by David Marcum
“Nevertheless it had to be so,” retorted Holmes. “Watson is familiar with my methods. Test everything. What is left after disregarding what does not fit the facts has to be the truth. The murder took place at about eight, not ten.”
“How so precise?” asked Lestrade.
“The wolves,” replied Holmes.
“I’m sorry, Holmes,” I interrupted. “Are you saying that you can pinpoint the time of a murder by the actions of the wolves?”
“Most certainly. Both Reynolds and your cook report that they broke into a veritable ululation of howling at eight. They knew their pack leader - for that, in effect, was what Sir Cedric was - had met his end.”
“You are going to have to explain this, Mr. Holmes.” Lestrade was clearly at the same time both impatient to know the solution, yet clearly in awe of Holmes’s intellect.
“First, may I say that Master Thomas of course is totally innocent of any involvement in this sad chain of events.” He turned to Thomas. “You joined your mother and sister in the Drawing Room when?”
“About eight thirty, sir. After our ‘best of three’ on the billiard table was concluded.”
“So you see, the murder could have been committed at any time between the ladies leaving the Games Room at about seven, and eight thirty. By nine you were in the room next door to Sir Cedric, and would have heard if anything amiss was going on.” He saw Reynolds’ blank expression. “You see, between the time the ladies left the cook and until Master Thomas joined them in the Drawing Room, the two ladies were on their own.”
Reynolds was shaking his head. “No...”
“But yes,” replied Holmes. “You asked for a motive. Lady Wolfe loves the Colonel. But there is more to it than that. Have you noticed how alike Master Thomas is to his father, but Miss Sarah is not, nor strongly to her mother?”
“Yes, but that is common, Holmes,” I responded.
“But ‘Who’s Who’ did lead me to a Times article about the Colonel. An article which includes an illustration.”
“Stop! Enough!” exclaimed the lady.
“No, it must be out,” replied Holmes. “Did you never tell your daughter that the Colonel was her father?”
The room was in turmoil for a moment. The young constable standing behind the chaise longue on which the ladies were sitting moved closer to it on a motion from Lestrade. Holmes waited for us to settle. Reynolds was shaking his head.
Lady Wolfe did not speak for a long time. Her daughter fixed her in her gaze, whilst the son sat groaning on a chair and buried his head in his hands. Finally it was the younger woman who spoke. “Mother told me the night my... father died. Just after dinner.”
“When I learned the Colonel was coming back to the village,” Lady Wolfe interrupted, “it was all I could do to plan for our future life together. I knew eventually my husband would find out about us, and thus we would be in danger. I have not loved him for many years, Mr. Holmes.”
“So you killed him,” said Holmes.
“He could be a brute if roused,” she answered simply. The daughter nodded. “If once he had found out about us, please believe me, I knew it would then be my body you would be finding. I had to kill him before the Colonel arrived.”
“That’s not the master I know!” protested Reynolds. “He would never have acted in such a way!”
“But he would, Reynolds,” replied Lady Wolfe simply. “He was not the saint you believe him to be. Not a bad man of course - I loved him once - but cold and dismissive to me, and others. You must have seen that. He loved his wolves more than any of us.”
“I have hated him for years,” added the young woman, “and I’m glad I am free to say that now.” Reynolds gasped.
“To others outside the family, Reynolds, your master was caring and attentive,” said Holmes. “But it is sometimes the way. To those closest to him all he had left was a coldness, leaving them starved of love and affection...” He let the words tail off, and then continued sadly. “It does happen in families, sometimes...”
“No!” continued Reynolds. “It will not do. Even if the ladies were on their own between seven and eight-thirty as you say, you forget the candle. There is no way you can possibly get it to be alight at that time. I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, but on this occasion I believe you are in error.”
Holmes’s response was measured. I knew from experience he did not like his deductions to be questioned in such a manner, and saw his knuckles whiten slightly. “So how did the night’s events unfold, I ask?” he said quietly. “Well, when the ladies left the gentlemen to their game, we know they went to the kitchens, ostensibly to discuss the meal arrangements for the Colonel’s visit. Doubtless as a result of my more informal questioning, Lestrade, the cook now recalls that Lady Wolfe went outside for a few minutes, complaining of a headache and needing to walk in the fresh air. You missed that, and I am afraid as a result you made your enquiries more difficult than necessary, for on that one piece of information the whole matter rests.
“Lady Wolfe merely needed an excuse to go outside. Her route took her along the north side of the House, the same side as the Games Room. She was the so-called ‘ghost’ seen by Mr. Wilson, although he did not recognise her because of the lack of light. But note, she was seen walking with purpose and speed, not with leisure, towards the outbuildings. There is only one building along that frontage that can be reached without venturing into the wolves’ enclosure - the ice house. That was the point at which I started to realise how she had committed the murder of her husband.”
“She may have wished to choose a joint for the meat course,” I responded. “I know that’s what my mother used to do.”
“But in an establishment such as this, Watson, that is the cook’s job - to choose the joint of meat for approval. Lady Wolfe went to the ice house for a very specific reason, did you not, madam?” The lady nodded. “You then made your way to your husband’s room, whilst your daughter went to the Drawing Room. You had agreed to act as alibi for each other. So sad; involving your daughter in your crime.”
“I’m not sorry,” the daughter said quietly.
“But Sir Cedric’s room was locked, Mr. Holmes!” exclaimed Reynolds. “I have the key, here.” He held it up. I understood his motive, for I would do the same; trying to find a way of upholding the family honour in the face of what were becoming overwhelming odds.
“I had a copy made,” whispered Lady Wolfe, “from my husband’s key.” Reynolds was crestfallen.
“So,” continued Holmes, “you entered his room and killed him. He was sitting by the fire, back to the door and the window, and probably didn’t hear you or see you coming. When the deed was done, you locked the door behind you, hid the key, and joined your daughter in the Drawing Room before Master Thomas arrived.” She nodded. “Which brings us to the time of death. The evidence is most compelling for eight.”
“Probably,” she replied. “I didn’t really look. All I knew was that I had to be back in the Drawing Room before Thomas came to join us. I knew they were playing best of three, so yes, perhaps eight was the time.”
“Remember too,” continued Holmes, “that the heat of the fire would have kept the body warm, so we cannot rely on that for an accurate assessment of the time of death. And we have evidence provided by the wolves.”
“But the candle, Holmes,” interrupted Lestrade. “We come back again to the candle. With respect, this scheme just does not work. It was still alight at eight in the morning.”
“To which I reply, the ice house.”
Lestrade looked blank, but all suddenly became clear to me. I remembered, almost from nowhere, something that Holmes had spoken about some years ago, in the early days of our acquaintance. “Of course!” I exclaimed. “Why, that’s wonderful, Holmes!”
“Come, Watson, explain to our friends!” said Holmes. “You have spen
t long enough complaining about the experiments I undertake in our lodgings. Now you see why I invest my time thus.”
My chance to redeem myself had come. “If you freeze a candle, it slows the rate of burn. So a ten hour candle could easily burn for a couple of additional hours.”
“Splendid, Watson!” exclaimed Holmes. “I knew I could rely on you. Lady Wolfe had previously secreted a packet of candles in the ice house, which although is outside the main house is within the second wall and so safe from the roaming wolves. That is why you thought Sir Cedric was unsettled on the night of his death, Reynolds; he became aware somehow of the theft and being the kind of man he was, this would weigh on his mind. His security had been broken; how could that be? No doubt he started to suspect everyone of some hand in it.
“So armed as I was with that knowledge, I tested a scheme of events whereby the time of lighting the candle now moves earlier, to eight or thereabouts, and found no lack of supporting evidence. The final proof I needed was in what I picked up from the carpet.” He took the envelope from his pocket and shook out the contents onto a side table. He showed a short piece of string to Reynolds. “You see here, a trimmed candle wick.”
“I’m sorry...?” breathed Reynolds.
“To ensure a slow burn, the trick is to trim the wick close to the candle. The flame burns small and slowly, and together with the frozen wax gives plenty of time for the murder to take place whilst young Thomas was together with your visitors, and before you went to your own room, Reynolds.”
I suppressed the urge to clap, but doubtless my face displayed enough of my emotions.
“But I am very disappointed nonetheless, in everyone,” continued Holmes abruptly.
“Why, Holmes?” I asked, now suddenly unsure of what had been missed.
“Simply the candle itself,” he replied. “It was obviously intended to mislead our professional colleagues into thinking that the time of death was after ten when Lady Wolfe was in others’ company. And yet, two nights ago the moon was full and the weather was clear. We know the curtains were half drawn. So what with the firelight and the moonlight, why would he even need a candle? There would be enough light in the room to not need any other, even for someone scared of the dark.”
“Of course!” said Lestrade. “How did we miss it?”
“Because you take what you see on face value. Let that be a lesson, especially to your colleagues in the local constabulary. As soon as I verified that the room was as it had been found, and seeing it faced full south, I knew the candle was the key to solving the case.”
Lady Wolfe gave a cry and buried her face in her hands.
“It is a great irony, of course, but oftentimes it works thus. If the candle had not been lit,” continued Holmes, “it would not have been so easy to solve this case. But now it seems you have another account to add to your collection, Watson. A good day’s work, if I may be so bold.”
The Case of the Vanishing Inn
by Stephen Wade
From time to time in these memoirs of my life with Sherlock Holmes, there emerges a case which has been eclipsed and consequently forgotten. This may be the result of accidental omission, or perhaps by an oversight by my good self, a man as fallible as the next, in spite of my desire to be meticulous in the chronicling of the remarkable detective work effected by my singular friend. This case is exactly that: it was a pleasure to discover my notes when revising some of my stray papers, and I assemble the narrative now, not without a little sense of personal pride at my part in it.
Holmes was away at the time. It was in early June, 1888, soon after the business with the King of Bohemia, and I firmly believe that the encounter with Irene Adler had been a strain upon Holmes’s normally robust constitution; he had, of course, performed exceptionally well in that case. Whatever the reasons for his absence throughout that month - and I forget what called him away - the result was that I was left in sole charge of matters at Baker Street. The strange and challenging events of that month return vividly to my memory now that the writer in me attempts to retrieve them from the great backward and abysm of time, as the poet said.
It began with Inspector Lestrade arriving. Now I am aware that in the pages of my memoirs this little man tends to be depicted with less than flattering descriptions, and with some rather demeaning imagery. But to a certain extent he excelled himself in this adventure, and I value him a little more highly now.
I saw him arrive in a hansom cab across the road, as I was finding it hard to settle without the comforting presence of Holmes, silent though he would have been, at the breakfast table. I was staring out of the window, with no other motive than to relieve the tedium of being the sole inhabitant of that wonderfully intriguing lair of the great mind that was Sherlock Holmes.
A bare minute later Lestrade was shown in, and he was not alone. Behind him was a thin, athletic young man with a mere shadow of hair on his face where a beard would eventually flourish, given time. He was almost twice the height of Lestrade and crouched somewhat when addressed, so as not to seem distant and overbearing. He had rich brown hair, as I saw when he doffed his hat on being introduced, and a winning smile, conveying the optimism and joy of youth.
“Ah, good morning Dr. Watson. The sun is out and the day bodes well... and I must introduce you to Detective Constable Lees.” The little man turned and nodded upwards. Lees shook my hand as Lestrade began an encomium on myself and my friend. “Lees, I want you to remember this place. Fix this address in your bobby’s memory, and look upon it as your most fruitful resource in times when failure rears his ugly head. This is the office of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, a man whose talents have helped me solve a few complex cases, though I had done the hard work myself... yes... he has stepped in and offered a contribution.”
A contribution, I thought, but held my tongue. Why, the little rogue was claiming to be far more than he was. He had the cheek to press the point. “Now, Dr. Watson, I have a special role just now. I have been given the task of teaching young Lees the ins and outs of trapping the bad ‘uns of this great city of ours... and there are bad ‘uns a plenty, as the doctor knows...” He looked at me and added, “Dr. Watson is not averse to firing his pistol at a desperate villain if extreme action is needed, oh no, a good man in a fight is your doctor. He’s played his part in my cases, haven’t you, Doctor?”
I had planned to offer them tea and crumpets, but I changed my mind after that last statement. The rat-faced upstart was playing the lead part in a sordid little farce, particularly to impress the young man who stood there, mouth almost dropping in awe as Lestrade gave his most audacious falsehood, “Now Lees, Holmes and Watson have more than once been behind me in some shadowy den of evil as I led the way, anxious to protect my civilian charges, useful though they sometimes prove to be.”
That was too much. There was a rage building in me and I fought for self-control as I hinted that they must be very busy men and so on. But the little man smiled at me and said, “Oh, not before I tell you how I wish to recruit you for a mysterious appointment tomorrow.”
“Do go on,” I droned, expecting some ridiculous monologue of lies.
“Dr. Watson... read this if you please.” He handed me a sheet of paper which had been crumpled and creased in his coat pocket. It read:
Esteemed Inspector Lestrade,
There is an instance of danger to a royal personage. Your talents are required. Be at the Old Charger Tavern, Poland Street, at seven tomorrow.
You must come alone.
One who cares for Britain
He searched my face for a response and asked, with a note of swelling pride, “What do you make of that, sir?”
I decided to pander to his self-regard merely to have some sport. “Now, Inspector, this person asks particularly for you... not any Scotland Yard detective you see, but yourself! That is mighty complimentary. Of course, we know who the r
oyal person is...”
He winked at me. “It’s the Prince of Wales o’course. He loves to go down with the common people... he’ll be in disguise, and creep in there for some female company...”
“He’s right, Lees, listen to the man!” For what seemed like several minutes he beamed and then put his hands to his coat-lapels and swaggered so unashamedly that he needed a dash of normality, but I kept a straight face.
“Now Dr. Watson, I’m not going alone - I’m taking young Lees here, aren’t I?”
“You are, sir, Mr. Lestrade, sir. I’ll be there... to learn.”
The young man, who had minded his manners and said nothing so far, had a broad northern accent, probably from Yorkshire. Holmes would have known which town he hailed from, and perhaps even how long he had resided in London.
“Nobody knows Lees, you see. He can come along and be... well, be invisible, I reckon!”
“I can step into a crowd and hide, in a trice, Mr. Lestrade. He’s taught me everything about being a detective, Dr. Watson. He is a... well, He’s an eminence grise!”
Lestrade was not sure whether or not he was being insulted. But he decided to pretend to understand and put on a false smile. “Yes, I am... one of those. See, Dr. Watson, these young Bobbies now, they’ve done more school now... see, He’s quoting Latin. Now me and my mates down Lambeth, when we was learning, we had the school of the street.”
Amused though I was with all this, I had to make a point. “Inspector... there’s just one little detail about that letter... I have never heard of a public house called the Old Charger. Though it is some time since I was in Poland Street.”
