“By itself, no. But this single brick does not stand alone. We have an alternative suspect – Alistair McLachlan – with motive for the killing, if not for the attempt to place you on the gallows. We have the sworn testimony of Chilton-Smith that you arrived in tandem with a girl, at a time that makes it all but impossible for you to have carried out the murder in the manner we know it was performed. We have your own lack of motive. And we have the fact that we know you to be innocent.”
I appreciated the closing sentiment, but I could not help but wonder if Holmes’s wall would prove sturdy enough.
* * *
Perhaps as a result of these continuing doubts, a desire for fresh air and activity stole over me. By late morning, the weak, wintry sun had given way to a cloudy but dry sky, which served to take some of the chill from the air, and removed any excuse I had for staying indoors. As I pulled on my jacket and wrapped a long scarf round my neck, I asked Holmes if he wished to join me in a walk, but he demurred and returned his attention to the slim volume on his lap.
I had only walked as far as the crossroads with Marylebone Road, wondering if it was too early for lunch, when a voice hailed me from a passing growler. Inspector Potter leaned out of the cab window and beckoned me across as the horse pulled into the side of the road.
“Dr. Watson! The very man I hoped to find at home. Would you have any objection to returning to 221B with me? There has been a new development in your case, and I would prefer to discuss it somewhere other than a public street.”
Initially I thought to refuse on principle, but something in Potter’s voice, a certain tone of triumph, inclined me to accede to his request lest he decide to make it a command.
“Very well,” I said. “Holmes is at home and Mrs. Hudson will show you up. I shall be there shortly behind you.”
I watched the carriage make the short journey along Baker Street and slowly made my own way back, taking the few minutes required to marshal my thoughts and consider what news the inspector might bring. It seemed implausible that the newspaper article had already borne fruit, but other than that the only fresh evidence I could bring to mind concerned the damaged kukri. Had the identification of the murder weapon proven key? Surely, Potter’s news concerned one or other.
I climbed the stairs to our rooms with an optimistic tread, therefore, and was in consequence unpleasantly surprised to find Holmes standing before the fire, scowling down at a sheet of paper he held in his hand. Inspector Potter, accompanied by a constable I did not recognise, stood with his back to me, but as I entered he turned quickly and gestured to the constable to stand by the door.
“Dr. John Watson,” he announced solemnly, “it is my duty to inform you that, in light of new evidence which was delivered to Scotland Yard not half an hour since, it is my duty to take you into custody and return you to Holloway Prison. There you will await trial for the murder of Miss Sarah McLachlan.”
My stomach twisted inside me as he nodded to the waiting constable, who immediately took up a position directly behind me. The suddenness, the unexpected nausea, and the confusion I felt caused me to recall the moment I had been wounded in the army, so severe was the shock.
“What on earth are you talking about, Potter?” I managed to say from a mouth now bone dry.
Holmes answered my question. He held out the paper in his hand and I seized it from him, quickly reading the few lines that comprised the entirety of its message.
In words created by the artifice of cutting individual letters from a magazine or newspaper, the message was short and to the point.
Clipped to this extraordinary missive was another, smaller piece of paper, obviously but a single part of a greater whole, for one edge was ragged and torn. It appeared to be part of a letter, missing its top half, but what remained was damning in the extreme.
It was an IOU for two hundred pounds, made out to persons unknown, but clearly signed at the bottom “John H. Watson”.
“I have never seen this letter before! That is not my signature!” I insisted, and I fear I may have shouted, for Holmes laid a hand on my arm and assured me that he had already told Potter the same thing.
“He has, Doctor,” Potter confirmed calmly, “but I have here a copy of your signature, provided by Inspector Lestrade, and I must say that the two seem almost identical to me.”
He pulled a scrap of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. There seemed no point in examining it – I knew what my signature looked like and had already realised that the forged version on the IOU was similar to my own – and I let
it drop to the floor, unread. My head spun and I braced myself against the back of my chair, hoping that Potter did not notice my weakness.
“Almost identical?” Holmes put in scornfully. “I fear that in your haste to convict my friend, Inspector, you have allowed yourself to be convinced too easily that it is the genuine article.”
He took the IOU from my frozen hands, and spread it out on the table before him. “See here, the bar on the capital ‘H’ is slanted to the left, whereas Watson’s—” he stooped and retrieved the scrap of paper from the floor “—is completely horizontal. The small ‘n’ is also entirely different in construction, as is the manner in which the two ‘o’s are joined to the letters which follow them.”
“Minor variations, Mr. Holmes,” Potter retorted, though without rancour. “Such as might be expected from a man finding himself facing financial ruin.”
“Preposterous!” Holmes began, but Potter was not finished.
“Regardless of the verisimilitude of the signature, the IOU is hardly the more troubling of the two documents, is it? Have you anything to say regarding the letter, Doctor? I should tell you that it was delivered to Major McLachlan less than an hour ago. The butler, Murray, found it in an envelope pinned to the major’s front door and, at his instigation, at once carried it to me at the Yard. As you can see, it is unequivocal in naming you as the killer of Miss McLachlan.”
The initial shock had begun to wear off and I had recovered enough of my voice to reply, though I knew that whatever I said would be discounted by Potter. Still, I had no intention of returning to confinement without at least stating the truth.
“I have nothing to say except that it is a mystery to me, both in its content and its appearance at Major McLachlan’s home. I have never been indebted to any man for a sum as large as two hundred pounds – indeed, I cannot conceive of a way in which I could possibly owe so monstrous a sum – nor was I involved in the murder of Miss McLachlan.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Improbable Prisoner Page 13
