Holmes stopped walking and looked at me. “Awfully sorry, my friend. I force myself to rub my hands for fear of starting to clap them. It is terribly unseemly of me, I do confess. I shall do my best to refrain. You might assist me in doing so by informing me of whatever observations and deductions you made based on your examinations.”
I knew this question was coming. It invariably did and just as invariably I ended up feeling like a child at the feet of his pedagogue. I would, one more time, give it my best.
“Very well, Holmes. I did notice that both men had lumps on the back of their heads. That could have happened when they fell but more likely from having been hit. Possibly by a blackjack, or Penang-lawyer, or some such instrument.”
“Excellent, Watson. And what else?”
“The entire situation looks far too neat and orderly. The clothing on the fronts of their bodies was burned off, but on their backs it was still rather well arranged. Their shirts were still tucked into their trousers. Not at all disheveled, such as one would expect when wrestling with a violent horse.”
“Exactly, and what else?”
“I really cannot go any further without reading an autopsy from the morgue. So go ahead Holmes, and tell me what I have missed.”
“You have done not badly, my friend. Solidly, not bad. Now, what about the horse?”
“What about the horse?”
Holmes smiled his condescending smile. “Mr. Silver had been tethered only by a neck rope. On sensing the fire, what would he, or any horse begin to do?”
“Buck and pull in a panic against the rope,” I said.
“Precisely, and what effect would that have on the knots at either end of the tether?”
“I am sure it would pull them exceptionally tight; impossible to loosen.”
“And were they?”
“I did not think to look, but I assume from your question that they were not.”
“Precisely. The burnt end of the neck rope was still present and clearly loosely tied. The part that had lain under the horse’s neck, and thus protected, I was able to undo easily with my fingers. Mr. Silver, powerful and enormous beast that he was, did not struggle against his fate in the least. He was dead and lying down in the stall well before the start of the fire.
“And the dog? Anything odd about finding him there?” he continued his inquisition.
“Very curious indeed. Dogs usually have more sense than to stand around and let themselves dies in a fire.”
“Precisely. Very odd indeed. The animal may be man’s best friend, but they have their limit and suicide on behalf of those who are not their masters is normally beyond it. In a matter of seconds, this one could have sprinted out the door to safety. He had an unchewed piece of meat in his mouth; a bribe to silence him that one that he would have been wise not to accept.”.
“But then why did Robert not see them all? He said he checked every stall.”
“Excellent question. Even with flames surging around you, it is impossible not to see the bodies of a very large white horse and two men lying on the ground. The answer was obvious had you only observed and not merely looked at what was lying on top of the bodies.”
“I saw,” I said, now feeling defensive in a familiar way, “that they were covered with ash, pieces of burnt straw, bits of charcoal and such. The entire place was covered in the same way.”
“No, my friend,” Holmes rebuked me. “It was not. There was a water trough at the back of the stall, the layer of detritus was much lighter than on top of the bodies. Someone had piled a layer of straw on top of them, sufficient that they could not be seen and appearing like no more than fallen bales to someone looking in quickly. And one more thing, Watson. What did you smell?”
“The entire ruined structure smelled of fire and the stall of charred flesh. What else might I have smelt?”
“The earth under it all had a faint scent of kerosene or coal oil or other such fuel. It was noticeable most on the places that had not been underneath the bodies, and less so on those places that were.”
“Ah ha,” I said. “So somebody, likely more than one, drugged the horse and the dog, knocked the men out with a blackjack, piled straw on top of them so they could not be seen, soaked the stall with kerosene, then poured more fuel around the walls of the building, and lit it on fire. Is that it?”
“Yes, my friend, that is it.”
By this time, we had reached the train station and were standing on the platform, waiting for the late afternoon express to Victoria. I asked what to me was another obvious question.
“Please, Holmes. If a jockey, a trainer, a groom, and the prize racehorse to which they were associated are all the victims of foul play here in Epsom, why are we returning to London?”
“It is elementary, Watson. A murderer must have a motive for murder, an opportunity to carry it out, and access to the means for doing so. We already know how, when and where the killings took place. What we do not know is why. The answer to that question does not lie in the ruins of a stable at a racetrack. It may lie in London, or in America, or elsewhere. And that, my friend, is why we are leaving Sussex.”
During the one-hour trip back to London Holmes said nothing. He sat with his hat pulled down on his forehead, his hands in front of his chest, with his fingertips all touching each other, and his eyes closed. From time to time I noticed his lips move as he carried on a debate inside his most peculiar brain.
The next day’s newspapers were filled with the story. Ned Hunter and John Straker were hailed as martyrs who had valiantly given their lives while attempting to save the greatest racehorse in the world. Then came the hagiographic accounts of the horse. The great silver beast, the supernatural offspring of the mysterious white horses of Wiltshire, had run like no mortal horse had ever run. Never had there been a race like the Race of the Century at Epsom Downs, and never would there be again.
Our Gracious Queen issued a statement expressing her deep sorrow and praising the ultimate sacrifice the brave men had made for such a noble cause. A telegram had arrived from Mr. William McKinley, the President of the United States of America, expressing his condolences, assuring the public that his thoughts and prayers were with the families of the men, and praising their courage.
Poor Robert Blinder did not come off so well. The chap who had risked his life to run back into the burning building became the object of ridicule. How could he have not seen the prostrate bodies of a huge horse and two men? Did he really check on every stall? Or had he merely run inside the door, waited for his moment of glory and run back out again? “Blind Bobby Blinden” was scorned by many of the lower-class newspapers, and even The Times questioned why his report was believed, as it was well-known that he was not exactly an intellectual giant.
Chapter Six
Up the Hill
TWO DAYS LATER I received a note from Holmes asking if I might join him for tea as soon as my patients were through for the day. I happily complied, and hurried off to 221B Baker Street, anxious to learn what progress he had made. He greeted me warmly and asked, courteously as always, if I might join him on an excursion that evening and another one the following morning. Having sent word to my dear wife that I had expected such a request, I immediately agreed.
Notwithstanding my eagerness to join in the quest, I demanded to know what it was that we were going to be up to.
“You will recall, I am sure, the rules of arson as quoted to us by Mr. Corrigiano on the night of the fire with respect to whose property it was reasonable to burn down.”
“If my memory serves me,” I replied, “Harry said that you could torch your own property in order to collect the insurance, or that of a competitor so as to gain an economic advantage over him. Something along those lines, was it not?”
“Precisely,” said Holmes. “He might have added the ancient motive of revenge, or the unarguable truth, even if spoken by the French, of cherchez la femme. However, neither of these latter two appear to have any purchase in this case.
Therefore, we must ask, in keeping with the insight of Harry the Horse, cui bono? Who might benefit for collecting what is most likely a considerable insurance claim, and which competitor might now be enriched by these tragic events?”
I pondered his comment. “I suppose that the Epsom Downs Racecourse Company will lay a claim to replace the stable barn, but it was a rather new structure and highly regarded. It does not make much sense to burn down a perfectly good building that is helping you earn your quite considerable profits.”
“Agreed,” said Holmes. “Pray continue.”
“That would leave the owner, Colonel Ross, and honestly Holmes, I cannot imagine that he would stoop to such a despicable level of crime. And it would make no sense for him to hire you.”
“Fortunately,” Holmes responded, a bit haughtily, “my imagination is not so delicately constrained as yours. I have been hired before merely for pretense and appearances. It may well be that he is a possibility that we will eliminate early on, but until that time, he remains suspect and we must pay him a visit.”
“You cannot have asked me over at this time of day with the intent of now traveling to Wiltshire,” said I.
“Of course not, this evening we shall begin our investigations with other competitors who stood to profit. Lord Biggleswade the younger, and Lord Atherstone, the not young, are also on my list.”
“But their estates are miles from London.”
“Well then, we shall just have to begin with those who have conveniently remained in our fair city. My Irregulars have informed me that our American friends are still around and lodged over in Bloomsbury. They stand to benefit, I dare say more than somewhat, by the demise of the winning horse. Therefore, they remain on my list of suspects, howbeit not near the top.”
“Heavens, Holmes. That Harry fellow was terribly upset by the fire. Surely you do not suspect that he was merely acting?”
“You must not, forget, my dear Watson, that he is an American of Italian lineage and therefore highly capable of dramatized emotional displays. So, Watson, are you up for a visit? It is close enough for a pleasant walk on a lovely autumn evening. Our New Yorkers are guests at the Hotel Russell.”
In a brisk half-hour, we had made our way through Marylebone and into Bloomsbury. The newly opened Hotel Russell had been hailed as a monument to architectural genius and was being compared to Kensington and Buckingham Palaces, which was a silly exaggeration. For my taste, it was an exercise in inexcusable busyness. I did concede that the dining room was splendid and the guest rooms, each with their own private water closets, were a civilized advance on any other hotel in London.
On reaching the steps of the Hotel Russell we shooed away several stray cats and made our way up and into the lobby, and then up, and up again to the bar where, we were told by the front desk, the Americans could be found. There, at a table in the corner, sat Harry the Horse, a large bottle of Jack Daniels, two-thirds depleted, adjacent to his elbow.
“Ah, hello there, Mr. Corrigiano,” said Holmes. “I see you are still in London.”
Harry raised his head and looked at us. His eyes were reddened and not entirely clear.
“Now that is the stupidest dumb chump obvious thing that has been said to me all day, Mr. Detective. Does it look as if I am not here? Hello, Doc. Sit down and have a drink. I am more than somewhat drunk and well on my way to becoming even drunker than I am.”
“Your colleagues,” I observed, “Will they be joining you?”
“They are making a necessary visit to another location; to a place called Birtwick which is in a place called Suffolk. Sorrowful’s kid has demanded this of him so that he might return with a picture or other acceptable souvenir of this place for it is near and dear to the heart of his kid.”
Holmes looked quite perplexed at this news, which was not surprising as there is no such place in Suffolk by the name of Birtwick. He was clearly not aware that it had been the home of Black Beauty and was, therefore, beloved of millions of girls in their early teens throughout the world.
“I fear that your friends will be disappointed,” I said. “The place they have gone to visit is only an imaginary place in a work of fiction, a story told by a horse.”
Harry looked at me, not so far inebriated that he was incapable of regarding me with utter disdain.
“One would think that a doctor should know that fiction is not untrue if in your head and your heart you believe it to be true. The kid believes this, and so for her it is true, and so Sorrowful has no choice but to go and find a place that he believes to be where he is seeking.”
I could not argue with such reason. In a friendly way, I noted, “It is a shame that you were not able to accompany them.”
He looked as if he were about to say something when his lips began to tremble. Tears appeared in his eyes and he dropped his face into his hands. His body was convulsing with sobs and whimpering sounds almost like a baby were coming from his hidden face.
“My dear man,” I said, ever the doctor trying to console, “my dear man. Please, sir. What is it?”
Through his sobs, he managed to say, “I could-a saved them. I could-a saved them. I could-a saved those two guys and that beautiful horse. I could-a gone back into that barn myself instead of that dopey stable boy. I would-a seen them. I could-a got them out. I could-a had class.”
I placed my hand on his shoulder and said, “Looking back we all could have done more than we did. It is always that way, Harry. You were incredibly brave and you did everything you thought you had to do at the time.”
“Thanks, Doc. Thanks. I know you are trying to be kind. But I should-a known. Those guys and that horse would be alive now if I had only done what I should-a done.”
“No, Mr. Corrigiano,” said Holmes sharply. “That is nonsense. They were dead before the fire started. There was nothing you or anyone could have done.”
Harry lifted his head out of his hands and stared hard at Holmes. He stood and before turning away from us, said quietly but forcefully. “Do not go away. I will be back. You better still be here.”
He departed in the direction of the gentlemen’s room. As he passed the bar, he barked over at the barkeeper, “I need some coffee. And make it snappy.”
Some five minutes later he re-emerged, his face dripping with water. A cup of hot coffee was waiting for him. He took several slow sips on it, giving his head some vigorous shakes in between. He lit a cigarette and then spoke to Holmes.
“You are saying something, Mr. Detective, that is upsetting to my system. So maybe you better explain yourself to me more than somewhat completely else I will continue to very upset, and possibly at you.”
Patiently but thoroughly Holmes presented the evidence he had gleaned so far and the deductions that led to his conclusions.
“And so who is it,” asked Harry, ‘that you are thinking might have done these terrible things; for what you are saying they did is among all the deeds known to guys upon this earth, very terrible indeed.”
“Anyone,” said Holmes, “who stood to benefit from what has happened. And that, sir, would include the owners of the American horses as well as their agents. With the best racehorse in the world out of the running then your horses would stand a much better chance of winning next year.”
He stopped and paused and waited for a reaction.
I saw first a flash of anger pass across Harry’s face, but then it was replaced by his pursing his lips and nodding slowly.
“Under normal circumstances I should feel insulted by what you have just said, but as you are a detective and, therefore, suspicious of everyone I will take no offense. However, you are again proving to be a dumb chump when it comes to horse races.”
He turned briefly to me. “Doc, would you please illuminate your friend as to the biological fact that a horse, or a guy or a doll, or anything that lives and moves and crawls upon the face of this earth can only be five years old once in its life. A special cup race for five-year-olds cannot be participated in for
two consecutive years by the same horse. Are you with me so far, Mr. Holmes?”
Holmes nodded.
“So that rules out any gain in this race should it ever take place again. Now, you are thinking that these American horses will move up in rank upon return to the United States because the number one horse is burnt to a crisp and be able to race in richer races. That again does not happen. Precisely because they have already won many stakes races is the reason they were brought over to this big race. They are now far more valuable for breeding than for running more races because every winner makes for a good stud. It is the losers who are kept racing until they fall over as long as they are even a little bit profitable. The winners, because they are now highly valuable, are also insured for a much higher amount, and so it is very important to the insurance companies that they no longer be allowed to run in races where they might hurt themselves and have to be put down and become a burden to the insurers.
“All of this is to inform you, Mr. Detective, that there is no opportunity for reasonable return on your investment by cooking your competition, especially considering the risk to your neck by doing so. Do I make myself clear, sir?”
“You do.”
“Now, as for me and my colleagues, we acknowledge, with some pride, that we are handicappers and gamblers, and from time to time we may appear to be in a minor conflict with our colleagues in law enforcement on account of because of our gambling practices. We may from time to time engage in some fisticuffs when it is necessary to remind a guy that he needs to improve his behavior. However, we do not kill people like jockeys, and trainers, and grooms who have never done us any harm, and we most certainly would ourselves risk our lives if called upon to defend the life of an exceptionally great racehorse, as was most certainly your Mr. Silver.”
Holmes smiled across the table. “You have helped greatly, sir. I do thank you for your time.” He started to rise from his chair.
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four Page 7
