The Final Page of Baker Street

by Daniel D Victor

  As soon as the butler left us, we four converged just inside the threshold. Sparsely furnished, the bright chamber might easily have been renamed the White Room. Its walls were papered in white floral patterns while white velvet curtains framed each of the three windows. A white jacquard settee and matching chair stood on one side of the room; a cherry-wood desk and chair, on the other. A light-blue oriental carpet with a flowery white border covered the floor, but it was the inharmonious claret-coloured stain at its centre that immediately caught the eye. The stain told us the obvious: that it was in this room that Sylvia Leonard had died. The family and staff had been ordered to stay out until Scotland Yard had completed the investigation; and Youghal insisted that, with the exception of the body, nothing had been moved or altered.

  “At least, not intentionally,” Holmes smirked. “With all those policeman traipsing about, who knows what damage has already been caused?”

  Youghal ignored the point. “Anything else, Mr. Holmes? Otherwise, I shall leave you to your devices.”

  “One final question, Inspector. When you got here after the murder, were the curtains drawn or open?”

  “Why, they were open,” the detective answered, pulling on his moustache, “as they are now. We haven’t touched them. ‘No tampering with the evidence,’ as you consulting detectives might say.”

  Holmes ignored the sarcasm, and Youghal went on: “The murder took place at night. When we arrived, the sun was about to rise; and when it did, obviously, even with the lights turned on, the open curtains would allow a better view of the crime scene.”

  Youghal paused to survey the room he and his men had already scrutinized. Predictably content with his work, he said to Holmes, “It’s all quite clear, really, Mr. Holmes. The doors were locked from the inside, so Leonard must have entered through one of those French windows, picked up some bulky object - which we still have to locate - and bludgeoned his wife to death. As I say, we don’t have the murder weapon yet, but I’m sure that after we find Mr. Leonard, he will enlighten us on that single, unexplained detail.”

  “Thank you,” Holmes said. “You’ve been quite helpful. Please close the door on your way out.”

  Youghal pulled on his moustache again and seemed about to say something else. Evidently he changed his mind, for he turned, shut the door as Holmes had asked, and left the three of us alone.

  I was well aware of how closely Holmes would scrutinize a murder scene. What surprised me, especially in light of Billy’s weakened condition, was how eagerly the lad attempted to do so. From his position near the door, he surveyed the entire room. His eyes travelled from floor to ceiling, and then his head turned to take in the windows and walls. What he was looking for I had no idea, but as he began to step forward, I motioned for him to stand back and remain silent in order to give Holmes the opportunity to explore. I knew the ways of my friend when he was on the hunt; he needed as much freedom as possible to complete a thorough investigation, the very kind, which years of experience had taught him, the police could never seem to get right.

  Sherlock Holmes removed his magnifying lens from a coat pocket and bent down on his hands and knees to examine the dark blood spot and spatter at the centre of the blue carpet. Moments later, still on hands and knees, he crawled in a spiral direction radiating away from the central stain, keeping his lens focused on the carpet in the process. As Youghal had already indicated, thanks to the numerous windows, there was plenty of daylight to illuminate the scene.

  Next, Holmes walked slowly towards the French windows that opened onto the garden. Despite the greyness of the day, there had been no recent summer rainstorms and consequently no mud in the garden to produce any random footprints nearby. Nor would one expect to find any mud on the floor. Still, Holmes persisted. At one point, he let out an “aha!” when he discovered what appeared to be a strand of light-coloured hair. Picking it up with tweezers, he carefully placed his trophy in a small envelope he had produced from his pocket. But since white-haired Terrence Leonard also lived in this house, the alleged prize seemed unimportant to me. At last Holmes rose and observed the scene in its entirety. Then he carefully walked over to the cherry-wood desk and lifted from it a foot-tall metal statue of a woman in some sort of long toga affair. Finally, he closed the heavy drapes that were currently bunched in the spaces between each of the three sets of windows.

  Instantly, the room was completely enveloped in darkness. Actually, it was almost completely enveloped in darkness because, as soon as the curtains had been drawn, three lances of daylight, like the beams from three well-focused bull’s eye lanterns, immediately shot across the room some five feet above the floor, the result of a trio of small horizontal holes inches apart in the white velvet.

  “As I expected,” Holmes murmured cryptically. Reopening the damaged curtain to flood the room with brightness once more, he began inspecting the wall behind the now gathered cloth at the corresponding height of the hole in the velvet. To Billy’s and my great amazement, we watched Holmes discover a tiny cavity in the plaster.

  Taking out a small blade from another of his pockets, Holmes pried out of the hole what looked to be a bullet. Dropping the missile into another envelope, he said enigmatically, “I thought there wasn’t enough blood.”

  Holmes placed the envelope back in his coat and looked round the room once more. Apparently satisfied, he patted his pockets for reassurance. “We can go now,” he said with an air of finality. “There’s nothing here left to be discovered.”

  “But what have you learned, Mr. Holmes?” Billy asked. “What do you know that the police don’t?”

  “Other than the fact that Terrence Leonard’s wife was not bludgeoned to death - that, in fact, she was shot in the head and then beaten with a small bronze statue of the Roman figure Pyramus - not much.”

  “Holmes!” I ejaculated. “How - ?”

  “Watson, you can see the blood stains. Certainly, there is no spatter large enough to suggest the woman had her skull stove in. And what do you make of the spots a few feet distant from the body?”

  I looked round the floor where his spiral crawl had ended, but saw no blood. “There are no blood spots a few feet distant of the body,” I stated.

  “Precisely,” he said. “When someone is bludgeoned to death, the repeated strikes create a cast-off pattern. After the initial blow that causes the victim to bleed, each successive hit will cause the weapon to pick up blood and fling it behind the killer as he prepares to strike again. Since, besides a few random drops, there is no such pattern to speak of, one must conclude that Sylvia Leonard must have been dead before the blows were administered.”

  “Brilliant!” Billy said.

  But Holmes wasn’t finished. “I imagined a bullet had done the job; the regularity of the stain at the centre of the carpet suggests she bled while lying on the floor. Because the police found no bullet in the poor lady’s skull, any simpleton could conclude that there must be a bullet hole somewhere else - in the place where the bullet, after passing through her head, eventually ended up - that is, behind the bunched up folds of fabric. Since the authorities never thought to close the curtains - let alone to look for a bullet - the damage made by a single missile passing through the folds and ending up in the wall went undetected.”

  “Fantastic, Holmes,” I offered.

  “But I don’t follow,” Billy said. “If there was only one bullet, why are there three holes in the cloth?”

  Holmes walked over to the curtain in question and pulled the fabric taut between his two hands so that the material appeared flat and the holes were readily apparent. Then he folded the velvet in such a way that he could demonstrate with the little finger of his right hand how the tiny projectile would have to penetrate three different layers, leaving a trio of holes in its wake.”

  “I get it now, Mr Holmes,” Billy said. “But let me tell you about the statue. I
did study classics, after all.” He pointed at the small bronze figure on the table, a woman draped in robes standing under a leafy tree. “This Roman statue,” Billy explained, “represents the woman Thisbe of Babylon. She is part of a pair. Without Pyramus, her lover, the statue has no meaning. Therefore, the mate has obviously gone missing.”

  “Just a moment,” I said. “How do you know it’s Thisbe and not some other woman from mythology?”

  “Good question, Doctor.” It was suddenly easy to picture Billy teaching in a Dulwich classroom. “As you can tell from the tiny clusters of fruit, the tree next to the woman is a mulberry; and according to Ovid, when Thisbe stabbed herself to death upon discovering the body of her lover Pyramus, her blood mixed with the roots of the nearby tree and turned the mulberries deep red.”

  “Precisely,” Holmes observed.

  “Like Romeo and Juliet,” I mused.

  “And not like Terrence and Sylvia Leonard,” Holmes said. “Judging from the weight of Thisbe here, Pyramus must have made a formidable truncheon.”

  Billy shook his head. “I know Terrence. First shoot her? Then mash her head to pulp? He couldn’t have committed this appalling atrocity; he didn’t contain the rage that could produce so heinous an act. No, I’m sure he’s innocent.”

  “When we find him, we’ll know more,” Holmes observed. As he spoke, he was already drawing the drapes across all of the windows in the room except the one he’d examined. “In the meantime, let us offer the police, if they choose to return, the opportunity to reach the same conclusions I did.” With this pronouncement, as if about to close the final curtain on some macabre stage play, he raised his hand to the side of the velvet drapery that contained the bullet holes and dramatically pulled it across the window. Immediately, the room grew dark again. Last to exit, I closed the door, which allowed me one final look at the three tell-tale lines of light and the tiny motes of dust that were now dancing in the parallel beams.

  * * *

  Having secured a fellow-apiarist to look in on his bees before he’d left Sussex, Sherlock Holmes appeared determined to see the case through to its conclusion. My dear wife, on the other hand, who’d always looked slightly askance at my frequent visits to Baker Street, and who, I suspect, must have subdued some feelings of delight upon hearing of Holmes’ permanent move to the South Downs in 1903, threw up her hands when she learned of his plans for an extended stay at our home. She took the opportunity to visit her cousin in Kent.

  Thus, it was only Holmes and I who were in my sitting room savouring a glass of port Saturday evening when Inspector Youghal was ushered into our presence by Mrs. Meeks. His sombre mien indicated he was anything but pleased.

  “Good evening, Inspector,” I said. “I’d offer you some port, but your expression suggests you’re here on business.”

  “True, Doctor Watson, but I will sit down, if you don’t mind.”

  I offered him my favourite wing chair; Holmes and I shared the settee.

  “I’m afraid I have some disturbing news,” he said, drawing an official-looking paper from inside his jacket. “This is a report from the Inverness police constabulary near Loch Ness.”

  Holmes perked up at the name, the Scottish lake so commonly associated with rumoured monsters and fantastic sea creatures.

  “What could a lake in Scotland have to do with us?” I asked.

  “Watson, consider,” Holmes said. “Terrence Leonard disappears; we don’t know to where. The policeman in charge of the investigation arrives with news from Loch Ness. One must conclude that, for whatever the reason, that storied lake has something to do with Leonard’s destination.”

  “His final destination, Mr. Holmes,” Youghal said, pulling at his moustache. “As far as we can determine, Terrence Leonard left London Wednesday last, took The Flying Scotsman north, made his way to Inverness and then to Loch Ness, where yesterday in its murky waters he proceeded to drown himself.”

  Sherlock Holmes emitted what could only be described as an exhalation of disbelief. Then he bombarded the policeman with questions: “How do you know what really happened? Have they recovered the body? Was there a note? Don’t you find such a suicide a bit too convenient?”

  “I expected some doubt on your part, Mr. Holmes,” Youghal said with a wry smile.“No, there is no body - although their lads are still looking. And there was no note. But the story satisfies Lord Steynwood; and so, I’m afraid, that is that.”

  “‘That’ is what?” I asked. “What actually happened to Terrence Leonard?”

  Youghal tallied his points by ticking them off on his fingers. “First, a tourist boat found an empty wherry floating in the lake. Second, inside it was a small pile of clothes with Terrence Leonard’s name on a label sewn inside the jacket. Third, there were small chips of rock at the bottom of the boat, leading any sensible person to conclude that Leonard must have weighted himself down in some way with large stones that he’d brought along. Fourth - and probably most important - Lord Steynwood sent one of his solicitors on the overnight train to confer with the police in Inverness today; as a result, His Lordship is convinced that Terrence Leonard, the murderer of Sylvia Leonard, has taken his own life. And, because of the powerful connections Lord Steynwood maintains with the government - including the Crown itself - we must all be in agreement that this case is closed.”

  “Bah!” Holmes exploded. “It is mere child’s play to set a boat adrift containing some incriminating clothes and assorted pebbles.”

  Youghal nodded. “Yes, Mr. Holmes, you could be right. But then again, you could also be mistaken. And since we have a story that satisfies the police in Scotland as well as Lord Steynwood here in London - well, my governor has closed the books on this affair. And, therefore, so have I.”

  “We’ll inform Billy,” I said. “He’ll want to know.”

  “Thank you, Doctor Watson. I assumed as much when I brought you and Mr. Holmes the news. I owed you that much, I expect.”

  We both nodded in appreciation.

  “I’m sure, Mr. Holmes, that you have nothing further to tell me,” Youghal said. “But even if you do believe that you have discovered something new, the Yard - with His Lordship’s blessing - is no longer interested in any wild theories about what happened that night. The investigation is over.”

  “In that case,” Holmes said with finality, “I have nothing new to report.”

  Youghal gave my friend a puzzled look. Clearly, Holmes had no intention of sharing with him any information about the bullet he’d pried from the wall at the scene of the murder.

  After I had showed the inspector to the door, I re-entered the sitting room. Holmes was pacing the floor. “In my younger years, Watson,” he said with his lips tightly drawn, “I might have endeavoured to make the trip north to follow up on these matters. But that was in my youth. Today, if Youghal is to be taken at his word, we should believe that the sordid events in this case actually occurred as he described them. Since Lord Steynwood seems to be convinced, we should, as the saying goes, ‘Let sleeping dogs lie.’”

  But my friend’s words sounded hollow; I knew Holmes too well to accept such a verdict. His pacing began when a problem needed solving, not when he was putting the matter to rest.

  “Tomorrow afternoon,” he said with some finality,” I shall return to my bees.”

  * * *

  The sweltering summer sun had already begun baking London when Billy arrived early Sunday morning for breakfast. Despite the intensity of the morning heat, we dined in the garden on eggs and white fish, too savoury a repast to ruin with talk of death. And yet we had to recount to Billy the story of Terrence Leonard’s suicide just as Youghal had described it to us.

  “Sad to say, Billy,” Holmes concluded after finishing his report of Youghal’s visit, “your friend is dead. According to the police, that should put an end to it.”
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br />   The young man absorbed the news with furrowed brow. “I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes,” he said, slowly shaking his head, “you can think whatever you want, but I can’t believe Terrence killed himself. Just as I can’t believe that he murdered his wife. He was too thoughtful, too refined, too sensitive.”

  “Sometimes,” I offered, “the most sensitive of people are the least able to confront their personal demons.”

  “Perhaps,” Billy mused and then sat silently as Mrs. Meeks brought out the coffee. The young man was perspiring, and yet he held his cup in both hands as if to keep them warm. Only after staring into the steaming brew for a good minute, did he look up. He seemed to have reached a conclusion. With the hot vapour rising before his eyes, he said softly, “I suppose that, if a detective like Sherlock Holmes can accept the outcome, who am I to say any different?”

  I assumed, of course, that Holmes had not accepted the outcome, that he believed there really was more to these deaths than the official explanations had thus far revealed, that his immediate return to Sussex was but temporary. For a short while longer, we sat in silence again, each to his own thoughts, each contemplating the sad story of Terrence Leonard and love gone wrong. Occasionally, the trill of a visiting robin or starling broke the silence.

  Yet one can stare at an empty coffee cup for just so long. At last, Holmes stood up and announced that it was time for him to collect his belongings and be off to Victoria.

  Just as we were entering the house, the bell sounded at the front door. With Mrs. Meeks attending to our table in the garden and Billy nearest the entry hall, it was he who offered to unbolt the lock. I nodded, and he opened the door.

  Time stopped; we three froze in our tracks.

  Framed in the doorway before us was the most beautiful young woman I’d ever seen.

  Her face was classical - heart-shaped with a turned up nose and high cheekbones that should have given her a haughty look but didn’t. She styled her blond hair like a fairy princess, pinned in a tight chignon. But most alluring were her piercing eyes. They were narrow, almost feline, and decidedly blue, a transparent but deep, rich blue. She wore a white cotton dress accented with a long yellow shawl, neither of which could conceal her shapely form. A thin line of moisture traced the top of her upper lip. With her white-gloved hands at her side, she stood before Billy who, the closest to her - in age as well as proximity - remained still as a statue.