Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four

by Copland, Craig Stephen

  The fellow laughed and extended his hand. “You are not the first nor will you be the last to depart from the darkness and come into the light.” He laughed again, and we joined him.

  There was still light coming through the windows, and I was able to get a good look at him. He was a sturdy chap, about my age and quite tall, taller even than Holmes but with a much thicker torso. His right shoulder was not even with his left but lower by perhaps two inches. He sported a thick walrus mustache that I could see partially covered a scar on his lower cheek. The hand he extended to shake mine was large and powerful but also bore a faded scar on the back. I guessed that he had seen service in the military and acted on my surmise.

  “You did some time,” I said, “in India or Afghanistan?”

  He smiled back. “I did sir, and how might you have known that?”

  “We all bear the scars,” I said, and his smile brightened.

  “Indeed, we do, doctor. Some of us came home and became famous writers, and others became humble night porters. But we can look at each other thirty years later and know what still goes on inside our heads when we are alone in the middle of the night.”

  “Indeed, we do,” I said.

  “Now, doc, I would like nothing more than to pull out my friendly bottle of whiskey and sit and swap stories with you until daybreak, but somehow I don’t think that is why Sherlock Holmes is standing in the entry of Balliol College.” He nodded in the direction of Holmes.

  “You, sir,” said Holmes, “are entirely correct. And permit me the guess that you know perfectly well what I am doing here. Is my guess, correct, sir?”

  Nelson’s smile disappeared from his face and, lowering his voice, replied, “Aye, I do. I would have to say that it is not what we might call a friendly visit, is it, Mr. Holmes? It’s most likely connected to an unfortunate event that took place here a week ago, is it not? Aye, your nod says so. It’s tied to what happened in the Dean’s office, right? And the fact that you are here and asking about it tells me that it was something more serious than I’ve been told. Is that a good guess on my part, Mr. Holmes?”

  “It is, sir, and please forgive me if I am not at liberty to disclose all the reasons for its being so, but regardless of my not being forthcoming, I am asking you to be. Could you be so kind as to tell me what you recall from the events of that evening?”

  “I can do that, sir, yes, I can do that. It was just a normal Friday evening near the end of June, like they have been for the past two decades. The classes and assignments were all done. Most of the lads had gone home. The few that were still here were either doing work for their professors over the summer, or some are from the colonies and do not go home, and some just like to stay here because it is far more fun to do so than going back to their manors and having to put up with mum and dad.

  “The lads were a bit rowdier than usual, but that was because it was the end of the year and they had all been out at the pub. Most of our lads prefer the Lamb and Flag to the King’s Arms. The Irish barkeep at the Lamb sells them beer for a few pence less, but if you ask me, I would wager it’s because he’s watered it down, him being Irish and all. Well, the lads were having their fun so it took me a little longer than usual to complete my rounds. Nothing untoward but they were chatty and had to give me a cheeky word as I passed, but all in good sport.

  “Before midnight, I do my rounds every hour on the hour. After midnight, it’s every two hours. Well, sir, on that night I did a round at nine o’clock, and all was fine, except for my having to help one lad into his room as he was three sheets of the wind and these young fellows just cannot hold their liquor. But I was back here at my desk by twenty minutes past the hour. Some time passes and then the Dean comes by. He’s just finished his lecture over at Exeter and has to visit his office, which is not an unusual thing. Many of our professors visit their offices at all hours of the night. He just waved as he walked by and I thought nothing of it, but then he comes hammering on my door just as I was getting ready to do my next rounds. So it must have been right before ten o’clock. And he’s all upset and says that his secretary, Mr. Bannister, is lying in a heap at the bottom of the stairs and that his office has been broken into. He’s right terrible upset, he is.

  “Well, I run across the quadrangle and up to Dean Soames’s office as fast as I can, and sure enough, at the bottom of the staircase is Rodney Bannister. He’s not bleeding, but he is in terrible pain. So the dean and I, we help him up and I say I’m going to call an ambulance and the police and Mr. Bannister he says no, you cannot do that. And the dean agrees. I don’t think that’s right, but he’s the dean and all so I do what I’m told. The very next day, on the weekend, the carpenters and locksmiths come by and the door is fixed, and most people don’t know what happened, but some do and there’s rumors flying since it’s connected to the Rhodes Scholarship and that is a very serious thing here, a very serious thing, sir.”

  He stopped there, apparently having told us all he thought necessary.

  “Did I understand,” Holmes queried, “that you said you did your rounds at nine o’clock and found nothing amiss?”

  “That’s right sir. That’s what I said, sir.”

  Holmes raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, prompting a sharp response from Will Nelson.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Holmes, but I don’t like the look you are giving me. Are you doubting my word? You calling me a liar? Look here, mister, I don’t care if you are Sherlock Holmes, nobody calls Will Nelson a liar. Now you either wipe that look off your face or step out on to the pavement and I’ll wipe it off for you.”

  Holmes was startled by the vociferous reaction and sought to mollify the fellow’s prickly spirit.

  “Oh, good heavens, no, Mr. Nelson, the look on my face had nothing to do with you. It is just that what you told me suddenly made this mystery much darker and deeper than I had thought it to be, and my look reflected my surprise. That is all, sir.”

  “Fine then, Mr. Holmes. You see, since the day I took the Queen’s shilling forty years back and gave an oath to speak the truth in all I do I have kept that, and nobody will be allowed to say that Will Nelson has ever broken his oath to the Queen. Nobody, sir.”

  He paused for a moment, then he took the bait, and his curiosity got the better of him.

  “If you don’t object to my asking, Mr. Holmes, would you mind explaining just what you meant when you said it made the mystery go deeper?”

  “Ah, yes. You see, Mr. Nelson, it is just that the dean’s secretary reported to me that the break-in took place before nine o’clock and that from then until the time the dean came by he was lying in pain at the bottom of the stairs.”

  “He was doing nothing of the kind,” came the immediate sharp response. “Do you think I would walk past a prostrate body and not see it? No sir, Rodney Bannister was doing no such thing.”

  “Ah, now the shoe is on the other foot, sir. Are you saying that Mr. Bannister is a liar.”

  He said nothing for a moment, looking perplexed.

  “Sir, I have known Rodney for many years, and I count him a friend and no, I am not calling him a liar. But he’s had a hard year since his wife … well, we all called Sally his wife, even if she wasn’t really his wife … since she died. She was a thorough battle-ax suffragette and all, but Rodney adored her, and he has taken her passing terrible hard. He’s been into the gin and whiskey more often than is good for a man. So, speaking charitably, sir, even if it does not seem so, I would have to say that Rodney must have been confused. Maybe he was not completely sober, or maybe he banged his head, and that rattled his brain, but for sure, sir he was not lying at the bottom of no stairs from nine o’clock until ten. No, sir.”

  Holmes nodded slowly and continued. “That must be what happened, of course. But then tell me, at what time did Mr. Bannister enter the college? He must have passed your window as he did so. And you are certainly diligent in noting everyone who enters and exits in the evening and night hours.”

 
That stumped the fellow. “Come to think about it, I do not remember him passing me. Now that could be explained, Mr. Holmes, if he came by whilst I was doing my rounds at nine o’clock, or he could have been in his office starting in the afternoon and with his door closed and stayed there right through until he met up with the thief, that’s a possibility.”

  “Ah, yes, it is indeed. And was he in the habit of staying long after hours in his office with the door closed on a Friday evening?”

  Again, a pause. “No, Mr. Holmes. He was not. He and Hilton Soames always departed at four thirty on a Friday afternoon. When I say always, I mean for the past twenty or more years they have done so. Regular as the tide. So no, then, my second explanation does not seem likely.”

  “Perhaps not, but no doubt there is an explanation, and that is the mystery. And I thank you, Mr. Nelson, you have been most admirable indeed.”

  Holmes smiled graciously and extended his hand. Nelson shook it and smiled back.

  We departed and again began to walk to the hotel.

  “No more delays,” I said. “Now I am hungry.”

  “We are on our way to supper, doctor. I am told the pork loin with green peas is excellent.”

  It was excellent, and as both of us were hungry, we tucked into it with relish, washing it down with a fine bottle of Bordeaux. Once it was cleared away, Holmes ordered a half-bottle of claret, lit a cigarette and sat back in his chair.

  “So, tell me, doctor. That Nelson chap, would you say he was as tall as you?”

  “As me? Taller. He was taller than you, Holmes.”

  “Really? How tall would you say?”

  “At least six foot two, maybe six foot three.”

  “Ah, yes. You’re right. Quite the powerful looking chap. I imagine he would have no trouble dealing with misbehaving students. I’d say he could easily pick one up and toss him off the balcony and down into the bushes.”

  “Easily,” I agreed. “He could most likely pick them up in the bushes and toss them all the way up and back over the balcony for a second act.”

  Holmes gave an enigmatic smile and then chuckled.

  It hit me. “Merciful heavens, Holmes! You cannot possibly be suspecting him of being the thief. That is absurd.”

  “And why, my dear doctor, is it absurd?”

  “Holmes, I looked that chap in the eye. I took the measure of that man. He is an honest soldier whose word is his bond. You saw how he reacted when he thought you impugned his integrity. No, Holmes. You are being unreasonable.”

  “You took his measure, you say. No, my friend, you did nothing of the sort. You are, by your sweet, good nature predisposed to assuming that a man, any man, is truthful and honest until proven otherwise. Furthermore, you felt an immediate fraternal bond with him as well as with Mr. Bannister as fellow veterans of a miserable war. You formed a decision based solely on your emotions. I am not permitted such a luxury.”

  I was ready to argue with him but had learned over the years that doing so was futile, so I just took a slow sip on my claret and said nothing.

  And nothing more was said until we rose from the table and ascended the stairs to our rooms. Upon reaching the door, Holmes placed his hand on my forearm.

  “I am sorry, my dear friend, if I offended you. Our natures are quite different, and I am eternally grateful that yours is so invariably good-tempered. Thank you.”

  I smiled and grunted in return. It was impossible to be angry at Holmes for long.

  “But doctor, before you retire for the evening, might I ask you to assist me with some matters concerning this case.”

  I shrugged and agreed.

  “Would you mind awfully breaking down the door to my room?”

  I sputtered a response. “Holmes, are you mad?”

  “Not at all. Oh, I do not mean to really break it down. Just pretend. This hallway and my door are quite close in structure and layout to the professor’s office. Both doors have handles on the left side. So, please, just pretend that you are an intruder and determined to break in. How would you go about it?”

  I pondered for a moment, and then stepped to the far side of the narrow hallway.

  “I would start over here,” I said, “and brace my foot against the wall, and then I would take a run…” I began to run in slow motion as I spoke. “…toward the door. And just before I reached it, I would turn my left shoulder and drop it…” I turned as I explained. “…and then I would lower it and crash it into the door as close to the door jamb as I could.”

  I gently let my shoulder thud against the door about two feet above the handle.

  “Ah, precisely. That is how any intelligent chap would do it. Now, let us pretend that you do not want to use your shoulder, and instead you are going to kick the door down. How would you do that?”

  Again, I pondered. If I just stood directly in front of the door, raised my leg and gave a powerful kick, then I knew that the equal and opposite reaction would send me flat onto my gluteus maximus.

  “I would start a few steps back and walk smartly toward the door and give it a firm kick as I got there.”

  “Precisely. Thus the forward momentum of your body weight would add more power to your kick. Now show me where on the door you would land your foot.”

  I walked toward the door and raised my foot, landing it close to the door jamb, just below the door handle.

  “Thank you, doctor. Now, would it be possible for you to land a kick above the door handle?”

  I looked at the door and started to raise my foot, and then lowered it.

  “Impossible. That’s far too high for me. I would have to be a ballerina to do that without falling backward, and I would lose most of the force. It would never knock the door down.”

  “Right, again, doctor. Now, please, let me detain you for just a few moments longer and come into my room.”

  He unlocked his door, and we entered.

  “This room is furnished with a writing desk, just like yours is. Could you again pretend that you are a thief and that the lower drawer on the far pedestal is closed and locked, just like the dean’s with a similar lock in the middle top of the front panel? Now please pretend that you have a jimmy in your hand, and you are in a hurry, and you pry the locked drawer open. Could you do that for me please, my dear doctor?”

  I was not at all sure where this pantomime was going, but I did as requested. I hustled across the room, pretended I had a jimmy in my hand, inserted the invisible tool into the narrow slot immediately above the lower drawer and stood up and made as if I were prying it open.

  “Wonderful, my friend. Perfect. Just as I imagined you would. Now, how about a glass of sherry before bedtime? I am indebted to you for my poor manners earlier and my demands on your previously unknown talents for the stage.”

  “Only if you will tell me what all this has been about, Holmes.”

  “Of course. But first things first. The sherry is in the drawer of the desk, and you do not have to break any lock to purloin it. Glasses are with it. Two generous ones, eh, Watson?”

  I poured, and we sat back. I just glared at Holmes until he smiled and began to talk.

  “Let us begin with the desk. What hand were you carrying your jimmy with as you approached the desk?”

  I reflected briefly and answered, “My right.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I am right-handed. That should be obvious.”

  “Precisely, and what hand did you hold it in whilst you were inserting it into the space above the panel and then prying with it.”

  “My right.”

  “Of course. The lock was located in the middle of the panel at the top. To which side of the lock did you insert the jimmy?”

  “The …,” and here I stopped. “Ah ha! The damage was done to the left of the lock. The thief was left-handed. Brilliant, Holmes.”

  “Not entirely. Prying with a jimmy is a simple task and unlike throwing a cricket ball where accuracy is required, even right-handed people could us
e their left hand to pry a jimmy. But it is probable that the culprit was left-handed, and that is useful to know. Now back to the door.”

  “Yes.”

  “When you hit the door with your shoulder, would you have left a mark on it?”

  “No. I am wearing a jacket. It would serve as a pad and not leave so much as a scuff.”

  “Exactly. Now, what about your foot? Could you have raised it high enough so that the first portion of your foot to strike the door would be the back edge of the heel?”

  In my mind, I re-enacted my kick on the door. “No. I could not raise my foot high enough for the heel to strike first. The ball of my foot would touch first, followed immediately by the heel.”

  “That is what I observed. Now let me describe the door of the Dean Soames’s office. There were two fresh marks on it. Both were slight indentations of a sixteenth inch in depth and in the shape of a crescent. The one above the handle opened downward and was off center, as if at ten-thirty on the face of a clock. The second, below the handle, opened upward, again off center slightly, at around six-thirty.”

  “Then the door,” I said, “could not have been kicked. It must have been hit with a sledge. Twice.”

  “An elementary and correct deduction, my dear doctor.”

  He resumed sipping on his sherry. I did likewise.

  “Any grown man,” he said, “could have thrown his shoulder against the door and knocked it open. The locks, even the new one that Bannister had installed, are weak and would give way. A reasonably athletic man could have taken two fast steps toward it and given it a kick, as you pretended to do. Our thief did neither. He came planning to break in and brought a sledge with him, knowing that he would need it.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “But why? Maybe the thief was just a boy, like Oliver Twist sent by Fagin.”

  “That would make some sense except it flies in the face of what we were told by Bannister about the size of the thief. But then his account is contradicted by what we heard from Nelson.”