With these last words my hand shot out the window, Holmes inhaled sharply and bent his long body towards me, reaching for Irene.
‘For Christ’s sake!’ he exhaled, as I placed her gently on the outside windowsill. ‘Would you be so kind to tell me what you think of the Hampton man’s death, Mr Holmes?’ I asked.
‘There isn’t much to think,’ he barked. ‘All that’s needed is but a simple calculation: the maximum distance the man could have floated was thirty miles. Before he entered the Thames, he was close to death. He was close to death, can only have contracted cholera at a densely populated place with a lack of hygiene, and he could not possibly have walked very far. It follows that he must have been close to a village or city. There is only one place that fits these facts like a glove fits the hand!’
‘And which place would that be?’
He ignored me, took up the photograph and placed it back onto the mantelpiece.
‘I wonder why you are so observant,’ he muttered after a moment. I opened my mouth to reply, but he held up his hand. ‘Of course! You are behind the veil; the one no one sees but who can perceive everything. You must be observant to protect your life in disguise.’
His back still towards me, he asked: ‘Would you accompany me to Chertsey Meads?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Do I have to repeat the question?’ he turned around.
‘Is that a pub?’ I joked.
‘It is a wetland.’
I took my time to find the right words. ‘I must confess I feel honoured by your invitation, although I’m not so sure why I would be. However, I also have the feeling that the main reason for your invitation is that you can study me a little longer. That irks me because I am not a curiosity. And your constant probing of my brain is highly annoying.’ I saw him pulling his eyebrows together and asked: ‘Why should I come with you, Mr Holmes?’
The corners of his mouth twitched a little in a hint of a smug smile. ‘Because you enjoyed yourself too much and there is nothing at the moment you would like to do more than to probe my brain for a little while longer.’
Chapter Four
On the train to Chertsey the landscape whizzed past us unnoticed. To my surprise I enjoyed myself discussing the Whitechapel murders with Holmes. The topic itself was not a pleasant one. Jack the Ripper had killed at least six women. He had cut their throats, sliced their abdomens open, draped their intestines over both their shoulders, and had taken a souvenir with him - usually the victim’s uterus.
Holmes’s opinion of the Yard’s efforts was very low. ‘Every time I received a telegram from the police, the bodies had already been taken away to the morgue, the staff had extracted organs, and sold them as surgical specimens. Of course they never remember what they took and what was already taken! I have serious doubts this murder series will ever be resolved and the culprit found. The incompetence of the responsible investigators, the corruptive medical staff, the sheer number of pseudo-witnesses, and the papers' floods of misinformation will render all investigations futile!’
He looked rather ruffled and I answered: ‘Due to my occupation, I come across a rather large number of stab wounds and one of the peculiar things I noticed was that almost all women with knife wounds in their lower abdomen were victims of attempted rape. And all of those who survived the attack reported the rapist used a knife because he was unable to penetrate them. He was unable to produce an erection. Doesn’t that add a very different angle to the Ripper’s motives?’
Holmes leaned back in his seat and stared out the window. After several long minutes he turned his face back to me and said: ‘The Ripper used several prostitutes, speaking of a high sexual drive. If he indeed was never able to finish a sexual act, he must have accumulated a great amount of frustration.’
Passengers close by started coughing and waging their fingers at us. We ignored their protests. I had my hand over my mouth to hide my grin, but my eyes betrayed me. Upon noticing my amusement, Holmes shot me an indignant glance.
‘My sincere apologies, Mr Holmes, I couldn’t help but think that any other man,’ I leaned forward now and lowered my voice, ‘would have at least felt awkward saying that very same sentence straight into a woman’s face.’
‘As what shall I treat you then, man or woman?’ He said sharply which resulted in full attention of our fellow passengers now turned towards our peculiar conversation.
‘I want to be treated with respect and you did that. Thank you.’ I said it earnestly and with a hint of a bow. There was a long moment of silence, both of us measuring the other until some kind of common ground seemed to be reached.
‘The fact that this one victim was not enough, that he needed to kill more, also tells us a lot about the murderer,’ I added quietly.
‘He craves power,’ noted Holmes
‘He has none otherwise.’
‘Indeed!’ he expelled, ‘everyone searches for the bird of prey when the mouse is the culprit!’
His excitement transformed into thoughtfulness as he commenced staring out the window. The long silent stretches interrupting our conversation did not feel uncomfortable. Neither of us liked small talk.
~~~
We reached Chertsey and walked down to the meads while the sun painted flickering lights on the tips of the grass.
‘Ah!’ exhaled Holmes, disappointed as we reached the cobblestone street flanking the large wetland. We had expected to find perfect footprints on the paths here, as the ground was always moist. But no man would ever be heavy enough as to leave his traces on the many stones wedged next to each other.
Bent low over the sides of the small street, Holmes strained his eyes to identify potential traces of the Hampton man’s activities. Occasionally, he was on all fours, almost touching the dirt with his nose, the magnifying glass at the ready.
I scanned the meadow. There were the faintest crisscrossing patterns of small animals’ tramplings, discernible only when observing the movement of the tall grass in the wind. I bent down and investigated the base of the grass, where animals had shaped little tunnels to trace their pawprints back and forth while foraging for food. Our progress was depressingly slow and so far without results.
After about a half an hour I got impatient and excused myself. Holmes only grunted in response.
I walked to a nearby willow, took my shoes and socks off, rolled up my trousers and sleeves and climbed the tree. A gap in the foliage allowed a grand view of the whole of Chertsey Meads. I saw Holmes, who was yet again on all fours. The man was quite assertive, I thought. Larks were blaring and a harrier flapped its long black-tipped wings, swaying across the river.
Then I saw it: among the faint animal tracks was one that had several broken grass blades further up. Only a large animal could have produced that. I stuck two fingers into my mouth and blew hard.
Holmes stood erect and looked around. It seemed as if he had just noticed my disappearance. I whistled again and he spotted me.
‘Another twenty-five yards, Mr Holmes!’ I yelled through the funnel of my hands. Instantly Holmes turned and walked the recommended distance. He inspected the ground and the grass for a short moment, cried out in surprise, and darted off towards the Thames.
I climbed down, grabbed my shoes and socks and took a shortcut to the other end of the trail.
The quiet clucking of the river was occasionally drowned out by reed warblers ranting at each other. I was careful not to tread on the trail, but could already see that someone with big boots had walked here. Right next to the river, grass and reed were bent across an area of about two by four yards. He must have rested here. Suddenly I remembered the Hampton man’s shoes. Holmes had shown them to me. But the prints were not identical to the soles I had seen.
‘Wait!’ barked Holmes when he saw me taking a step towards the river’s edge.
He examined the trodden place for only a minute or so and then said: ‘As I had expected.’
‘And what did you expect?’
‘The Hampton man walked, or rather, hobbled only half the distance through the meads. He was accompanied by Mr Big Boots.’ Holmes pointed to the ground next to him. There in the mud were the clear footprints I had seen already. The ones with the holes at the heels were missing.
‘He carried him,’ I noted.
‘That is the only logical explanation. The man could not have flown. Besides, Big Boot’s footprints were significantly deeper as soon as the Hampton man’s footprints disappeared. And here,’ he pointed again, ‘he laid him down.’
There was a faint elongated impression. Its size would fit the Hampton man’s body.
‘The two must have been friends,’ he stated and seeing my quizzical expression he explained: ‘Big Boots carried him and there are no signs of a fight. This allows us to make an assumption only. But here is the simple proof!’ He pointed to the impression of buttocks right next to the longish shape. ‘The Hampton man died while resting his head in his friend’s lap!’
He contemplated for two seconds, stated that there was nothing more to be learned here, and traced his steps back to the cobblestone road.
We walked to Chertsey without finding either man’s footprints next to the roads. Holmes’s plan was to enquire at the local inn whether anyone had seen the two men.
~~~
We entered a small stone house with “The Meads’ Inn” painted in neat red letters over the entrance door. The inn itself consisted of a tiny room with a mawkish interior design. A woman, whom I suspected to be the decorator and the owner’s wife, beckoned us in. Her eyelids and hands were flapping in unison, probably intended to appear inviting.
Holmes steered us towards a table. We ordered stew and beer and as the woman set it down in front of us, Holmes let a sovereign spin on the polished wood.
‘We are looking for two men who passed through Chertsey Meads the day before yesterday. One was over six feet and eight inches tall, probably supporting the other, who was seriously sick, unusually pale, undernourished, and almost a head smaller than his friend. Both were dressed poorly. Have you seen them by any chance?’
The woman flinched. His demeanour was too policeman-like. She didn’t even look at the money that swirled so promisingly before her eyes.
I threw her an apologetic glance. Holmes hadn’t even introduced us.
‘My apologies, Mrs, I am Dr Anton Kronberg and this is Mr Sherlock Holmes. We are investigating a crime and would be ever so grateful if you could help us.’
Her expression softened slightly.
‘Haven’ seen nuffink!’ she said abruptly, turned around, and disappeared into the kitchen.
‘That went well!’ I mumbled, leaning over my steaming bowl and shovelling stew into my mouth.
Holmes only smiled a little, then turned his attention to his food, and ate it merrily.
‘How could you know how tall Big Boots was? By the size of his shoes?’ I asked.
‘And stride length,’ he noted.
‘Ah!’ I thought about that for a while and added: ‘You can calculate that even if Big Boots had to support the Hampton man? Wouldn’t his stride be shorter due to the effort?’
Holmes talked to his stew. ‘It would be, but in this case the strain did not appear to be significant. As the Hampton man leaned on Big Boots, the latter did not show a sideways tilt of his heels to counteract the force. And we know the Hampton man was very light. Big Boots’s stride length did not change the least even as he started to carry his friend. All these facts indicate that Big Boots was in rather good health, tall, and strong.’
My brain absorbed the information like a hungry cat the milk.
After we had our beer, he announced loudly that he wanted to take his leave now.
The woman hurried back to us, we paid, and Holmes asked casually: ‘You had a burglary?’
She stopped in her tracks. ‘Why, yes! How did ya know?’
Holmes pointed towards the window. The sash was missing, probably taken out for repair. I had noticed it as we came in, but didn’t think of a crime, as a pub’s window panes are chronically threatened by the clientele.
‘Yes… yes… two days ago,’ she stammered.
‘What has been taken?’
‘Food mostly and the oil lamp from over the door,’ she said pointing to the exit.
‘What about clothes?’ I asked. She stumbled backwards and almost slammed into the wall.
‘How did ya… My husband’s coat, but how could ya…?’
‘It is but a simple observation of –‘ I elbowed Holmes to interrupt his explanation. The woman was shocked enough and there was no need to pour more gibberish into her already overloaded brain.
‘Did the burglars leave something behind?’ he asked with an annoyed sideways glance at me.
‘What do ya mean?’ she said, and upon noticing Holmes impatient look she added: ‘No, he hasn’t left nuffink.’
‘Have you seen him?’ I asked.
‘No,’ she said and stomped off into the kitchen.
~~~
We made our way back to the station and I asked Holmes whether he also had got the impression that the woman was hiding something. He only snorted and said with a taunting look at me: ‘Who doesn’t?’
Once in the train, Holmes asked: ‘Is it possible to contract tetanus without a deep and dirty wound?’
‘Actually, it is. I was thinking about that last night. He could have got tetanus from eating bad or dirty meat. I have seen people eating cats, dogs, and rats, and having not enough patience or wood for cooking them long enough will inevitably result in contracting whatever disease the animal had.’
Holmes’s eyes glazed over and he was silent for a long time. We had almost reached London when he said: ‘We have to find Big Boots. Could he have contracted cholera, too?’
‘Not necessarily.’ I noticed the glint of hope in Holmes’s eyes fading.
‘Would a second cholera victim come in handy to help you solving the case?’ I said coldly and he mirrored my stare. Then he answered: ‘Without Big Boots, it makes no sense investigating the case. There are not enough data.’
After another long silent stretch I asked: ‘Mr Holmes, I’m rather confused. Two men take a walk together to the Thames. One dies of tetanus while having cholera in the final stage and is thrown into the river. The same having restraint marks on wrists and ankles. Both steal food and a coat just hours before the latter is being thrown into the water together with the man who wore it. That makes absolutely no sense to me!’
‘Hm…’ answered Holmes. And that was the last word he spoke until we parted in London.
Chapter Five
A week after the Hampton incident, I found a man dying on the floor of my ward. All I could do was kneel at his side, caress his head, and wait for the last seizure to release its grip.
Patients curiously gazed at us, muttering anxiously, angrily, or piteously. The man was perfectly still now, but for a barely noticeable vibration of all the muscles in his tense body. His spine was arched far back, his arms pulled to his side, fists clenched, and feet cramped to an almost half-moon shape. His face wore a devilish grin and his eyes were rolled far back into his skull. All about him spoke of great agony. I placed my other hand on his chest. His heart was still beating but the muscle spasms forbade him to breathe.
‘Just one more moment,’ I whispered.
His fluttering heart couldn’t accept its fate.
‘The pain will go away,’ I said gently.
A minute later the strained heart fell silent. No one in the ward dared to speak. The presence of death sealed their lips. Only a few quiet coughs and the whimpering of a child could be heard.
This was one of the hardest things to accept: the moment when death came no matter what I did, and then to let it happen and give both, man and death, peace. And strangely enough, once I accepted it, it gave me peace, too. As if death had touched my shoulder to salute an old acquaintance and to tell me that when he came for me, I would be able to give him t
hat very same friendly salute.
I left the dead man and asked the first nurse I could find whether she knew his identity. It turned out that not a single soul had seen him being delivered. But that was impossible. He couldn’t have walked in by himself. Someone must have helped him.
I spotted the old porter, Mr Osburn, who paced back and forth at the ward’s entrance. He saw me peering in his direction and approached me hastily.
‘What is it?’ I barked and immediately regretted my harsh behaviour.
‘’E’s dead, inn’ ‘e?’ He said anxiously.
‘Yes, he died. Did you know him?’
‘Oh, no!’ Said Osburn shaking his head, his large ears almost flapping. ‘Didn’ know ‘im. Foun’ ‘im on the street, jus’ in front of ter gate.’
‘What?’
He was about to repeat himself, but I cut him off with a flick of my hand. ‘Did you see who dropped him off?’
‘No, docter, am sorry, didn’ see nuffink.’
‘No one walking away? Or a cab driving off?’
He was thinking hard, pulling his left ear, looking fragile. Osburn was a shrivelled old man, friendly and forthcoming, but lonely in his porter house and probably even more so at home.
He pulled himself together and answered in a clear voice: ‘Now that yer mention it, I heard ter crack of a whip. Then ter whinnyin’ of a horse, jus’ a minute afore I heard ter gasping of a man, tha’ man, yer know, and then I found ‘im. An’ got ‘im here.’
‘Why didn’t you tell anyone that you brought him in?’ I tried to say it friendly, but failed. He started stammering.
‘Am sorry, am sorry, I didn’ know what ter do, ‘e were a dyin’ man, yer know, and I jus’… I jus’… put ‘im ‘ere. An’ Billy from ter disinfectors helped, and we didn’ see no docter and no nurses and didn’ know what ter do! I ran around and didn’ find no one, all ter time thinkin’ about tha’ poor man dyin’. And then I came back and you were ‘ere an’… an’… ‘e were dead.’
The Devil's Grin - a Crime Novel Featuring Anna Kronberg and Sherlock Holmes Page 4
