“Ah, yes,” said Holmes. “Tell me, if you don’t mind, when did you two get married?”
“Was a month ago, Mr. Holmes. I’d been working here for two months before that and met Cal. Was a good man, Cal was. He didn’t hold my position against me, no, sir. Said when love was meant to be, it was meant to be.”
“And yet, he didn’t invite his friends to the wedding?” I asked.
“Oh, that was Cal, Dr. Watson. Was a funny thing about him; course, there was many things about him that went against convention. Marrying me was one. I think one reason he waited was to protect me.”
“What do you mean?” asked Holmes.
“Why, just that – he was going against custom, and in this world, none look too kindly upon that. I think he planned on making the announcement slowly, starting with Lord Forster, winning him over. He wanted to be in Lord Forster’s good graces. He figured that when he had his lordship’s approval, he’d tell his fellow businessmen and let them know Lord Forster found no fault in who he chose as his bride. When he found out I was with child, why, that only sped things along. After Sunday’s announcement, I was to move into his house, no waiting on getting the approval of the gentry. We would start our lives together, no matter what everyone said about us.”
Holmes and I again expressed our sorrow for Mrs. Armstrong’s loss and then bid her goodbye. Holmes assured her that we would get to the bottom of the robbery. She thanked him and said she anxiously awaited the results of his enquiries.
While on the train home, I asked Holmes about his impression of Mrs. Armstrong.
“She is a woman who has suffered greatly, Watson.”
I concurred and admitted that I had been uncertain of her until she explained why Mr. Armstrong had kept their marriage a secret. Sadly, in our society, he was right to do so. Without the approval of the gentry, Armstrong could have found himself cut off from his business partners, shunned by his tobacco suppliers, and with a failed business. I admired the man for following his heart. I realised that Armstrong was the epitome of all I wanted to be, a brave soldier and a kind man, fearless on the battlefield and in his dealings with society. I was never more determined than then to assist Holmes, for I wanted Armstrong’s killer caught and justice served.
* * *
Holmes spent most of the return trip quietly smoking his pipe and drumming his fingers upon his knee. Our only conversation revolved around Armstrong’s funeral. Holmes asked me if I would attend.
“It can be worked out. I’ll contact Reynolds, a locum my patients like.” The truth was that I had already considered attending the funeral; Calyxtus Armstrong was a brother in arms.
When we arrived in Baker Street, the clouds had parted and the sun was shining brightly. A four-wheeler stood outside our door, its metalwork gleaming in the sun. I wondered if this might be a new client for Holmes.
My question was soon answered, for the carriage door swung open, and a middle-aged gentleman emerged, fist raised. “Ah, there you are! It is about time! I’ve been waiting near an hour!” He approached, shaking his cane in the air.
“I don’t recall any appointments this afternoon,” Holmes commented to me.
The man wore a tan-coloured suit, had long, flowing grey hair, and a Van Dyke beard. Halfway to us, he began leaning on his cane, a dark mahogany shaft with a silver head in the image of a wolf.
“I must speak to you at once,” he said. “It concerns a most urgent matter.”
Holmes’s eyes turned to slits. “Lord Forster, I do not take kindly to impolite men who make demands of me.”
Lord Forster’s eyes widened in surprise. “You know me?” he asked, moving his right hand to pat his hair and beard.
“Your identity is not difficult to discern. Your wig and false beard do not quite match your eyebrows, nor were they put on properly,” Holmes said. “Your gait was smooth until you remembered that your cane was part of your disguise. I give you credit for at least leaving your carriage without the assistance of a footman.”
“I have done much more without the assistance of a footman, Mr. Holmes!” snarled Lord Forster.
“So I have heard,” Holmes said coolly.
“Now, I must speak with you,” Lord Forster blustered, walking towards the doorway of 221 Baker Street.
“Lord Forster, I know why you are here.”
“Do you?” he asked, spinning around to face Holmes again.
“Yes, and the matter is settled. We will continue investigating the problem of the missing money.”
Lord Forster’s cheeks flushed, and his fist clenched around his cane. “You have no right. Tipton had no authority.”
“Perhaps not,” agreed Holmes. “However, we’ve just come from Mrs. Armstrong, who assured us that she would like us to solve the case.”
“Bah!” spat Lord Forster. “We shall see! Now, let us continue this conversation indoors.”
“The weather is rather balmy for this time of year, aye, Watson,” Holmes said, staring down at a puddle.
“What are you on about?” Lord Forster asked.
“However,” continued Holmes, “I do hear that tomorrow shall be cloudy.”
Lord Forster realised that Holmes was ignoring him. He stormed up to my friend and bellowed, “Don’t toy with me, Mr. Holmes! You don’t know who I am.”
Holmes let out a mocking laugh. “Yes, I do.” He gave a slight tug at Lord Foster’s false beard to underline his point.
Lord Forster clutched at his beard to keep it from falling off. “You have made an enemy, Mr. Holmes!” he snapped before spinning around and huffing back to his carriage. Before entering, he turned and waved his cane in the air. “A most powerful enemy!” The carriage door slammed shut, the driver cracked his whip, and they were off.
Holmes and I watched the fool drive away. “Watson, I fear for the state of our country if that is the best the ruling class has to offer.”
* * *
We spent what was left of the afternoon at home. I arranged coverage for my patients. Mrs. Hudson came in to hand Holmes a letter that had arrived during our absence.
“Ha!” he said, tearing it open. His eyes passed greedily over the lines, and his grin widened until he beamed like Carroll’s cat.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. This is most auspicious news.”
In the early evening, Holmes completed writing a few missives of his own and then declared that we must dine at Simpson’s. I concurred, and we soon bundled up, stepped outside, and called a hansom. On the ride to the Strand, Holmes began to talk about the case at hand. The evening before, he had gone to the Cripplegate Ward Club and a couple of other clubs frequented by former soldiers. With a few coins to keep the men’s cups full, it did not take Holmes long to make the acquaintance of some old army hands who had known Armstrong and were glad to talk of his acts of heroism.
“It was not just Lord Forster whom Armstrong saved. From the way the men spoke, at some point in time, he defied death and rescued nearly half of his regiment.”
Over dinner, I was able to discover the author of the letter that had so excited my friend.
“Ah, Watson, it is good. It is very good news,” Holmes explained, while slicing off a piece of his roast pheasant.
“Does it concern the Armstrong case?”
“In part. I have located the son of Mr. Roberts, his dear Johnny. He has made arrangements to come tomorrow. This shall be a happy ending for Mr. Roberts.”
“Happy? The man is in jail, Holmes! On death’s doorstep! And how will Roberts’s son see him? Cromwell will never allow it.”
“Never fear, Watson. Cromwell will be occupied with the funeral tomorrow, and if I ask Lestrade for permission to reunite Roberts with his son, I am sure he will grant it. After all, I just advised him on a counterfeiting case.” For emphasis, Holmes held up a section of the evening paper, which he had purchased on our way to the restaurant. It contained an article describing the arrest of the criminal and quoted Lestrade on how he had puzzled out the
counterfeiter’s hiding spot in the basement of a house.
Holmes read the conclusion of the article aloud. “We know that the people of London are safe with the great Inspector Lestrade walking our streets.”
We chuckled, but I still pressed Holmes on the sad case of Mr. Roberts. “Even if his son sees him, the man is imprisoned, and if he lives long enough, he will be sentenced to death for a crime he did not commit.”
“I think not, Watson, for if all goes as expected, by this time tomorrow, Mr. Roberts shall be released.”
My eyes widened at this announcement. “Why, Holmes, do you mean you have solved the case?”
“Not quite, Watson, but tomorrow evening, I shall.”
“But… but how?”
“By having the killer confess.”
“So, you know who the guilty party is.”
“I do not,” admitted Holmes. “Like you, I know who had the potential to commit the crime. It is a minor point as to who is actually guilty.” Holmes paused, took a sip of his port, and then continued. “You saw me writing those letters?”
“Yes.”
“Each one will be sent to one of the parties involved in the Armstrong case. Each letter has been carefully crafted to prompt the individual to arrive in the Oxford Street shop at seven tomorrow evening. It is there that all shall be revealed.”
“And you are sure they will all arrive, even Lord Forster?”
“Yes, I am certain. A hint of scandal is all it takes for one such as Lord Forster to slither his way in and try to squirm back out. Now, you must have patience, my dear Watson. I shall send the letters tomorrow morning, so that they arrive at each person’s home after the funeral. I assure you, all will be present tomorrow evening.”
We did not speak of the case much more. I merely stated my hope that Mr. Roberts lived long enough to be reunited with his dear Johnny, and Holmes concurred in this sentiment.
* * *
The next morning Holmes and I breakfasted, donned proper attire, and journeyed to the funeral of Mr. Calyxtus Armstrong. It was a drab affair with a requisite High Mass, eulogy, and a number of respectable citizens speaking of the dearly departed. The crowd who came to pay their respects counted in the hundreds, most likely due in part to the workings of Lord Forster, who had made sure a number of lords and ladies were in attendance. A few orphanage directors spoke on behalf of Armstrong’s philanthropy, generals spoke of Armstrong’s courage on the battlefield, and business people of his upstanding character.
I kept my eyes on the suspects in attendance. All were in mourning and appropriately sallow in demeanour. His widow kept her head down throughout the whole affair, only occasionally raising a handkerchief to her eyes. She did better than some women in attendance who, overcome with grief, stepped out during some of the speeches about the bravery and kindness of Armstrong. Cromwell stood silent, stoic, honouring his brother in arms. Tipton cried copious tears, and Mr. Lory looked haggard and devastated. He remained as composed as Cromwell, but his face was pale and had a green tinge to it. I wondered if he would be sick. I thought back to all that Holmes had shared with me, reflected on embezzlement, indiscretions, and other acts that could make brothers turn upon one another.
Once the funeral ended, I told Holmes I had to away to my practice. Holmes bade me farewell, and I assured him that I would meet him in Oxford Street at a quarter to seven. As I rode to my business, I asked myself if Holmes had gained any knowledge from Armstrong’s funeral that would shed light upon the case. I ran the proceedings over and over in my brain, but realised that I had learned nothing I did not already know.
* * *
“Ah, Watson, there you are,” Holmes said warmly after I entered the Oxford Street tobacco shop as the clocks were chiming seven. I had run late because of the traffic.
Wonderful aromas swirled around the shop. Holmes was standing in the back near the staircase to the first floor; around him were gathered Mr. Lory, Superintendent Cromwell, and Mr. Tipton. All three were still in mourning attire. Mr. Lory looked as ill as he had at the funeral, and he complained, “Can we begin, Mr. Holmes? I do not want to stay here any longer than necessary.”
This was perfectly understandable. After all, he had discovered his friend’s body. He was also right-handed, eliminating him from the list of possible murderers, but perhaps he knew more than he was admitting.
Just a few minutes later, the bell of the front door chimed, and Lord Forster and Mrs. Armstrong entered. Like the others, they were dressed in funeral garb with Lord Forster in an entirely black suit that made his head almost appear to float in the shadows.
Holmes greeted them, as did the other gentlemen.
“What is this about, Mr. Holmes?” asked Mrs. Armstrong.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes. This has been a difficult day for all of us. Please say your piece, so we may return to our homes and our grieving,” Lord Forster said.
“Since we are all here, I am happy to explain, but first we must ascend to the first floor, where Mr. Tipton has arranged things for us to be much more comfortable.”
“M-m-must we, Mr. Holmes, g-g-go up there?” Lory stuttered, eyes growing wider and skin becoming greener.
“I am afraid so, my good man,” Holmes said, and he began to climb the steps despite protests from Cromwell and Lord Forster.
Tipton followed, Mrs. Armstrong in tow. The others moved grudgingly, and I took up the rear. Tipton had arranged seats for us. A large circle of armchairs, some warm brandy and cigars greeted us. It was much like it must have been during the monthly gatherings of Armstrong and his comrades. Once we had taken our seats and begun smoking and drinking – all save Mrs. Armstrong, who declined offers of Claret, Hock, and even a cup of Earl Grey – Holmes began to speak.
“Thank you all for coming. As you know, two days ago, I was hired by Mr. Tipton to discover the name of the robber who stole the £200 from the Armstrong safe. I am happy to report that I have found the culprit.”
“You mean, there really was £200 stolen?” asked Cromwell. “Why, please identify the man so I may apprehend him.”
“Hear, hear,” called Lord Forster.
“I shall tell you his identity, but I ask you to hold off on your arrest.”
“But why, Mr. Holmes?” asked Cromwell.
“Because the thief is none other than Mr. Tipton himself.”
“Mr. Tipton?” cried Lory, turning to face the accused. “Impossible. You loved Mr. Armstrong like a brother.”
“I did,” admitted Mr. Tipton. “That is why I stole the money and presented it directly to Mr. Holmes.”
“What kind of villainy is this?” asked Lord Forster.
“You dare to call this villainy when you were prepared to allow an innocent man to be put to death?” bellowed Tipton.
Mr. Lory nearly spat out his drink, Lord Forster clenched his fists, and Cromwell blurted, “Now see here, Tipton!”
“Gentlemen, please,” called Holmes, drawing their attention. “Allow me to explain. Mr. Tipton had good reason to take the money. While he technically did break the law, no harm was done. The money is locked away in my private safe in Baker Street. Tipton merely did this so as to convince me to look into the matter of Armstrong’s murder.”
“But we have our man,” said Cromwell.
“No, you don’t.”
“Ohhh,” Mr. Lory cried.
“Hush,” snapped Cromwell.
Holmes ignored them and continued. “Mr. Tipton showed particularly astute powers of observation and found good reason to doubt the guilt of the arrested man. I followed up on his suspicions and visited the fellow in jail—”
“You what!” exclaimed Cromwell.
“—and quickly learned that he was completely innocent of this crime.
“Gentlemen and Mrs. Armstrong, I have proven beyond a doubt that Mr. Roberts is innocent of the crime. Roberts is an illiterate vagrant whose lungs are failing after decades in the mines. He had broken into a bakery his son used to own. That is whe
re Superintendent Cromwell discovered him. In his feverish delirium, Mr. Roberts confessed to a crime he did not commit. Now that he has somewhat recovered from his illness, we have learned that Mr. Roberts believed he had only confessed to the crime of breaking and entering.
“Fortunately, Superintendent Cromwell always suspected Roberts’s innocence. He had the forethought to keep Roberts locked away in an isolated cell until he recovered. Roberts is also right-handed, a matter of importance, as I shall clarify in a moment. This afternoon, he was reunited with his estranged son, and once our meeting concludes, Superintendent Cromwell will sign papers releasing the man. The son and his wife will take Roberts to their home and nurse him back to health. Unfortunately, it means that Mr. Armstrong’s killer remains at large. That, my friends, is the notice I plan to send to the papers this evening.”
Cromwell burst out, calling Holmes a liar, a swine, and a cur. Tipton shouted back that Cromwell was the liar. They would have come to blows had Holmes and I not intervened.
Once we had calmed them down, Lord Forster spoke.
“Your story will not be believed, Mr. Holmes. Clearly you have been deceived by Roberts, a far more cunning man than any of us expected. Rest assured that Superintendent Cromwell will not allow Armstrong’s murderer to go free. You have no story for the newspapers.”
“That is where you are incorrect, Forster,” Holmes said to his lordship, who was clearly irritated at the loss of his title in Holmes’s address. “I said that this is the story I planned to send to the papers. There is another story I could tell, a story which I believe would sell many more papers than the one I just presented.”
The room fell silent, and the air seemed to acquire a heavy quality.
Meekly, Mr. Lory asked, “What is this story?”
“I am glad you asked, Mr. Lory, for it involves you and everyone in this room. It begins with Mr. Calyxtus Armstrong, known as a war hero, philanthropist, and astute businessman, the man we heard eulogised so eloquently this morning. That is the Mr. Armstrong the public knows so well, but that is not the Mr. Armstrong we are here to discuss tonight, for there was another side to him.
Sherlock Holmes Page 18
