by June Thomson
Some little while later, she, Persano’s wife – although her hesitant manner in using the term suggested that their relationship had not been legalised – had heard Persano cry out and, on going up to the study, had found him, in her own words, ‘very, very bad, Mr ’Olmes’.
‘“Bad”?’ Holmes inquired. ‘You mean ill?’
‘Bad in ’is ’ead. Demente. Crazy. He look at this box in ’is ’and. Inside is a little creature; small; like a snake. But is not a snake. I do not know the English. It live in the ground.’
‘A worm?’
Holmes sounded quite incredulous.
‘Yes, yes; a worm!’ she cried, seizing eagerly on the word. ‘A little worm. Isadora crazy when he looks at it.’
However, it appeared that Persano had managed to recover his sanity for a few moments, long enough to gasp out the one word ‘Holmes!’, an exclamation which she had perfectly understood as Persano had previously warned her that, should anything happen to him, she was without delay to contact Mr Sherlock Holmes, Persano’s old friend the consulting detective, at 221B Baker Street.
Holmes was about to ask her why Persano had thought it necessary to give her these instructions when the cab drew up outside a tall house in a quiet Kensington side-street and Señora Persano leapt out and was running up the steps to the front door which was set wide open.
Holmes and I hastened after her, Holmes pausing only to fling some coins at the cab-driver.
Inside the house, I had a fleeting impression of a small, dark-faced man, presumably the Mexican manservant, cowering in a state of great terror at the back of the hall, before I followed Holmes and the Señora up three flights of stairs to a landing at the very top of the house where she unlocked a door and threw it open.
The scene which met my eyes almost defies description.
It was a study, lined with bookshelves and with a desk, on which was burning a single green-shaded lamp, placed at right angles to an open sash window which overlooked the back of the house.
A man was seated at the desk, crouched over and gazing down with great intensity at a small box which was lying in front of him. He was tall and well-built, with a deeply sunburnt face of a strong, hawklike cast, marked with a scar on his left cheek, and would have been handsome apart from the expression of mad frenzy which convulsed his features, setting his eyes rolling in his head and clenching his lips open in a terrifying grimace.
In the green light from the desk-lamp, he had the appearance of a tortured soul from a medieval illustration of the inferno.
Hardly had I time to absorb these details when, with a dreadful cry, the man jumped to his feet, overturning the chair as he did so and sweeping the papers off the desk with one wild lunge of his arm.
As they fluttered to the floor, he flung himself at the open window and, while we stood, horrified and transfixed in the doorway, disappeared from sight over the edge of the sill with another ghastly scream, as if all the demons of hell were at his heels.
There was a moment of absolute silence before the room erupted.
With a wild cry of her own, Señora Persano rushed to the window and would have hurled herself after him had not Holmes seized her by the waist and, spinning her round, slammed the sash down. The next moment he had bundled her out of the room on to the landing where he locked the door and pocketed the key before setting off down the stairs, I at his heels.
We raced through the house, past the cowering manservant in the hall and into a kitchen where a fat, red-faced cook and a thin, sharp-featured maidservant looked up from their tasks to gape at us, and from there through a door into the back garden where we found the body of Isadora Persano.
Despite my own experiences of violent death and appalling wounds in battle when I served in India as Assistant Surgeon during the second Afghan war, I hesitate even now in describing the scene.
Persano had fallen from the top storey on to the railings which surrounded the basement area with such force that two of the iron rods, tipped with spear-shaped spikes, had penetrated his chest to a depth of several inches.
Although I knew the task was hopeless, I felt for the carotid artery in his neck and, finding no pulse, I turned to Holmes.
‘I am so sorry; there is nothing I can do. I am afraid he is dead.’
Rarely have I seen my old friend in such a state of shock. In the light streaming out of the open kitchen door, his features looked bleached, his lids drawn so far down over his deep-set eyes that they appeared hooded, like those of some gaunt, brooding, melancholy bird. But even in this first moment of horrified awareness of the tragedy, he was still in command of his reactions with that icy self-control which has led me at times to accuse him of deficiency in human sympathy.* I fear I may have maligned him. It was not always lack of emotion on his part but a deep-seated dislike of revealing to others those feelings which lay closest to his heart.
Within seconds, he had recovered sufficiently to take charge of the situation.
With the curt comment, ‘We must send immediately for the police,’ he strode back into the kitchen where, tearing a page from his notebook, he hastily scribbled a message which he handed to the servant girl with orders to deliver it immediately to Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard.
The girl having departed with the note and the money for the cab fare, Holmes turned to the red-faced cook.
‘You speak English?’ he demanded.
‘That I do, surr,’ the woman replied in a strong Irish accent.
‘Then accompany Dr Watson upstairs and see what you can do to comfort your mistress.’
Indeed, we could hear even on ground level the young woman’s hysterical sobbing echoing down from the top of the house.
Between us, the cook and I supported Señora Persano into her bedroom on the second floor where I administered smelling-salts and brandy. Once she had grown a little calmer, I left her in the care of the cook, who seemed a sensible enough woman, and returned upstairs to the study to join Holmes, who had passed us on the landing.
On entering, I found that he had lit the gas jets over the fireplace and it was possible to see more of the room.
It was a low chamber with sloping attic ceilings and a small hearth in which was set a basket grate, empty because it was summer of anything except some crumpled sheets of paper, covered with handwriting which I assumed was Persano’s.
As I came in, Holmes, who was kneeling in front of this grate, carefully examining its contents, leaned forward with an exclamation of satisfaction and retrieved a square of coarse yellowish paper, quite different in colour and texture to the others.
‘What do you make of this, Watson?’ he inquired.
In my absence, he seemed to have recovered some of his usual control, apart from a certain grimness about the set of his mouth.
I said, ‘Judging by the creases in it, it has been folded up to form a kind of packet. In fact, it reminds me of the old-fashioned apothecaries’ method of wrapping up powders. Isn’t that a small blob of wax still adhering to it where the edges had been sealed?’
‘Correctly deduced, my dear fellow. The packet was indeed fastened with wax and then the seal was broken; fairly recently, too. The piece of paper was lying on top of the others in the grate but, while they were sprinkled with fine soot from the chimney, this was quite clean. However, you failed to remark that the paper is of a poor quality, foreign make and that some small grains of a brownish powder are still adhering to the folds; too few, though, I fear, for successful analysis. We shall see what Lestrade has to say about it,’ Holmes concluded, placing the square of paper in his pocketbook before conducting me across the room.
‘And the desk, Watson? What deductions can you draw from this?’
It was a large desk but apart from the evidence which suggested that Persano had been working at it shortly before he plunged to his death, demonstrated by the open book – in Spanish, I noticed – and the scattered papers lying on the floor, I saw nothing.
Except, of cours
e, for the worm.
I stooped down to peer at it gingerly.
It lay curled up in a matchbox and was a most curious creature. About the size of an ordinary earthworm, it was quite unlike any other I had ever seen before.
Along the length of its back ran a line of tiny, black spots which spread out over the head to form a V-shaped pattern, similar to the markings on a viper.
It stirred and I hurriedly backed away.
‘What is it, Holmes?’ I asked. ‘Is it venomous? Was Persano bitten by it and this caused him to go mad?’
‘It would certainly appear so,’ Holmes replied. ‘It would also seem that the small parcel which was delivered to the door earlier this evening contained the matchbox inside which was placed the worm. You no doubt noticed on the desk the piece of brown paper in which the package was wrapped with Isadora Persano’s name and address written on it; not in an English hand, however. The writing has a foreign look about it.’
I could no longer contain my curiosity.
‘Who is Isadora Persano and where did you meet him?’
‘Persano was,’ Holmes corrected me quietly, his eyes again hooded over with their lids, ‘an internationally renowned journalist, who specialised in South American affairs. I met him several years ago under unusual circumstances in Paris where he was investigating the sale of forged Peruvian works of art for a newspaper article. Indeed, he claimed to have Inca blood in his veins. There was also a Spanish mother and a Quechua Indian grandfather. However, his antecedents are of little relevance to his death.
‘A few weeks ago, I received a letter from him, informing me that he had recently returned from Mexico where he had been for the past six months, researching for a particular assignment, of what exact nature he did not specify. He suggested we should meet but unfortunately at the time I was engaged with the case at Longwater concerning the stolen diamond necklace.
‘Once the investigation was completed, I had every intention of writing to him again to suggest a date for the proposed meeting. I fear I have left it too late.’
The last remark was spoken in a tone of deepest despondency.
‘Did he mention in his letter that his life was threatened?’
‘Not in so many words. He merely wrote that he had made many enemies while in Mexico but, as he was an expert duellist, both with sword and pistol, and was used to defending himself, I did not regard it as significant. He received that scar on his face during an attack by hostile Indians while on an earlier expedition to the Amazonian rain-forests. I very much regret that I failed to take his statement more seriously. He clearly considered himself in danger if he warned Señora Persano to contact me.’
To comfort him a little, I said, ‘The Señora will surely be able to tell you who his enemies are.’
‘Yes; indeed I must question her.’
‘But not tonight, Holmes,’ I urged. ‘She is in no fit state to be cross-examined.’
Holmes acquiesced reluctantly.
‘Very well, Watson. I am forced to bow to your professional judgement but at some point, and soon, she must be persuaded to tell us what she knows. And now, my dear fellow, before Lestrade arrives, take a final look at the desk and tell me if you have observed anything else which might be useful to the inquiry.’
I looked but could see nothing.
‘No, Holmes. Only book and papers.’
‘Well, well!’ said he in a tone of mild surprise but he would not explain what, if anything, I had failed to notice and, turning about, he crossed to the shelves to examine the titles of the books, a task which occupied him until the arrival of Inspector Lestrade, who was accompanied by several other police officers.
Lestrade listened in silence to Holmes’ account of what had happened from the time Señora Persano had arrived at Baker Street to Persano’s leap from the window but he seemed less interested in Holmes’ discovery of the piece of paper in the grate than in the matchbox containing the worm.
As I had done, he approached it cautiously, bending down to peer at it and taking care, I noticed, to keep his hands clasped behind his back.
‘Extraordinary!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have never seen anything like it before. A species of adder, would you say, Mr Holmes? It has the markings of one. I shall have to get this examined by an expert. But there is no doubt in my mind that it caused Mr Persano’s sudden madness. It must have bitten him when he opened the box. Nasty-looking little thing, isn’t it? It is going to need careful handling.’
Holmes said nothing during this monologue, merely standing by and watching as Lestrade sent one of his constables downstairs to ask the cook for a tin box with a well-fitting lid, a pair of thick leather gloves and some fire-tongs.
It was only after these articles had been produced and Lestrade, wearing the gloves, had picked up the matchbox with the tongs and deposited it very slowly and carefully inside the tin while an attendant subordinate clapped on the lid, that Holmes ventured a remark.
‘Well done, Inspector!’ he exclaimed.
Lestrade looked round, beaming with satisfaction. He had not apparently noticed the ironic tone in Holmes’ voice nor the amused gleam in his eyes.
‘And now that the little fellow’s shut away,’ he announced, ‘I can make a start on the investigation.’
‘You intend on speaking to the servants?’ Holmes inquired.
‘Not for the moment, except for the girl who took in the parcel,’ Lestrade replied with an offhand air. ‘I shan’t waste much time on the others. In my opinion, no one in the household is involved. We already have the villain who is responsible safely under lock and key.’
Laughing at his own joke, he rapped with his fingers on the lid of the tin.
‘You have no objection if I question them?’
‘Ask all you want, Mr Holmes. I shall be busy up here until the police surgeon arrives and I can arrange to have Mr Persano’s body removed to the mortuary.’
However, as Holmes and I went to the door, Lestrade clearly had second thoughts for he suddenly asked, his sallow features sharp with suspicion, ‘If any of them has anything useful to tell you, you will let me know, won’t you, Mr Holmes? With your permission, I shall call at Baker Street tomorrow evening to discuss the developments in the case.’
‘Of course, Inspector,’ Holmes said graciously.
There was no sign of the Mexican manservant when we went downstairs to the hall, only the cook and the servant-girl whom we found in the kitchen, discussing with a horrified but excited animation the events of the evening, with the back door to the garden where Persano’s body was still lying firmly closed and the blind drawn down over the window.
Holmes spoke first to the cook.
Once we had succeeded in comprehending her thick brogue, we learned little from her except for the fact that her name was Mrs O’Hara and that she did not live in but had been engaged as a cook-general on a daily basis from the time when Mr Persano had rented the house furnished two months earlier. She saw little of Mr Persano himself who spent most of the day upstairs in his study and rarely went out. The Señora, whom she referred to as Mrs Persano, was in charge of the household and gave the orders although how the two of them managed to communicate, the one with only a limited knowledge of English, the other with an almost impenetrable Irish accent, was a mystery in itself.
The servant-girl, Polly Atkins, was a quick, alert little Cockney. As she lived in, she was able to tell us a little more about the occupants of the house and Isadora Persano’s daily routine. She confirmed the cook’s statement that Persano rarely left the house and, in the short time he had lived there, had received no visitors and hardly any letters.
‘Except for a small parcel which I understand was delivered this evening,’ said Holmes. ‘Who took it in?’
‘I did, sir,’ she replied promptly. ‘It came about ’alf past seven, brought by a young lad.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Well, he was just an h’ordinary boy, sir. I didn’t take
no particular notice. ’E said the parcel was h’urgent and ’ad to be ’anded to Mr Persano straight away.’
‘What did you do with it?’
‘I give it to Juan to take upstairs. I’d ’ad strict h’orders not to disturb Mr Persano while he was writin’ so, as me and Cook was busy in the kitchen, I reckoned Juan could do somethin’ to earn ’is keep. ‘E’s Mr Persano’s manservant; not that ’e does much except wait at table and clean the silver.’
‘Where would I find this Juan?’
‘In the boot-cupboard, under the stairs.’
‘The boot-cupboard?’
‘’E allus ’ides in there when ’e’s upset. But you won’t get nothin’ out of ’im,’ she added, as Holmes made for the door. ‘’E’s a proper ’eathen; don’t speak a word of h’English.’
This proved only too true when, having located the boot-cupboard and found Juan closeted inside it, Holmes hauled him out into the light of the hall.
He was a small, dark-skinned youth with the broad and slightly flattened features of an Indian peasant and might have been any age from twelve to twenty for he had the old-young look I had observed before in the faces of London street-urchins who have grown wise beyond their years in the ways of the world.
He exuded fear. We could smell it on him – that feral odour which a terror-struck wild animal gives off when it is captured, and he clutched wildly at a gold crucifix about his neck as Holmes dragged him forward by the sleeve.
But we could get no response from him except for a dumb shaking of his head, even when Holmes tried him with a few words in Spanish.
Eventually, realising the task was hopeless, Holmes released his grasp and the youth bolted up the stairs.
‘Let him go,’ Holmes said, as I prepared to start after him. ‘We shall have to question him again tomorrow in Señora Persano’s presence. She will be able to act as interpreter.’ He seemed suddenly weary for he passed a hand over his eyes before continuing, ‘There is nothing else we can do here for the time being. Let us find a cab and return to Baker Street.’
