I heard a stir behind me and the voice of Inspector Peck rang out. “Take her to Scotland Yard. I will be there shortly.” The constables disappeared down the hall with their prisoner.
I turned and gasped in surprise. Margery Daw had disappeared into a puddle of garments and scarves on the floor, and Inspector Peck stood in her place. He was carefully peeling a flexible rubber mask from his face. He dropped it onto the pile at his feet and adjusted his collar and tie. The ample dress and the shawls had hidden his normal garb. A black wig, still entangled in the paisley scarf that had helped to disguise his gender, lay under the mask. He pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed off the last of the spirit gum that had secured his disguise.
“I can see that you are confused, gentlemen,” he said to us. “I must get to Scotland Yard, as you can see, but I leave you Mr. Sherlock Holmes to explain how this case was solved.”
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes!” exclaimed Fledge Byrd.
The removal of a long, thick black beard and the bald cap that went with it revealed Sherlock Holmes. He held up the hat pin and handed it to Inspector Peck as the official left the room and followed the two constables down the hallway.
Holmes picked up the pipe he had dropped on the table and put it in his pocket. “Gentlemen, I think the brandy and cigars, not to mention the armchairs, will be of a higher quality in Baker Street than here. I propose that we adjourn to 221b and there I will tell the sad tale of a woman who counted her chickens before they hatched.”
Within half an hour Fledge Byrd, his brother Nead, our client M. Bougre and I were ensconced in the familiar sitting room, drinks in our hands and cigars distributed. Holmes stood before the fireplace with his hands behind his back and with little urging began to talk.
“I was first drawn into this case by Inspector Peck. He posed an intriguing question;
‘Who would murder a dead man?’ When we arrived at Madame Fortuna’s house he explained that Herr Schlupfwinkel was Mr. Bailus Schell in disguise. I examined the body and noted the malformed fingernail which was a mark of the family. You two gentleman have it also.”
Fledge Byrd and his brother looked down at their fingers and nodded.
“Before I could go on to examine the house the fire broke out. Madame Fortuna or her assistant Dormir started it. It was their escape plan in case the authorities became suspicious about the séances and wanted to look for trapdoors and hidden wires. Many mediums rig their séance rooms with such devices to help them produce the illusions that convince their clients their contacts in the other plane are genuine. I caught a glimpse of the control panel in the séance room when I tore down the tapestry in an effort to fight the fire.
“The building could not be saved, however, and Inspector Peck arrested Madame Fortuna for arson. He also charged her with the murder of Bailus Schell. I did not believe she was responsible for that. Why would she kill a complete stranger? He had done nothing threatening to her. Even if she had seen through his disguise was that fact alone enough for her to murder? No, Madame Fortuna had many sins against her, but Bailus Schell’s death was not one of them.
“This morning M. Caspar Bougre came to me and asked that I find Mr. Schell’s killer. I agreed. He told me something about Mr. Schell’s relationship with his nephews and a little about Miss Mina Nestor’s engagement to Mr. Fledge Byrd. I found especially interesting his account of their trek through the ranks of mediums of London, trying to get in touch with Mr. Byrd’s mother for her approval of the marriage. Mr. Byrd was an adult, well passed his first youth, and I found it unusual that he would depend so much on his dead mother’s endorsement of the union. Even when he seemed to achieve it, and Miss Nestor urged him to accept the message as genuine, he would demur and continue to search. This told me Mr. Fledge Byrd had deep-seated reservations about the engagement and was really looking for a way out of it. Another sign of his reserve was the twisting of the ring on his finger. He was unconsciously fighting the addition of a wedding ring.”
Mr. Fledge Byrd nodded again. “I thought I loved her when I asked her to marry me. She was so alone, so vulnerable after her father’s death. Her mother had died years before and she had no other family. But after the engagement was announced she became so clinging and so helpless that I could only foresee a future of more and more dependence that would be unsupportable over time. No marriage could survive burdened with such constant fear. A man wants a helpmeet, not a child to constantly comfort.”
“It was her fear that you were her one and only chance for a home and an escape from spinsterhood that drove her to such lengths. When she recognized the family mark on Herr Schlupfwinkel’s hand as it was spread out next to hers on the séance table, she panicked. She must have already sensed your hesitation. All her great plans would be ruined if your uncle could persuade you to not go through with the wedding. She struck out with the only weapon she had, the lethal hat pin.
“Later that night, back at your hotel, she wiped the instrument clean. But Dormir had escaped his mistress’s arrest and had seen something during the séance that convinced him Miss Nestor was the culprit. He sent her a message to meet him outside the lodgings. He planned to blackmail Miss Nestor in order to get money to leave England. But the woman surprised him by thrusting the same weapon into his chest. She left him dying in the alley where they had met and got back to the hotel just in time to be notified of the upcoming séance. She had no opportunity to clean the hat pin. The best she could do was shove it back into her hat.
“The news of the finding of Dormir’s body came just as Inspector Peck and I were leaving Scotland Yard. His death formed another link in the chain. I knew of Inspector Peck’s acting talents from our co-operation in a previous case. He was more than willing to impersonate Margery Daw, a character he had originated for a Policeman’s Frolic earlier this summer. He played through our script wonderfully. I must say that the stage lost a fine actor when Bantam Peck took up crime-solving.
“Shattered by the refusal of Mr. Byrd’s “mother” to allow the marriage, Miss Nestor had no defence when she was accused of the crime of murder. When I plucked the fatal hat pin from her hat, still stained by Dormir’s blood, she collapsed. Inspector Peck shed his disguise and the rest you know.”
A second round of brandy seemed called for, so I circulated the bottle. The sombre Byrd brothers were disinclined to stay after Holmes’ revelations, so they soon called for a cab and went back to their lodgings. M. Caspar Bougre paused at our door and clasped Sherlock Holmes’ hand warmly.
“Make up your bill, Mr. Holmes, and I’ll be around tomorrow to pay it. Now I feel my friend Bailus Schell can rest in peace. What a horrible woman!”
“She was afraid,” said Sherlock Holmes. “She lived in fear of abandonment and a lonely old age. When she met with Dormir she killed him on impulse, driven by a fear of discovery. Fear drove the woman into crime and it was her fear of capture that allowed us to prove her guilt.
“Come for breakfast tomorrow, M. Bougre. We will present you with a table that will offer no ghosts, spooks and messages from the other side, only nourishing dishes to eat. You will rise up satisfied while the table remains in place. There will be no chance that it will dance around the room. Of that you may have no fear!”
The Case of the Hesitant Heist
It was a morning in late May when I heard my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes make a surprising statement.
“It appears that I now will have the time and leisure to pursue my interests independent of the hasty need to replenish my bank account, Watson.”
“Why is that, Holmes?”
“By this show of the high regard in which Sir Kilkenny Kattz held my services.” Holmes leaned back in his armchair and lazily waved a slip of paper in my direction. I poured out the last of the coffee.
“Is that the check for the fight club case?”
“Yes and it is a most generous sum
for such a slight investigation.”
“Slight investigation! For two weeks you posed as a down-and-out bare-knuckled boxer, a punching bag for every tough and hoodlum that villain Striker could throw against you. It amazes me that you survived without permanent damage. I never knew in what condition I would find you whenever you returned to Baker Street.”
“Ah, but I had a few tricks to turn away the worse of the blows offered me. You were most helpful when it came time to expose Striker’s diabolical plan to Sir Kilkenny.”
“We were both lucky Striker was better with his fists than with a pistol.”
Holmes rose and impaled the rest of the post to the centre of the mantle with a jack-knife he kept there for that purpose. Then he carefully placed the knight’s check in his notebook.
“After I deposit this at my bank this morning, Watson, what do you say to a little trip to …yes, Mrs. Hudson, what is it?”
“There is a young woman here to see you, Mr. Holmes,” our landlady announced as she gathered up the breakfast things.
“Bother all young women! I am seeing no new clients. Put a sign in the window, if you please, Mrs. Hudson, that Mr. Sherlock Holmes has retired to the country and will not return until fall.”
Mrs. Hudson was unperturbed. “I will send her up,” she said and exited in a flurry of skirts and clinking china.
A moment later a young female stepped into our sitting room. Her round face and figure held no promise of great beauty but there was a sweetness evident in her green eyes. Her round nose was held in place by a wave of freckles over a cupid bow mouth. She was dressed in a street dress of dull green with a narrow-brimmed hat of the same colour perched upon her head of tight reddish curls. One hand was gloved in the same shade as her dress and in the other hand she clutched the matching glove along with her reticule. As I got up to offer her a seat on the sofa I realized that she came up just to my shoulder. She smiled timidly at me as she sat down then transferred all her attention to Sherlock Holmes.
“You are very kind to agree to see me, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes had turned away to the mantelpiece and was pretending to examine the knife he had just thrust into its surface. From where I stood I could see his face. It was a mask of irritation. Our landlady seldom went against any of his wishes and this violation was out of character for her. But his customary courteous attitude toward women prevented him from throwing the young lady out on her ear without hearing her case. After a pause and a glance at me he ran his eye over her. She looked back at him bravely, tugging at the third finger of her gloved hand. When she tried to speak he raised a hand.
“You were born in Belfast, Ireland five and twenty years ago. Your parents brought you to London when you were ten years old. You work as a children’s nurse and live with the family that employs you. Not a rich family. Your master is an up-and-coming merchant, dealing in spices and fruits…a greengrocer who uses part of his private property as a warehouse for his stores. This is not your day out, but your problem cannot wait and you have arranged with another servant to exchange shifts so that you might travel to Baker Street on the Underground and ask for my help. You are satisfactory in your work and so your mistress has agreed to this plan. Your problem involves someone with whom you are very close.
“You did notice, Watson, the faint traces of her Irish accent, which she has worked so hard to overcome. The older child of the family, one of two, I think, has marked her dress with traces of chalk from the nursery which she has failed to completely brush off her skirt. The marks are at the exact height for a toddler to reach. At her age, she would not be head nursemaid, but assistant to an older woman. There is a stain on the glove she holds in her hand of Madson’s Baby Food, a popular canned formula for babies. So there is a second child as well. The splash occurred this morning, as she was bidding farewell to the infant. She could not take time to clean the glove or exchange it for another.
“Such a profession demands that the nursemaids live on the premises. She carries a faint aroma of apples and pears, cinnamon and coriander that marks her employer as a greengrocer who uses part of his property as a warehouse for his stores. Thus he has shown himself to be thrifty and sensible. He has married a woman also sensible enough not to want to cause discord with a valued and trusted servant. Monday mornings are not the customary time that servants are allowed absence from their jobs so arrangements were made with her mistress and the head children’s nurse to be allowed to leave the house. The return ticket of the Underground line is peeking out of her pocket and nothing less than the peril faced by a close relative or a lover would be so important as to bring around such climatic upheavals in the life of this ordinary young member of the working class.”
“Oh, Mr. Holmes, you are correct on every point, although I cannot tell how you knew all that. My name is Morgana Dyne and it’s my brother Alan that I am worried about. I saw him last Thursday, my regular night out, and we were to meet again yesterday after church. I waited outside St. Christopher’s for two hours, until I had to go back to the house to help with the little ones’ lunch, but he never showed. I’m worried because he said he had some kind of job set up for Saturday night. He wouldn’t really tell me much about it. I’m afraid something has gone wrong. And I didn’t like the looks of that man that Alan met at the café just after I left.”
I could see that despite himself Sherlock Holmes was interested in her story. He filled one of his pipes from the Persian slipper by the fireplace, struck a match to light it and leaned back against the mantle.
“Please tell me your story. Leave nothing out. The smallest detail may be important.”
“My brother Alan Dyne had a harder time adjusting to our new life in London than either my parents or I. He is a few years older than I and early on fell in with a rough crowd. My parents couldn’t handle him and he finally moved out. We lost track of him. I suppose I tried to be extra good and diligent as a daughter as a result of the trials he put our folks through. After I left school I went to work as a children’s nurse. I enjoy the work. Our parents died four years ago. Two years later I took a job as a second nursemaid for the Waddys of Empire Square.
“Mrs. Waddy had a little boy, but the second nursemaid had unexpected quit to get married. It’s a good place and I adore the children. Mrs. Sands is in charge of the nursery.
“I had heard nothing from my brother until about six months ago when he walked up to me after church on Sunday.”
“How did he look?” asked Holmes.
“He was thin. He didn’t grow much after he left so he’s no taller than I. He was well-dressed in a sporting way, but his eyes looked harder. He was more reserved than I remember and his hair was sprinkled with early grey, like our father’s was. He took me to a pub called the “Jewel and Bottle”. He had heard about our folks. He gave me a wad of five pound notes. I tried to refuse the money but he insisted, and rather than cause a scene in public I accepted them. I’ve never spent any of them. See, here they are in my handbag.”
She opened her bag and held it out to Holmes. I could see a number of notes folded over and tucked inside. It looked like forty pounds.
“I arranged to meet him after church each week for an hour or two, my only free time except for my half-day on Thursday. Twice on Thursdays he found me when I came out of the Waddys’ home and treated me to dinner at the “Jewel and Bottle”. Last Thursday was one of those times.
“He looked more worried than he had before and spoke of “making a big score” on Saturday. I thought he meant wagering. I knew by then that he moved in questionable circles. He never told me, but a woman knows. It is the major reason I never spent any of the money he gave me. He talked rather mysteriously about “if something went wrong”. I became upset and cautioned him against taking risks. He laughed and assured me he was an “old hand” and the job he was to do was “a cinch”.
“It grew late and
I had to leave. He said he was meeting someone. Just as I reached the door of the pub, a big, swarthy man pushed past me coming in. I looked through the window outside and saw that man join my brother at his table. My brother had an unhappy expression on his face. Then I had to hurry off.”
“What did the man look like?”
“As I said, he was big and had an olive complexion. He had broad shoulders and was dressed in an expensive suit, like those that Mr. Waddy wears. When he brushed past me I noticed the cufflink on his left sleeve. It was shaped like a horseshoe made of tiny rubies.”
Sherlock Holmes stopped fiddling with his pipe and sat down opposite from the young woman.
“I heard nothing more from my brother. When he didn’t show up at St. Christopher’s I decided something had happened to him. I spoke to a policeman on the street but he said my brother was a grown man and missing one appointment with me didn’t warrant an official investigation. There is another to whom I may have gone for advice, but he is presently out of the country. That is when I resolved to seek your help. I had followed your adventures in the Strand Magazine, you see.”
Sherlock Holmes raised Miss Dyne to her feet. “I will look into your little problem,” he said, patting her hand. “Might I suggest that you put that money in a safer place than your handbag? Deposit it in a bank or give it to your mistress to hold for you.”
“Would you hold it for me, Mr. Holmes? I’m afraid anyone else would have too many questions about how I came to have it.”
“Of course. Put it in the safe, Watson, and write her a receipt. Goodbye, Miss Dyne. Please give me your address so I may send you word of my investigation. If you hear from your brother, I ask that you let me know at once.”
She handed him a slip of paper and turned toward the door. I tucked the receipt into her hand and murmured farewell. Holmes moved over to the window and watched as the faithful little woman trundled toward the Underground station.
Sherlock Holmes and the Folk Tale Mysteries - Volume 2 Page 25
