The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Counterfeit Detective

by Stuart Douglas

  That same man sat on the lower level of a set of bunk beds that took up almost half of the available space, smoking a cigarette, which shook in his hand as he brought it up to his mouth. He had not heard us enter, it seemed, and so I was able to take a good look at him before we spoke. I placed his height at around five foot eight and weight about eleven stone, though not a pound of that was fat. He was dressed in heavy blue working overalls and a collarless shirt, with a dirty white linen scarf tied round his neck.

  Agnew chose that moment to step into the cabin, however, and any chance of further, covert observation was ended as he ordered Peters to his feet.

  The prisoner – for there was no doubt that that was what he was – came to his feet carefully. He raised what was left of his cigarette to his lips, only to have it dashed away by Agnew.

  “Put that down, man! Have you no conception of the trouble you’re in?” Agnew barked, though his calm face drew much of the sting from his words. A more than capable young man, I thought approvingly, ensuring Peters knew the gravity of the situation but not allowing him to be overwhelmed. The accused, for his part, obviously respected Agnew well enough, for he made no protest and mumbled an apology to me and Holmes.

  As expected, Holmes gave no indication he had heard either Agnew or Peters speak. Instead he walked slowly round the little room, circumnavigating Peters as though he were a globe.

  Finally he stopped in front of Agnew. “As I said earlier,” he began, “this is not the murderer, and the time we have spent on this pointless exercise would have been better utilised in confronting the real killer.” He shook his head. “Quite why this unfortunate soul was suspected at all is beyond me entirely. Mr Peters,” he said, with a smile that was obviously intended to reassure, “do you shave often?”

  “Coupla times a week,” Peters mumbled in response without raising his head. “Less in winter.”

  “And as evidenced by your hirsute chin, you are currently on your winter schedule, is that correct?”

  Peters looked at Agnew in confusion, but that stalwart officer was unable to shed any light on matters. Holmes, again, appeared not to notice and carried on as though Peters had answered in full.

  “So you have not had cause to lay hands on your razor today? And more likely not for a day before that, more than enough time in which someone might have slipped into your cabin and stolen it.” Holmes glanced round the cramped space. “There are not, I would suggest, many places where you might store the blade. It would be a matter of a minute at most to make off with it.”

  “Are you saying that you believe Peters to be innocent on the basis of his toilet habits?” Agnew interrupted. “You think someone else is trying to implicate him?”

  Holmes nodded sharply. “Of course. Could anything be more obvious?”

  I might have warned Agnew to be silent then, but with that combination of bravado and foolishness that marks every young officer, he had clearly decided already that perhaps the reputation of Baker Street’s finest was somewhat exaggerated. “How can you say that with such conviction, Mr Holmes, when Peters’s razor was found underneath the body?” He half-turned towards the accused man. “I am sorry, Peters, but it is hard to see beyond the weight of evidence against you, especially when all Mr Holmes can offer in your defence is the beginnings of a beard.”

  Peters shrugged, and I wondered if he entirely followed what was happening. There was something about his eyes that troubled me. If anything, his confusion seemed to be growing. Holmes could have that effect on the brightest and most thoughtful of men, I knew, but there was something distracting Peters, I felt sure.

  Before I could remark on this, however, Holmes had resumed his education of Sub-Lieutenant Agnew. “Hardly ‘all that I can offer’, Agnew. Consider the most obvious defence of all. What sort of murderer must Peters here be if, having slit the throat of his victim, he decides to leave the murder weapon – even though it has his initials on it and is known to be his – at the scene of the crime?”

  “Stranger things have happened, Mr Holmes,” Agnew replied with a grim smile. “If murderers were never careless, I suspect your own profession might prove considerably more difficult.”

  Holmes acknowledged the truth of this with a slight nod. “Perhaps there is merit in your claim, but in this case we have additional concerns that, placed one by one, will build a sturdy defence around Mr Peters.” Suddenly he addressed the accused man directly. “Will you be so kind as to lift up your shirt, Mr Peters?”

  It was immediately apparent that Peters was not keen to do as Holmes had asked. He glanced at Agnew, but that sturdy officer simply indicated that he should do as he was bidden and, when Peters continued to delay, finally informed him that if he would not lift his shirt voluntarily, then he would be obliged to do so by force. Reluctantly, Peters unbuckled the top half of his overalls and, with a shrug, pulled the shirt over his head.

  The reason for his hesitation was at once clear to see. Stretching in a muddy river of muted purples, blues and browns from collarbone to hips were a series of bruises, very similar to those we had examined on the corpse of Thomas Bellamy.

  Agnew, to his credit, made no effort to conceal his shock. “Who did this, Peters? Come on, man, tell us.”

  “You will note,” said Holmes placidly, “that while some of these contusions are fresh, many of them are older and already healing, just as we saw on the unfortunate Mr Bellamy.” He held a hand out. “If I might ask you to show Dr Watson your hand, Mr Peters? The left one, if you please.”

  I was unsure exactly what to expect, but I knew Holmes had spotted something. I turned the hand over but, other than the expected calluses of the manual worker, could see nothing exceptional. “What am I looking for, Holmes?” I was finally forced to ask in exasperation.

  Holmes’s voice was sharp in response. “Really, Watson, I expected better!” He took Peters’s hand in one of his, then gestured for the other, which he flipped over so that the two palms were displayed alongside one another. “You see now?” he said impatiently.

  The right palm was far smoother and less marked than the left, indicating that Peters was left-handed, but I failed to see why that was significant and said as much to Holmes. There were times when his preference for the dramatic revelation could become tiresome, to be frank.

  “It is the only thing that is significant, Watson. Can you not see that?” Holmes, never the most patient of men when dealing with others less gifted than himself, would not have made a truly great teacher, I think it fair to say. Brusquely, he dropped Peters’s hands and pulled from his pocket the paper and pencil that I had given him earlier.

  “Hold this, if you will, and take a seat,” he said to Agnew, passing the folded sheet to him, before speaking to Peters again. “And if you could take a step forward, Mr Peters, and stand with your back to me. Thank you.”

  The sailors did as they were asked. As soon as everyone was in place, Holmes whispered something in Peters’s ear as he took up a position directly behind him, the pencil held in his left hand. Then, with a swift, unstoppable movement, he drew the pencil across Peters’s throat like a knife, slashing from right to left in a single deadly motion.

  The implication was clear, but I was surprised that Holmes had missed a very obvious objection. Perhaps he was slipping. “That is how a left-handed killer might surprise and murder his victim, yes,” I said hesitantly, with no wish to make my friend look less capable, “but Holmes, that exactly matches the wound on Bellamy’s neck. That too traverses the throat from right to left. Whoever killed Bellamy was a left-handed man!”

  Peters looked stricken, as well he might, and Agnew began to rise from his seat, but Holmes was not at all flustered by my words.

  “Not so,” he said, without force but with utter conviction. He turned to Agnew. “At the risk of sounding like some sideshow conjurer, I would be obliged if you would open the paper I gave you earlier and show it to Watson. It will, I am confident, fully prove Mr Peters’s innocen
ce.”

  Agnew did as he was asked, carefully unfolding the paper and smoothing it out on his knee. Even before he handed it to me, however, I could see that all it showed was a thin line drawn across the centre of the sheet. I was puzzled as to what it could possibly mean, far less prove.

  Viewed close up, I was able to delineate two distinct lines rather than a single unbroken one, yet the meaning remained entirely unclear. I glanced at Holmes querulously until he deigned to explain the mystery.

  “It’s simple enough, Watson. We have established that if Bellamy was killed by a single man then the attack must have been swift and had the element of surprise, hence the lack of defensive markings on his hands. The best – almost the only – way in which to cut a man’s throat by surprise is to come up behind him and dispatch him with one quick cut, across the width of the throat, bisecting the carotid artery. A sufficiently deep cut, that is, one that cuts straight through the artery—”

  “—will cause a jet of blood to pulse from the wound for around thirty seconds,” I interrupted, irritated by Holmes’s high-handed attitude and willingness to lecture me on medical matters. “But if you are about to point out that there was little blood in the lifeboat, you will recall that I made that very point at the time, and suggested that the actual killing had been done elsewhere and the body merely hidden in the boat.”

  Holmes seemed mildly chastened by my outburst. “All quite correct, Watson,” he said, “and my apologies for forgetting that you would be far more able than I to explain the issue at hand to Lieutenant Agnew and Mr Peters. However, I was not speaking about the missing blood – though that is a matter of great importance, as it happens – but of the manner in which a fatal cut might be administered.” He indicated Peters’s neck, on which the necklace-like mark of the pencil indentation was gradually fading. “In order to achieve the required firm pressure, the cut must be made in one quick movement, leaving a solitary wound, such as can be seen on Mr Peters. This is true whether the assailant is left or right handed.” He paused for a moment to allow me to speak, then, when I failed to do so, continued, “You would agree, Watson?”

  I was intrigued to know what Holmes had in mind. Though I was entirely in accord with his analysis, the conclusions he had evidently drawn eluded me completely. “Agreed, Holmes,” I said, “but how does that help us? Whether left or right handed, the cut to the throat would be identical.”

  “You disappoint me, Watson. Will you never learn to observe, rather than merely look? Even in a common case of throat-cutting it is typically possible to differentiate between a left to right cut and the converse, using the depth of the wound as a gauge. In our present case, however, it is simpler still.” He held out a hand. “If you would pass me the sheet of paper Agnew gave you?” he asked.

  The difference in Holmes when he was involved in a case was, as ever, remarkable. No longer did he seem distracted and melancholy. Now he flourished the paper with its unremarkable pencil line as though it were his personal banner, his eyes bright with pleasure and his cheeks faintly flushed with the excitement of the puzzle before him. He ran a long finger along the line, stopping where it bifurcated.

  “Observe this break, Watson,” he instructed. “Mr Agnew, too, you see it? It marks the point at which the real killer was forced by biology to stop cutting and reposition himself, the better to conclude his grisly business.”

  “But why would he do that, Mr Holmes?” Agnew asked, casting a suspicious look at Peters, who twisted his hands together uneasily. “Why would he need to change position, when you said all it takes is a quick cut to kill?”

  But I had finally grasped Holmes’s point. “Because the cut was made from the front, not the rear!” I gasped. I realised, too, that I had seen similar sights in Afghanistan, though never on a man. I had, however, seen goats hung by their feet before having their throats sliced open. The initial laceration could only extend so far before the knifeman’s knuckles intervened and it was necessary to complete the cut from the other side, with the two incisions meeting in the middle – just as Holmes’s pencil sketch of Bellamy’s wound showed.

  “Quite, Watson. Mr Bellamy was not attacked from behind, though I fear that the killer was keen for us to believe otherwise. Furthermore, the depth of the cut clearly demonstrates that whoever made the cut – I do not say the killer, as this was certainly not the deadly injury – was right-handed.”

  I flushed with embarrassment at Holmes’s words. I have always prided myself that I am a more than competent medical practitioner, and if my practice was not nowadays as busy as heretofore, that was no excuse for my erroneous insistence that a cut throat had been the cause of Bellamy’s death. I was not so concerned by my own mistake, however, that I failed to notice Peters give a sob of relief and bury his head in his hands. He, at least, viewed Holmes’s words as exoneration, even if Agnew still looked a little doubtful. I ventured to put both men’s minds at rest. “So, Mr Peters cannot have been the man who wielded the blade?” I asked.

  Holmes shook his head decisively. “Have I not just said as much, Watson? Really, you must pay more attention. No, Peters cannot have cut his colleague’s throat. The throat cutting is of little interest, in any case. It was obviously done at a later point, to implicate Peters, here, and remove any threat of suspicion from the real killer.”

  “Then how did he die?” Agnew asked, the confusion plain on his face.

  Holmes nodded his approval. “A far more useful question. You remember the cut by the late Mr Bellamy’s eye? That, you will find on closer inspection, is the blow that ended that poor man’s life. From my own cursory examination, I have no doubt that a heavy blow crushed his temple, causing his immediate demise.”

  “A sufficiently forceful blow to the temple can bring about a fatal epidural haemorrhage,” I confirmed. “In simple terms, blood builds up between the brain and the skull, causing a compression of the brain. Death can take several hours in some cases, but can also occur almost instantaneously.”

  If anything, Agnew looked more perplexed now than he had before my explanation, but Peters unconsciously nodded to himself as I concluded. He remained ashen-faced, but I noticed he stood more erectly as Holmes turned to him.

  “Now, Mr Peters,” he said, “perhaps you can aid me by telling me how long you have been receiving beatings from Andrew Harper, and what you know of Mr Bellamy’s last hours?”

  “Andrew Harper?” The doubt in Agnew’s voice was unmistakable. “You think Andrew Harper is involved in this, Mr Holmes? Why, Harper is as experienced an engineer as can be found outside the Royal Navy. I have never heard a man under his command say a bad word about him, and many of them have worked with him for years, moving from one ship to another as a single group. The Oceanic was lucky to get him and his team, I can tell you.” He looked round the small cabin, as though seeking inspiration with which to convince us. “No,” he said after a moment of thought. “I cannot believe Andrew Harper had any part in Bellamy’s murder.”

  In the silence that followed Agnew’s speech, Peters’s voice was soft but unhesitating. “About a year, sir,” he said quietly. “It’s been at least that long since me and Tom Bellamy signed up with Harper’s crew.”

  “He has been abusing you all that time?” Holmes asked.

  “It was all right for the first few weeks. Everyone knows as how Harper and his boys get all the best jobs and the most money. And we did. Me and Tom couldn’t believe our luck.”

  “But then…?”

  “Then, once we’d been with Harper for a month or so, he comes up one night, with a crowd of his cronies, and tells us that we need to give him half our pay from then on. Well, we thinks he’s joking and Tom laughs right loud, but there’s something in Harper’s face stops me joining in – not that it made any difference in the end. Once we realised he wasn’t having us on, we tells him that we ain’t no African slave boys to be working and getting no push at the end of the day. And he gives a signal to his boys, and before you know i
t, there’s a couple on each of us, holding our arms behind our backs. We can’t move, can we, so Harper takes his time, marking us where it can’t be seen. Just his fists that first time, but when me and Tom try to complain the next day, well nobody’s likely to listen to us are they, and the next time it’s a wooden stave he uses. Didn’t take too long before we decided to give Harper what he wanted.”

  “Why didn’t you leave, man?” I could not help but interject.

  Peters’s look was gently contemptuous. “On board a ship?” he asked. “Where would we go?”

  I took his point. “When next you docked, then?”

  “Harper told us what would happen if we tried to run. Like the lieutenant said, he’s got a name in the trade, and a lot of men owe him a favour or two. He said he’d put it round that we’d been caught stealing from another hand, and that’d be us finished.”

  I was sympathetic, and even Holmes seemed somewhat chastened by the man’s predicament. “And what was different this time? What did Mr Bellamy do that led to his death?”

  “Nothing! He did nothing!” Peters paused. “Well, maybe he talked back to Harper or something, I don’t know, I wasn’t there, was I? But whatever he might have done, he didn’t deserve to die for it, did he? Harper shouldn’t have killed him, should he?”

  At this, Agnew spoke up. “Let’s not jump to conclusions here. There’s no evidence yet that Harper is guilty of anything.”

  “Would you say not?” Holmes allowed a note of surprise to enter his voice. “The man who Peters says abused both him and Bellamy happens also to be the sole witness to the supposed fight between Bellamy and Peters? A man, to boot, with sufficient support behind him to put together the gang required to hold two strong men while they are mercilessly beaten? A man, moreover, whom I have personally witnessed shouting the most foul and disgusting things at those who work beneath him – I should tell you, Agnew, that I have spent the last few interminable days exploring this ship from top to bottom, and had already marked Mr Harper down as someone who would bear watching. It does not surprise me in the slightest that such a man as I have observed should be involved in murder, or that he would then attempt to place the blame on an innocent.