I was about to retort when we were interrupted by a knock at our door.
Holmes called, “Enter,” and in walked our page, Billy.
He handed Holmes a card.
“A gentleman here to see you, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes eyed the card, flipped it around, then held it under his nose, took two sniffs, nodded, and said, “Show Mr. Tipton up, please.”
Billy disappeared down the stairs. “Who is this Tipton?” I enquired.
Holmes leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Tipton is an upstanding individual who is well dressed, has impeccable tastes, works as a bookkeeper for a tobacconist, and is here to see us concerning the passing of his employer.”
“I see,” I said, and extinguished the smouldering butt of my cigar. “Do you know the man?”
“Never met him in my life,” Holmes said, as we heard footsteps on the stairs.
Before I could respond, the door to our rooms was thrown open, and Billy announced, “Mr. Tipton.”
In walked a man who perfectly matched Holmes’s description. He was in his thirties, his cheeks well rounded and his nose flat and porcine. His green eyes had an air of arrogance as they looked down upon Holmes and me. His suit was custom-made to conceal the heft of his body. I caught a distinct whiff of cologne. Here was someone who wanted the world to know he was a gentleman, though his efforts were so overwrought as to suggest a certain pettiness of mind.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Tipton said in a voice trying to sound authoritative. His eyes settled upon the detective. “I have a most urgent matter to bring to your attention, Mr. Holmes.” He coughed slightly, indicating he was about to begin a lengthy explanation as to the purpose of his visit.
Holmes raised a staying hand. “Mr. Tipton, if this concerns the murder of your employer, Mr. Calyxtus Reginald Armstrong, I’m not sure what help I can provide. The papers say that the police have already arrested the man responsible and that he has confessed to the crime.”
“The police are incompetents. They couldn’t find a lost puppy if it was barking behind them. I assure you, Mr. Holmes, that… say, how do you know the name of my employer?”
“From your card.” Holmes yawned, and I awaited my friend’s dismissal of the man.
Mr. Tipton moved his jaw to the left, leaving his face twisted in puzzlement. “My card? I don’t recall writing that down.”
“You did not write it down. Nevertheless, I read it from your card.”
“Are you toying with me, Mr. Holmes?”
Holmes lowered his pipe and shook his head. “Not at all,” he stated. “When Billy handed me your card, I immediately noted the distinct smell of tobacco. Four different types, to be precise. One very distinct aroma comes from your employer’s Brazilian blend, which I myself enjoy from time to time. Armstrong Tobacco is one of the few shops in London that carries Brazilian tobacco; most stock their wares solely from the Orient, and their particular blend is quite distinct. There was one small ink stain on the back of the card with a slight impression from your thumb. Who but a man who works with a pen would leave such a mark on the back of his printed business card? Therefore, I knew that you were a record keeper.”
“You also noted Mr. Tipton’s appearance from the card,” I interrupted, wanting to know how Holmes had made such a deduction.
“Ah, very good, Watson.” Holmes nodded, then turned back to Mr. Tipton to explain. “I noted your cologne, Mr. Tipton, a rather expensive brand, which, it appears, you can afford to wear in copious amounts. That, plus the expensive stock used for your card, confirmed that you held a well-paid position within your employer’s organisation. From the cologne and cardstock, it was easy to conclude that you would also be dressed impeccably in a fine tailored suit.”
“Ah well, Mr. Holmes, I suppose I could have puzzled that out myself.”
“I’m sure you could have,” Holmes said.
“I apologise, Mr. Tipton. I have not introduced myself,” I said, interjecting. “Dr. Watson.”
“Yes, I have heard of you, Doctor. You are Mr. Holmes’s assistant, much as I am to my employer.”
“That is correct,” I stated. “Though I am still in the dark as to the nature of your employer’s death.”
“Why, Watson,” Holmes said, “there is only one tobacconist in all of London who has made the news with his sad demise. Mr. Tipton’s employer did much for the poor of this city. His reputation as a philanthropist preceded him. His legacy of helping London’s orphans will always be remembered. I was deeply sorry to read of his passing in so grisly a fashion, Mr. Tipton; however, the murderer has been captured and will hang, I am sure. Now, as much as I agree with your views on our police force, I cannot help you on a case which has been solved.”
“And I tell you, Mr. Holmes,” Tipton said, his voice rising to a plea, “that I have information which will prove that his true murderer runs free. I know the police have their man, but there is the robbery as well, and I believe if you will just listen to me… the knife was in the right side!”
“My dear Mr. Tipton, you are babbling. Watson and I cannot follow. You came about a murder, but you also speak of a robbery.”
Tipton shook his head. Tears welled in his eyes, but he acted like a man and held steady. Finally, he asked in a whisper, “May I sit down?”
Holmes sighed, but motioned towards the cane-backed chair across from him.
Tipton sat down, leaned forward, and clasped his hands together. With his head down, he looked as though he were praying.
“The papers have reported that which cannot be,” he said slowly.
“The papers have reported that your employer’s body was found on the first floor of his business establishment by two men, one a cobbler, the other a superintendent at Scotland Yard. That evening a vagrant was found inside a nearby empty building. The man was taken into custody and confessed to the crime. What more is there to know?” There was a hint of annoyance in Holmes’s voice.
“That is what was reported,” Tipton agreed, now eyeing Holmes directly. “But even that portion of the story is not true, for it was not two people who discovered the body of my employer, but three.”
“And who was this third man?”
“Lord Forster, the Earl of Bedford.”
I sat up in surprise, and as I turned to Holmes I saw that he had raised an eyebrow.
“You have my full attention, Mr. Tipton. Pray tell us your tale.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” Tipton said, now sitting tall, fully composed, his head tilted slightly upward. “I suppose it all started… well, where did it all start?”
“I find stories often start at the beginning, no matter how far back that beginning may be.”
Tipton’s eyes crinkled as his mind located a starting point for his tale. “Well, I suppose then it all started back in 1881 in South Africa, at Majuba Hill. You know the battle? Yes. You see, all of the men who found the body – Lord Forster, Superintendent Cromwell, Mr. Lory, and Mr. Armstrong, too, for that matter – all of them were army men, and all of them faced the Boers on that terrible day. While our troops were in full retreat and were being slaughtered, Lord Forster was wounded by a rifle bullet in the thigh. He would have met his demise had it not been for Mr. Armstrong. Armstrong flung Lord Forster over his shoulders and carried him back to camp, while Mr. Cromwell and Mr. Lory fired at the enemy and thus kept the escape route clear for their two comrades.
“After the war, when the men returned to Britain, Lord Forster never forgot what Armstrong and the others had done for him. He wrote letters to Members of Parliament and to the Queen herself, trying to have Armstrong awarded a knighthood. But Mr. Armstrong’s mother is Irish and many of his relatives, uncles and cousins, have been involved in agitation against the Crown. With Armstrong’s background, no one would heed the calls of his lordship, and so instead he used his influence to ensure that all three of his saviours received financial rewards for their act of valour.”
“One moment,” interrupted Holmes. “
Did Lord Forster attempt to get Messrs. Cromwell and Lory titles as well?”
“No, Lord Forster felt that awarding titles to the others without acknowledging Armstrong’s bravery would have been insulting. Either all would receive accolades or none would.”
“Lord Forster sounds like a principled man,” I said, impressed. I found myself instinctively rubbing my old Jezail bullet wound. Like Lord Forster, I would have most likely perished on the battlefield, had it not been for the bravery of Murray, my orderly, who saved me from the murderous Ghazis and brought me, wounded, back to the safety of the British lines. If Armstrong was even half the man Murray was, he was a great man.
“Indeed he is,” agreed Tipton. “He knows the difference between what is right and what is the law.”
“An important distinction. Pray continue with your narrative,” Holmes said.
“As I said, Lord Forster wanted to reward the men. He therefore made certain that Cromwell advanced quickly through the ranks of Scotland Yard, becoming a superintendent in just a few years. Mr. Lory saw the business of his cobbler’s shop double. This gave him the means to move his shop to the Burlington Arcade where he could charge more. As for Mr. Armstrong, his business also improved significantly upon his return. He kept his tobacco shop on Oxford Street, and then opened additional shops in Whitechapel and Paddington. He wanted to make certain that all people, no matter their station in life, had access to fine tobacco. He prospered, and with no offspring, he shared his wealth by donating large sums to several of London’s orphanages and poor houses. He also paid his employees handsomely. I earn double what I would in a similar position elsewhere.”
“That is generous,” I said with admiration.
“He is… was… very much so. A most honourable gentleman, Doctor, and he was struck down far too early.” Tipton’s voice was breaking. He turned to Holmes. “This past Sunday afternoon, Mr. Armstrong was having one of his monthly socials with Cromwell, Lory, and Lord Forster. They always gather on a Sunday at the Oxford Street premises. This makes it easier for Lord Forster, whose wife disapproves of him mingling with members of the lower classes. He does not have to worry about being spotted while most shops are closed, although he still travels in disguise to be safe.
“I was on my way to the same location to check the books and prepare the bank deposit for Monday.”
“Is it common for you to work on a Sunday?” Holmes enquired.
“On occasion, I do. Mr. Armstrong was not just an employer, but also a friend. Though I was not a member of his inner circle, the men were always very welcoming. Mr. Armstrong generally invited me to join them for a drink if I stopped in the office during their socials. I did so a few times a year, enough for them to get to know me, but not so often that I intruded upon their privacy. That afternoon, I arrived at the office early.”
“At precisely what time?”
“Just after one o’clock, and I knew immediately that something was amiss. Several constables were standing by the front doorway, which was open. As I approached, I saw Mr. Lory sitting on the pavement against the wall of the building. He had a cigarette dangling from his mouth.
“‘Mr. Lory, whatever is the matter?’ I asked.
“He looked up at me. His face had a greenish tinge. ‘It’s dreadful, Tipton. Cal is dead. Murdered!’
“Upon hearing these words, I charged into the shop. The constables behind me yelled, ‘Hey! You there, stop!’ I didn’t heed them. The ground floor looked as always – nothing was out of sorts – and I headed straight up the stairs to the first-floor office. A constable was sitting in a chair. I barged right past him. He leaped to his feet, about to rush after me, but a voice nearby said, ‘It’s okay, Constable.’ It was Superintendent Cromwell. ‘This is Mr. Tipton, Mr. Armstrong’s bookkeeper. You had better come with me,’ Cromwell said, putting his arm around my back and leading me to a corner of the room.
“I looked about, and at first nothing seemed out of place. There was the small circle of armchairs and ottomans near the entryway where the men would meet and discuss the news of the day. The work desk in the corner was upright and closed. Then I noted one of the side tables, a heavy oak one. It was tilted onto its side. Near this side table stood a group of constables, partly blocking my view of a man lying on the floor, his arm outstretched, unmoving.
“I ran forward and forced my way through the group. It was the body of my employer, gentlemen, and it was a sight straight from the pages of Dante. He was lying on his back. His forehead had a large lump above his right eye. His eyes were closed, thank God. Sticking straight out from his lower right front side was the hilt of a sword.”
“You said straight out?” asked Holmes. “Not at an angle?” “No,” said Tipton, “I noted that myself. He had been stabbed directly below the ribcage.
“Suddenly, I felt myself being pulled back by Cromwell. ‘You don’t need to see that. Dreadful business.’
“‘What happened?’ Who did this?’ I cried. My fists clenched and my body shook with fury.
“According to Cromwell, he, Lory, and Lord Forster had all arrived for their monthly meeting at the same time, fifteen minutes before noon. They had found the door ajar. They thought nothing of this as they assumed Mr. Armstrong had left it open for them. They called upon entering, but no one responded, so the three of them climbed the steps to the first floor. Armstrong had been rather excited to show them some sixteenth-century Turkish short swords called yatagans he had acquired. He had quite a collection of knives, daggers, sabres, and swords.
“They entered the office and found everything set up for their meeting, the chairs in the circle, the brandy warmed, and glasses out on the liquor cabinet. They looked around and then Mr. Lory gave a leap and a shout and pointed. There was Mr. Armstrong on the floor in a pool of blood, the tip of a blade sticking out of his back.
“Cromwell says he turned Mr. Armstrong over and knew instantly that he was dead. His face was white as a sheet. The sabre had been rammed completely through his body.
“Cromwell instantly assumed the role of superintendent. He told Lord Forster to leave before anyone saw him, then commanded Mr. Lory to call for the police.
“Soon after, members of the force arrived. Superintendent Cromwell had one of the officers watch the back of the shop and another the front. He did a quick search of the premises and remembered that Mr. Armstrong had said that he had acquired a collection of six yatagans, yet the only one that remained was buried in his corpse. It seemed that this was a robbery that had ended in murder.
“Cromwell concluded his story and warned me to prepare myself for a difficult week. I would need to make funeral arrangements and to prepare for a number of possibilities with regards to the business. With no heirs and perhaps no will, the future of Armstrong Tobacco was uncertain.”
“That must have been rather difficult for you,” I said. “Discovering that you had lost your employer, your friend, and that you may no longer have a job.”
“It was, Dr. Watson, but I had no thought for myself at that time, only for my employer and for the company. With Cromwell’s permission, I went to the wall safe and opened it to check the books and other contents. Everything was in order.”
“So the robber or robbers were only after the Turkish knives,” I deduced.
Holmes glared at me.
Tipton held up his hand. “Just a minute, Dr. Watson. “After checking the safe, I locked it, and then asked Cromwell if we would be able to open the shop on Monday. Because the crime scene was on the first floor, he said we would be able to do so and that there was no need to search the shop.”
Holmes bristled at this statement, and I could see him silently cursing the force.
“I spent the afternoon and early evening going about notifying the managers and employees of Mr. Armstrong’s death and preparing them for the worst, that the future of their employment was uncertain. It was while making my rounds that I first became uneasy about Cromwell’s story.”
�
��Uneasy?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
“Well, Doctor, it occurred to me that the police never questioned me. They never asked if I knew whether Mr. Armstrong had any enemies, whether anyone might wish him ill. I also noted that I was the one talking to the employees, not the police. None of us were questioned.”
“Quite unusual,” agreed Holmes. He was now sitting up in his chair, his elbows on the armrests, his fingers steepled before his intense grey eyes.
“I did not sleep well that night,” Tipton continued, “and the next morning I went straight to Cromwell’s office in the Yard to ask him why I hadn’t been questioned. He told me he had news, that they had arrested a suspect, and that the man had confessed to the crime.
“‘A vagrant,’ Cromwell explained. ‘He got wind of Armstrong’s valuable yatagans and broke into his office to steal them. It being a Sunday, the man did not expect to find anyone there. Armstrong surprised him and the man stabbed Armstrong and then escaped. Apparently, he sold the knives to a peddler and then returned to Oxford Street to commit more crimes. We found him inside a bakery, intent on stealing what he could.’
“‘But why would he return so close to the scene of his first crime? It doesn’t make sense,’ I stammered.
“‘You give the criminal mind far too much credit,’ Cromwell said, and he removed a sheet of paper from a folder on his desktop. ‘This ought to put your mind at ease.’
“It was the confession of the murderer, a Mr. Archibald Roberts. The confession explained all that Cromwell had stated; however, it left me feeling more uneasy than before.”
“Whatever do you mean?” I asked.
“The confession was unusual, I believe, in that it was typed, not in Roberts’s own handwriting.”
“Many men are illiterate and would need someone to transcribe their words for them. Was this confession signed?” asked Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes Page 15
