The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Counterfeit Detective

by Stuart Douglas

  “At which point, you vacated the premises, though you left your gun behind.”

  “My gun?”

  “Your gun, Mr Craggs. The murder weapon. It was found by the body.”

  “But I have missed that gun since that terrible night. I had it in my hand when I ran towards Millicent’s killer, I know that, but I cannot even say if I contrived to fire it before I was shot down.”

  He pulled back the hair above the left side of his face, exposing a long, partially healed line of raw flesh that ran from just above his ear into his hairline and back out again beneath his collar. “Another half inch to the left and I should have been killed outright. In light of this, you will forgive me if I did not keep an inventory of my weapons and their eventual destination.”

  For myself, I did not doubt his sincerity, but Bullock had the scent in his nostrils. “And a hair matching your own was found on the body of the dead man. How do you explain that?”

  As it turned out, Craggs was not required to explain anything further, for Holmes, who had been listening to the exchange with increasing impatience, chose that moment to intervene. “He has already said that he found Rawlins dead. Do you imagine that he came to that conclusion from across the room, Bullock? Obviously he bent low over the body in order to check for signs of life. A hair must have transferred itself during that inspection.”

  “Thank you for that reminder, Mr Holmes,” Bullock said, though he sounded anything but thankful.

  “Mr Holmes?”

  Evidently, I was not the only one to have forgotten that Craggs had yet to be introduced to either Holmes or myself. Before Bullock could do so, however, my friend extended a hand in greeting and, after confirming his own identity, presented me to the prisoner.

  “I wish that I were a writer such as yourself, Dr Watson. Only thus might I hope to lay out the sheer joy I feel at the involvement of yourself and Mr Holmes in my case. When I made the decision to give myself up to the police, I did so in the knowledge that I had failed to avenge Miss Crane and would likely never be able to do so. But if the stories told of your powers are correct, perhaps justice may yet properly be served.”

  Contrary to his own claims, Holmes was as susceptible to flattery as the next man and, though I had the sense that he had never believed Craggs to be guilty, there was no doubting afterwards that he wished to do the man only good. I had long since learned never to judge a book by its cover, yet I too struggled to believe that the decent man who stood before me was a murderer. It may be that a similar loss in my own past coloured my judgement, but my feelings were what they were, and I felt Henry Craggs was innocent. Inspector Bullock, on the other hand, continued to press him.

  “If you found Rawlins already dead, as you claim, who’d you imagine killed him? After all, so far as the police are aware, you were the only person who knew where he lived.”

  Even Bullock knew this not to be true – Pastor Hoffmann at a minimum was also privy to Rawlins’s address – but before I could point this out, Craggs spoke up for himself – and in so doing, entirely changed our perspective on the case.

  “You are forgetting Rawlins’s accomplice, the man I knew as Watson. Who better placed to carry out the deed?”

  Bullock was scathing. “Do you believe us to be fools? The mute had no reason of which we know to kill Rawlins – and if he had, he would hardly have left behind the money we found in the house.”

  Unexpectedly, rather than continue to protest his innocence, Craggs was obviously puzzled by Bullock’s words. “What mute?” he asked.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I have often had cause to remark that it is a capital mistake to draw conclusions based on partial information. It is extremely galling to discover that I am as guilty as the next man of such an oversight.”

  Holmes prowled about the office, his hands busy lighting his pipe while his brain turned over Craggs’s startling revelation. If he were to be believed, the man we had assumed to be entirely mute had spoken several times at the time of Miss Crane’s murder. Indeed, Craggs claimed that he heard Rawlins address him as Peter just before the fatal shot was fired.

  “Why should a man pretend to a mutism from which he does not, in actuality, suffer?” Holmes stabbed the bowl of his pipe in the air as he considered the question. “Either to ensure that he remains unobtrusive, or because his voice is distinctive in some way.”

  “I fancy that the few words I heard Peter say had a Germanic tint to them,” Craggs contributed.

  “Piennar, I think, Mr Craggs. Hans Piennar is the man’s name, though it would be understandable enough to mix Peter and Piennar in the conditions under which you heard it said. We almost had him in the Five Points, but someone—” Holmes glared across at Bullock, who returned the look with an irritated one of his own, “—interfered, from the finest of motives, however, and so the chance was lost. I assume that neither you nor one of your men have seen Piennar since that terrible night?”

  Craggs glanced from Holmes to Bullock, as if he had reached an important decision. “In coming here, I thought myself to be admitting defeat, but now some measure of hope has been rekindled in my breast by the presence of you, Mr Holmes, and you, Dr Watson. In view of that, it would be churlish of me to withhold the fact that I have had men following you for some time, since the name of Sherlock Holmes was first mentioned in Hoffmann’s house. I had to discover if you were the man I sought, you see.”

  “The man who stood and stared at you, Holmes!” I cried, remembering the odd encounter outside Hoffmann’s home.

  “Of course, Watson,” Holmes replied impatiently. “Who else did you imagine it might have been? I suspect Mr Craggs is also responsible for the gentleman you followed when first we arrived. One very minor mystery is solved, at least.”

  “All well and good, Mr Holmes, but we still have a murder case on our hands, and evidence which points directly to this man.” Bullock’s irritation had been growing throughout the course of the interrogation, and I wondered if this was to be the moment at which it boiled over completely, but quite the reverse proved to be true. “I admit that I’m as yet unconvinced as to your innocence, Mr Craggs, but I’ve heard enough just now to detain you in one of our empty offices, rather than in a cell, while we decide what is to be done next.”

  Whether Bullock entertained serious doubts regarding Craggs’s guilt or merely felt some sympathy for his motives, I cannot say, but I will not pretend that I was not pleased to see him escorted from Bullock’s office to another, much the same but with a far stouter lock.

  I was not sure where I myself stood as regards Craggs’s guilt or innocence. Had this been a trial in a court of law, I suspect I would be obliged to say that he had killed Rawlins, but equally I would have recommended to the judge that mercy be shown, for the provocation was beyond that which any man should be expected to endure. That Rawlins and Piennar between them had murdered Millicent Crane was, I think, certain beyond any reasonable doubt, and Bullock and Holmes agreed with me that this was the single element of the affair that took priority.

  We none of us had eaten all day, and so Bullock took Holmes and myself to the small, dingy restaurant we had dined in together some days previously. There, over turtle soup and glasses of Madeira, we discussed the revelations of the day and our plans for the next.

  “We may assume that Piennar remains in the city,” Holmes offered as a starting point. “He and Rawlins did not flee after the murder of Donaldson, nor after that of Mrs van Raalte or Miss Crane. It is ludicrous to think that the former would run after killing his partner-in-crime. At worst, he will be lying low, waiting for the public gaze to be fastened on Henry Craggs. Only then will he attempt to escape from New York. Added to that, we know he abandoned a portion of their ill-gotten hoard and so, short of funds, he has another reason for staying hidden for now. Our task is to flush him out, to drive him from cover…”

  I knew Holmes of old. “No doubt you have a suggestion as to how we might go about that?” I asked
.

  “Simplicity itself. All we need do is ensure the truth is given voice. Inspector, are you able to spread the news of Mr Craggs’s capture? Let it be known that he has identified the killer of his fiancée and that the police expect to arrest the guilty party in short order. That should drive him out into the open.”

  Bullock grasped Holmes’s suggestion at once. “Of course,” he replied, draining his glass. “News of this development will be known by the whole of New York by tomorrow morning.”

  “Very good,” said Holmes, “and in the meantime, if you could provide me with a trusted officer, who I might send on an errand or two?”

  “I’ll have Officer Hendricks report to you as soon as we arrive back at the station, Mr Holmes.”

  “That would be ideal.”

  * * *

  Bullock proved true to his word. Within minutes of our arrival back at the station, a young officer presented himself at Bullock’s office, which we had commandeered while the inspector saw to it that word of Craggs’s capture was spread throughout the city. Hendricks was a tall, slender man of no more than twenty years, fair-haired and with a thin moustache which he rubbed nervously as Holmes invited him in.

  The topic of their conversation remained unknown to me, for Holmes had asked me to check on Craggs while he gave the young officer his instructions. The prisoner was asleep, and I saw no reason to disturb his peace, but though I was gone only five minutes, by the time I returned Hendricks had departed and Holmes had already lit a pipe, which he smoked while slumped in Bullock’s chair. He gave no indication that he had registered my presence, and with nothing else to do, I took one of the other seats and settled down to wait.

  Two hours passed in such a fashion, with Holmes lighting one bowl after another and I dropping in and out of an uneasy doze. The air was thick with smoke by the time a knock on the door jerked Holmes into activity.

  “Come in,” he instructed, knocking the ashes of his pipe into an ashtray and straightening himself in his seat.

  I had expected our visitor to be Officer Hendricks, but in his place stood another officer and, by his side, a small, unkempt boy, dressed in torn short trousers and a jacket several sizes too large for him buttoned over a ragged shirt, once white, now stained a dirty grey. His feet were bare and filthy and he was painfully thin, but other than that he appeared to be in reasonable health.

  “Sherlock Holmes?” he asked as the officer pushed him into the room, holding out a folded sheet of paper to my friend.

  “The same,” Holmes responded, reaching out and taking the paper, which he spread on the desk before him. Whatever information it contained clearly proved satisfactory, for he smiled with pleasure and handed the boy a small coin for his troubles. As the officer led the boy from the room, he folded the paper again and slipped it into his pocket.

  “Have you any objection to a short trip, Watson?” he asked, already rising from his seat.

  “None whatsoever,” I replied. “Do you have a particular destination in mind?”

  “I do. I think now would be a good time to revisit the dockland area. Something tells me that Mr Piennar may be found there this evening.”

  * * *

  The docks at night were a very different affair from the bright and bustling scene we had witnessed on our arrival. Much of the area was entirely in darkness, with here and there islands of sulphurous light marking the location of an office yet open or a gang still hard at work. A rain shower just prior to our arrival had slicked the cobblestones and made them treacherous underfoot, adding to the sensation that this was not a welcoming place.

  Holmes, however, advanced into the gloom with no hesitation, making directly for a derelict shed from beneath whose ill-fitting door a dim light could be seen. I followed with my hand tight around my revolver and an eye on every shadow.

  To reach the shed that I was now convinced was Holmes’s destination, it was necessary to cross a long, flat patch of hard earth. A wooden fence, broken in sundry places, enclosed the space, an open gap with rusted brackets for a gate providing the only entrance. The shed itself sat at the far end of this enclosure, surrounded by darkness that had been rendered no clearer even by ten minutes blundering about. I stilled my breathing and listened carefully, but except for the tread of Holmes’s boots in front of me, I could hear nothing out of the ordinary.

  Even so, I was not relaxed, and it was this tautness that allowed me to swing the butt of my revolver across the temple of the dark figure who reared up from the ground as we passed through the gap in the fence. My assailant fell back while I fumbled with the gun, but before I could twist the weapon round to bring it to bear on the swine, I felt strong arms around my midriff and a voice in my ear saying, “For pity’s sake, Watson, must you assault everyone you meet?”

  I shrugged off Holmes’s arms with irritation and not a little confusion, keeping my gun in hand, as the door of the shed creaked open and a not unfamiliar voice requested that we hurry inside. The man I had struck struggled to his feet and returned to his place by the gap in the fence. He was a guard, I surmised – set to check any man approaching the shed. This supposition was confirmed by Holmes, who whispered, “It’s quite an impressive set-up, wouldn’t you say, Watson – a base complete with troops,” leaving me reassured and confused in equal measure. I had no time to query Holmes, however, before we slipped inside the shed and the door closed softly behind us.

  Inside, a lantern on the floor illuminated three men sitting round an upturned barrel that they were using as a table on which to play cards. I did not recognise the two men sitting to the left and right, but as the man directly in front of me turned in his seat to watch us enter, I realised that the voice that had asked us to hurry belonged to Bob Peters, the seaman Holmes had saved from the noose on our voyage over.

  He touched a forefinger to the brim of his cap as the other two men vacated their seats, and invited us to take them. They disappeared out into the darkness, leaving Holmes, Peters and I alone.

  “Good evening to you, Mr Peters,” Holmes said cheerfully. “I hope you have some success to report?”

  “I do, Mr Holmes, sir. The lad you’re after is bunked up on the Patricia, a German ship bound for Marseille.”

  In contrast to the last time we had met, Peters was confident and clear-spoken. I was at a loss to explain his presence here, but plainly he was expecting us, for once we were seated, he reached into a tattered bag at his feet and pulled from it a scrap of paper on which I recognised a description of Piennar in Holmes’s handwriting.

  “Weren’t hard to find him neither,” the sailor said, his mouth stretched in a wide grin. “There ain’t many even in New York look like that big brute.”

  “I am obliged to you, Mr Peters. If you will point my colleague and me in the direction of the Patricia, we will take a police officer – possibly more than one – and effect an arrest.”

  “Best make it several more, Mr Holmes. Thon’s a big lad, so he is.”

  In reply, Holmes clapped the man on the shoulder. “Never worry. Watson here has a revolver with him, and Inspector Bullock would be only too happy to provide further men, if required. I’m sure we shall manage somehow, if you would be so kind as to arrange for someone to run to the inspector’s station and alert him to our need of assistance.”

  I did not doubt that Holmes spoke truly, but even so I was not unhappy to see Peters frown, then, having come to a decision, march across to the door of the shed. He carefully pushed it open, then said something quietly into the darkness. The other two seamen followed him back inside, closing the door behind them.

  “I’ve sent a lad to speak to Bullock, but I’d not forgive meself if anything unpleasant was to happen to you, Mr Holmes,” Peters said. “So I think it’d be best if me and a couple of the boys kept you company, just in case.”

  “There really is no need, my dear—” Holmes began, but got no further, as Peters interrupted politely but firmly.

  “I’d be sitting in the con
demned cell today, Mr Holmes, if I weren’t already done for, were it not for you. You’ll allow me to repay that debt a little, won’t you?”

  Holmes did not insult the man by claiming there was no debt. Instead he gave a single sharp nod of gratitude and agreed that we should leave at once, with Peters and his friends to accompany us. I had hoped that Holmes would explain himself before we set off, but there was no time to waste, according to Peters, as the ship on which Piennar was stowed would set sail later that night. He grabbed a pickaxe handle from behind the door and led us all out into the darkness.

  * * *

  Emptiness is the defining quality of a dock bereft of working men. What is all bustle and noise during the day is quiet as a churchyard at night. So it was that we made our way – Peters in the lead, followed by Holmes and me, with the two other sailors guarding the rear – across open ground, our every step potentially visible to any sharp-eyed observer on the ships that lined the docks.

  In the end, either nobody looked or the dark was enough to hide us, for we arrived at our destination unmolested and, I thought, unobserved. A wooden gangway, wide enough for two men to walk abreast, stretched from the dockside to the entryway of the Patricia herself. The ship moved as the water moved, rising and falling in a rough rhythm, though never enough to concern even a land-loving soul such as myself.

  The only light came from a lamp flickering atop a pole attached to the gangway. We made sure to remain in shadow as Peters brought us to a halt and whispered that he and his friends would briefly board the ship to ensure that the man we sought was still in his cabin. They slipped soundlessly up the gangway and were soon lost to sight.

  I took the opportunity, while Holmes and I were alone, to ask for some explanations – how he could possibly have known that Piennar would head for the docks chief amongst them.

  “Really, Watson, that particular deduction does me little credit. As soon as we knew that Piennar was not the mute we had thought and thus was hiding some identifying factor in his speech, I wondered what that might be. Once Mr Craggs mentioned his belief that he had heard a Germanic note in his pronunciation, I realised that an Afrikaans accent might easily be mistaken for a Teutonic one. A native German speaker might hide for some time amongst his émigré countrymen in the Five Points, but an Afrikaner, forced by his need of assistance to speak and so reveal his true origins? I thought not, and so asked the inspector to post men at every road out of the city, while I sent word to Peters and requested that he seek out any Boer looking for passage to Europe or Africa. There are plenty of captains in these waters who would be happy to hide such a man on board until they were ready to sail. Fortunately, there is a brotherhood amongst sailors, and Peters was swiftly able to identify a huge Boer with little by way of luggage and a pressing need to be somewhere other than America.”