Lord Elmsfield was dead. He lay on his back in the centre of a comfortably appointed bedroom, his arms splayed out. There was a massive wound between his eyes. Blood had run from it and congealed in a pool on the carpeted floor.
“Get Dr. Ffitch,” Holmes commanded Barkins. “Go!”
As the man clattered down the stairs, Holmes said, “Guard the door while I investigate.”
He edged his way around the room, checking not only the floor and the carpet but the walls and the furnishings. He paid particular attention to the barred window on the far side of the room. By the time he had circumnavigated the room and returned to me, examining the massive wooden door and the barred window set within it, I could hear the sound of Dr. Ffitch rushing up the stairs.
Ffitch burst into the room, Barkins and two orderlies behind him. I expected my friend to object to the intrusion, but he shook his head at my quizzical look. “I have discovered everything I need,” he said, “although I would appreciate your opinions on the fatal wound.”
I joined Ffitch and knelt by the body to inspect the dent between the eyes, which must have been caused by a blunt, heavy object impacting on the skull. I thought I could detect the impression of a straight line embedded in Lord Elmsfield’s bruised flesh, the result, perhaps, of some seam or edge on the weapon. I looked around, but could not see anything that matched the wound. In fact, I could not see anything at all heavy enough to cause Lord Elmsfield’s death. The door had, of course, been locked when we arrived. Where was the weapon? Glancing up at Barkins, I tried to weigh the possibility that he was guilty, but he seemed shocked, and I recalled that he had given no sign of concern when he led us up the stairs to Lord Elmsfield’s room.
While I went on to investigate Elmsfield’s body for any signs of a wound other than the one on his face, I eavesdropped on the conversation Holmes was having with Dr. Ffitch. The director was, of course, appalled at the turn of events, and turned on the valet. The fellow, for his part, testified that his master had been alive the last time he had seen him, and declared his innocence. Ffitch called for the orderly who had been responsible for this exclusive floor, and the man stated nervously that he had seen Lord Elmsfield alive not two hours before, through the barred window in the door. He also stated that Barkins had definitely not passed his station in those two hours. Holmes pressed both the valet and the orderly on the padlock, and who had access to the key. Barkins maintained that there was only one key, that it was always in his possession, that he had it now, and that the way it was attached to a keyring with all his other keys meant that it could not be removed without him noticing.
I finished inspecting the body and moved to my friend’s side, just as he asked, “And while you were with your master, did he say anything that struck you as odd?”
The man shrugged. “Sometimes he was just like normal, and sometimes he was raving,” he said sadly. “One moment he would be asking about the cricket, and the next he would be screaming about the ‘fields of Elysium’, wherever they are. I could make no sense of it.”
“Just ravings,” the orderly interrupted dismissively. “I would pay no attention to that. They all have strange fancies here, gents and commoners alike.”
Holmes nodded, and dismissed both Barkins and the orderly. Dr. Ffitch was staring at the room in consternation, so I took the opportunity to ask Holmes quietly, “Could there be a duplicate key, made at the time the lock was constructed, which could be obtained from the manufacturer?”
Holmes shook his head. “I am familiar with the manufacturer. They make one key for each lock, and pride themselves on the fact that if that key is lost then the lock cannot be opened with anything apart from explosives. Security is their main selling point.”
“And despite the protestations of the valet, could the key have been copied?”
“Such an action would usually leave traces from the machine tools, but I saw no such traces.” He frowned. “And we are ignoring the larger question, which is: why kill a man locked in a cell in a lunatic asylum? Who gains from that?”
“Was it,” I ventured, “our visit that prompted Lord Elmsfield’s death?”
“I fear so,” my friend said grimly, “which means that there was no time, in any case, to create a duplicate key. What of the body?”
“There is only the depression between the eyes,” I said, “where some heavy object, such as a cudgel or a club, impacted with extreme force, causing the skull to crack. Death, I believe, would have been instantaneous.”
“Hmm.” Holmes turned away abruptly and began to examine the barred window in the door.
“Had something been thrown through the bars,” I pointed out, “it would still be in the cell.”
“Not if a piece of string was attached,” Holmes rejoined. “Although I doubt that anybody could throw an object that heavy through the bars with sufficient accuracy to hit a man in the face, and with sufficient force to leave such a wound.”
“Something was poked through, then? A long stick, perhaps, with a lead weight on the end?”
“Again, I do not believe that force sufficient to cause such damage could be achieved.” He looked around, checking, I assumed, whether he had missed any trivial clue or slight piece of evidence, but he shook his head. “I need to see Lord Elmsfield’s home. There may be something there that will help.”
“With solving his murder?”
“That can tell us why he went mad in the House of Lords. That is, after all, why my services have been engaged. If we can solve that, then perhaps we can solve his murder as well.”
* * *
We left Bethlem, taking the shocked valet with us despite the objections of Dr. Ffitch. He was concerned that the police would want to talk to us, and to Barkins, but Holmes dismissively told him that the police could find Barkins in our company if they required him.
We proceeded to Lord Elmsfield’s establishment in Chelsea. He was, Barkins informed us, widowed and lived alone apart from his staff, which also comprised two maids, a butler, a cook, and several footmen. While the valet explained to the staff that they would need to find other employment, Holmes used his natural authority to bypass the butler and gain access to Lord Elmsfield’s bedroom.
I watched as Holmes searched the room, firstly by lowering himself to the carpet and using his magnifying glass to check every inch of the floor, and then by working his way up the walls, before he turned his attention to the windows, the gas fittings, the dressing table, and finally the impressive carved bulk of the wardrobe.
“Aha,” he exclaimed. Before I could say anything, he was pulling all of Lord Elmsfield’s clothes out and scattering them on the floor. Savile Row suits and ornate robes fell to the ground as well as ties, belts, braces, and shoes. Eventually he was left staring at the plain back wall of the wardrobe.
“Holmes—” I started, but before I could ask him what he was up to he reached into the wardrobe and pressed one side of the rear panel. I heard a slight click, and the panel swung forward. Holmes pulled it fully open. In the small space revealed I saw a single suit, hanging on a hook and so placed that it was flat against the real back of the wardrobe. This suit was definitely not Savile Row. It was made from a blue worsted serge and cut in a baggy style far from the bespoke tailoring of the suits that now lay crumpled on the floor.
“A disguise,” Holmes said simply. “Lord Elmsfield has been leading a double life.” Abruptly, he stepped over the scattered clothes to the doorway and called for Barkins.
“Do you know anything about this?” he demanded, indicating the plain blue suit.
Barkins tore his horrified eyes away from the clothing on the floor and glanced at the lone suit in the wardrobe. “Certainly not, sir!” he said, affronted.
“Have you ever seen your master going out dressed in this suit?”
“I would never let the master leave this house in a garment such as that!”
“Have you ever known your master to leave this house without telling you where he was go
ing?”
“Never, sir,” the valet avowed. “His lordship was very particular about choosing the correct attire for every occasion, and my job was to assist him in that. He would spend hours agonising about his choice of cummerbund or cufflink. In fact, as I recall—”
“Do you have a regular night off?” Holmes interrupted.
The valet shook his head. “No, sir. But his lordship would sometimes say to me, abruptly, ‘Barkins, take tonight off’, and so I would.”
Holmes considered for a moment. “Thank you,” he said, and waved vaguely towards the door.
As Barkins left, I asked, “What does all this tell you?”
Instead of answering, Holmes pulled the suit out of the wardrobe and started sniffing it, beginning at the collar and proceeding down each sleeve before checking the trousers. He plunged his hands into each of the pockets in turn, removing several objects which he stared at intently but which, when I moved to examine them, he slid into one of his own capacious pockets. He continued his exploration, and when he got to the turn-ups he ran his middle finger around the inside of the fold before pulling it out and examining it.
“Instructive,” he said.
Before I could formulate a question, Holmes rushed out of the room and clattered down the stairs, leaving me standing there like an idiot. I stared at the clothes on the floor – which would have cost more than I would probably make in my entire lifetime – feeling strangely rootless and abandoned.
* * *
When I returned to Baker Street under my own steam, I found Holmes at his desk, dashing off telegram forms and handing them to the page, who stood patiently beside him. Eventually, he pushed the boy towards the door, handing him a shilling. “Go, send them all.” Before I could ask what he was doing, he suddenly grabbed the forms from the boy’s hand. “Never mind. I’ll send them myself.”
I recognised this frantic mood – like a foxhound, Holmes had caught a scent and was following it. There was nothing I could do to help, and indeed talking to him would likely elicit no sensible response, so instead I went to an afternoon show at the Eden Theatre in Leicester Square (which I still thought of as the Trocadero, despite its recent change of name). When I returned I discovered Mrs. Hudson in our hall, wringing her hands.
“Dr. Watson,” she said, grasping my sleeves, “he’s got the worst sort of men in there! Dirty men, with boots and everything! Please, can you get him to tell them to leave? I’m worried about the carpets! And the cutlery!”
“I’ll do my best,” I reassured her, and bounded up the stairs.
I could smell them from the landing: a mixture of rough tobacco, strong beer, and shirts that had not been washed for a week or more. When I pushed the door open I could hardly find space to enter, the room was so packed with unshaven roughs and heavies of the sort one could find at any racecourse, boxing match, or cockfight. My friend was over by the window, standing on a box that I thought I recognised as holding some of his files. “You have your instructions,” he said loudly. “Now go! I will expect your reports tomorrow. And remember, if you are caught then I can do nothing for you. This work you take on at your own risk!”
The press of men all attempting to leave at the same time nearly crushed me against the wall. By the time I had got my breath back, the room was empty apart from Holmes and me. I heard a despairing wail from downstairs – Mrs. Hudson had got her wish, but she did not seem pleased.
Holmes, however, seemed very pleased.
“What exactly are you up to?” I asked, walking across to the windows and flinging them open. “How was Lord Elmsfield killed? Who killed him? What is the significance of that suit? And where on earth have you sent those men?”
“As far as the first three questions are concerned, I shall let events play out for a while. I need to be sure of my ground before I act. As for the fourth question, those men are various cracksmen and snakesmen that I have come across during the course of my work, professional burglars who ply their trade in the more exclusive areas of this city.”
“You are employing criminals?”
“Indeed, as one might use a sprat to catch a mackerel.” He shook his head. “Something is afoot, Watson – something dark. I fear we are standing on the edge of a shadowed crater, and I need to find a way of casting some light inside. If that means using a handful of minor miscreants, then so be it.”
“And who have you sent them to burgle?” “If by ‘burgle’ you mean ‘rob’, then I and they are innocent. I merely sent them to take a look, surreptitiously, at the desk diaries of the butlers and valets of numerous members of the aristocracy who make their place of residence in London.”
“It is still breaking and entering, even if it is not burglary. And you know perfectly well that they will steal whatever they can while they are there.”
“Entering, certainly,” Holmes said, shrugging casually. “I trust they will find means of entry which do not require any damage to be done. Trespass at most. If they take the odd ring or necklace, then so be it, but I directed them not to steal, and to leave no trace of their presence. I do not think, my dear fellow, that they would be so foolish as to ignore the instructions of Sherlock Holmes.”
I hesitated for a moment. “Why desk diaries? Why not worsted serge suits? That, surely, is the kind of thing you actually want to find?”
My friend smiled. “Yes, I could have instructed them to look for hidden clothing items. However, the best time to sneak into a man’s house is in the small hours of the morning, when most people will be safely in bed. The problem is, wardrobes are often kept in those very bedrooms, or in rooms adjoining. The risk to the surreptitious entrant is high. Offices, studies, and libraries are, on the other hand, much more easily entered with safety at night.”
“To what end?”
“We shall find out tomorrow.”
With that, he went to his room and shut the door behind him. Moments later I heard him playing his violin, a sad ditty that I believe was of his own composition.
* * *
The next day I awoke and partook of a hearty breakfast before Holmes made an appearance. Mrs. Hudson was still in a state of agitation about the day before, a state that became worse as the morning progressed and the men that had so agitated her returned, one by one. Having emerged from his room wearing his mouse-coloured dressing gown, Holmes listened to each one as he detailed his shenanigans from the night just passed. I listened, of course, my mood somewhere between fascination and shock. Fortunately, none of them had been discovered during their nocturnal adventures, and they all assured Holmes in earnest tones that they had taken nothing while there and left no evidence of their presence.
All of them had managed to gain access to the small offices or side-rooms used by the butlers in order to run their masters’ households invisibly. Those rooms contained ledgers, diaries, and day-books, and it was these in which Holmes was interested. In particular, he was looking for dates during the past six months when the masters of the house had at short notice given their valets and other staff the night off – something the butlers would have been obliged to record in order to ensure that staff did not take any more time off than that to which they were entitled. As I listened to the men tell their stories, one after the other, occasionally consulting scribbles on scraps of paper or in notebooks, I realised that seven or eight of them were reciting the same sets of dates.
After Holmes had dismissed them all, with a half-sovereign each, he leaned back in his chair. “An expensive undertaking,” he said, his eyes closed, “but I shall invoice Mr. Kenelm Digby for the entire amount. I am sure the Home Office’s coffers can cope, and I dislike being lied to, even if it is a sin of omission rather than a sin of commission.”
“Lied to?”
“It is a habit of politicians – and a shameful one.”
“Do I gather from the reports of your agents that there is a subset of the nobility in this city who have formed what I can only describe as a secret society? Upon certain nights
they disguise themselves in common labourers’ clothing and leave their houses, unbeknownst to their servants, whom they have given the night off.”
“That would appear to be the case. You have been paying attention. I commend that.”
“To what end? And what does it have to do with Lord Elmsfield’s death? After all, the rest of these personages are alive and sane.”
“That remains to be seen,” Holmes said. Instead of answering my questions, he grabbed the block of telegram forms from where he had left it on the table the day before and scribbled a quick note, then called for the page, who he sent off to the post office with both a form and a shilling. He then lit his pipe and closed his eyes, bluish smoke rising to the ceiling. I waited with him, leafing through a copy of the Lancet, but unable to concentrate, so fascinated and confused was I by what Holmes’s investigations had brought to light thus far.
“Ah,” he said finally, rousing himself after about an hour. “I hear that same Home Office carriage outside.”
Moments later the door downstairs slammed open and I heard what sounded like two sets of footsteps climbing our stairs, followed by an indignant protest from Mrs. Hudson. The door to our rooms burst open, revealing an irate Kenelm Digby, backed up by his stern-faced factotum, Mr. Epplestone.
“I am not,” Digby snapped, “accustomed to being accused of terminological inexactitude, Mr. Holmes, especially by lay detectives such as yourself.”
“And yet, if the shoe fits…” My friend stood up abruptly and pointed the stem of his pipe at Mr. Digby. “How many members of the aristocracy have had strange, unexplained, violent fits or mental attacks in the past year?”
Digby stared at him, his lips twisted. “Including Lord Elmsfield, six,” he said eventually, with an expression on his face that indicated the words were painful to him.
“And you did not think it relevant to mention that yesterday?”
“I engaged you to look into the matter of Elmsfield’s madness. The other, previous events were not relevant.”
Sherlock Holmes Page 21
