“I must admit, Ambassador, I’m not familiar with that name,” Holmes said.
“What? Well, you should be, Mr Holmes,” Walsh said irritably. “He’s Britain’s greatest sculptor. His bronze castings and marble works line the Mall outside of Buckingham Palace; Cornwallis, Horatio Nelson, The Duke of Wellington, and on and on. He’s of such skill it is thought that he can capture the living soul of his subjects within the very medium he works. I thought, perhaps, he could do the same for my Eliza.”
“Did she submit to this also, to please you?” I asked.
“Yes, of course,” there was a note of regret in his voice. “Even though Eliza disapproved of it, she understood my mindset. So, this past spring, and at great expense to me, she began her sittings with Master Benford. I would take her in the hansom but Benford would only let me enter the studio when we first arrived. When he began working, it was made clear to me that I wasn’t welcome. Like most artists of his talent and eccentricity, he demanded to work in private. So, I would sit outside in the hansom for three, sometimes four hours every day. I considered it a further price I had to pay if I was to get what I wanted. And Eliza, night after night, would come out from the studio, her mood melancholy, her mouth closed. This dour mood continued on at home, affecting every aspect of our private life.”
“Did you suspect any tom-foolery between them?” Holmes asked.
Walsh frowned and his cheeks grew red in embarrassment. “You wouldn’t ask that question if you knew Eliza, Mr Holmes,” he said.
“Perhaps not, but it’s been my experience that even the saintliest of people have their moments of weakness.”
Walsh nodded. “You are quite correct in that supposition, but the answer is no. If I had suspected that, I would have forbidden her to go and shot the man.”
“Quite extreme and very illegal, Ambassador,” Holmes instructed. “Were you ever allowed to see the progress made on the sculpture?”
Walsh shook his head and poured himself another drink. “Not at first,” he answered, took a quick swallow, then continued. “Every time I went into the studio Benford had an old, dusty blanket covering it. All I could discern was that it was a thin, vertical shaft of white marble, exactly as tall as Eliza was. Finally, after a fortnight I reminded him of the great expense I had incurred due to his commission and that as a client, I was entitled to see what he’d completed so far. After my tirade Benford relented and threw the blanket off.”
For some reason Walsh stopped his story. His gaze danced away from us and fell upon the floor as Holmes and I waited patiently for him to continue.
“Forgive me, gentlemen,” he muttered then took another drink. “This is very hard for me to admit. You see, he... he’d completed everything above her navel-”
“Her navel?” Holmes repeated, but both of us knew where this was going.
Walsh’s whole face flashed undeniably deep red this time. “Yes, Mr Holmes. Her navel. Imagine my shock when Benford threw that blanket off, revealing my wife sculpted naked from the navel up, and it was clear what her hands were going to cover when he finally got down to that point. Eliza, seeing my reaction, fainted straight into my arms. I was enraged, if I hadn’t been holding Eliza, I would have strangled Benford right then. To submit my wife to such base, erotic indignities... well... I was dumbfounded!” He slammed the glass back down on to the side table, struggled to compose himself a moment. “Then I looked up into the face he’d carved from the living rock... it was Eliza, her eyes were closed as if she was sleeping... but it was her! The softness, the light, the warmth, the beauty, the detail... Benford had successfully captured her essence in the marble, preserved it forever. It was miraculous. Against my strongest instincts, I let him continue... to bring the work to its proper completion, but I could no longer, in good conscience, be the one to bring Eliza to his studio any longer. The guilt at what I’d done, what I was putting her through was too much. Instead, I hired a cab to come collect her every morning at ten and bring her home at one in the afternoon.”
This information perked Holmes up. “A cab, you say?” he asked.
“Yes. From Central London Cab Services,” Walsh replied. “I requested the same driver pick her up every day, limiting the number of people who had insight about what my wife was doing. If it got out, the resulting scandal would ruin my reputation. The driver’s name is Norman Bean.”
“How well do you know this man?” Holmes asked.
“Not well at all. The only time I spoke to him was when I paid the fare in the afternoon after he dropped her off. He was simple-witted but seemed a nice enough man.”
“Tell me about your wife’s disappearance.”
Walsh took a deep, loud breath then sat down on the couch again. “Six days ago, on the twenty-seventh of October, I sent Eliza off in the cab, just like every other day. I haven’t seen her since. When the cab didn’t arrive home in the afternoon, I contacted Scotland Yard immediately. They questioned the cab driver whom said he’d waited for her at Benford’s studio for twenty minutes before going in, that was when Benford told him she’d left an hour before. Apparently she’d said it was such a nice day for late October she wanted to walk home.”
“Did she walk often, Ambassador?”
“Never. She didn’t feel safe enough in London to walk about on her own. What’s troubling is that the distance from here to Stamford Street where Benford’s studio is located is over five miles, and that’s across the Waterloo Bridge. She would never attempt that. I fear the worst, Mr Holmes.”
“Did the Yard talk to Benford?”
“Yes. He gave them the same story he gave the cab driver. After that they performed a cursory search of his studio and the neighborhoods between here and Stamford Street, but police resources being what they are nowadays... well, they turned up nothing, which leaves me in a state of limbo concerning my wife’s fate. I’m positively frantic, Mr Holmes, so yesterday Detective Inspector Lestrade suggested I contact you. He said you’re most capable at things like this.”
“The Inspector flatters me,” Holmes said without a hint of humbleness. “I think you’ve given me enough to get started, Ambassador. We’ll be in touch. Thank you for your time. We’ll let ourselves out.”
“Thank you, Mr Holmes. If you need anything to facilitate your investigation, don’t hesitate to call on me.”
Holmes and I left the Ambassador sitting on his couch nursing another glass of whiskey. When we settled into the cab Holmes was silent in thought.
“Well,” I began, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “At least we came away with two good suspects, the cab driver and the sculptor. We’re doing better than usual.”
“Three, Doctor Watson,” Holmes retorted.
“What’s that?” I asked, not quite catching his meaning.
“We have three good suspects, Watson,” Holmes explained. “Didn’t you notice that the Ambassador constantly referred to his wife in the third person?”
Chapter Two: Interview With the Cab Driver
Holmes, being a notorious late riser, didn’t disappoint me the next day. Up at nine-thirty, he dressed quickly then we sat down and ate a hearty sausage and chip breakfast that Mrs. Hudson was good enough to prepare for us. Afterwards, armed with walking sticks, we took a cab to the offices of London Central Cab Services on Shaftesbury Avenue, found the manager then Holmes introduced himself. The manager knew of him and agreed to cooperate fully. Holmes asked him where we could find Norman Bean. The manager informed us that since Bean had lost a lucrative account recently, he’d been forced to work two shifts to make up for the discrepancy, so he was still out and about running the streets of London taking fares, even after working all night. He could be anywhere. The manager gave us Bean’s cab number, 1930, then we left on foot.
“There must be dozens of cabs flitting all over London, Holmes,” I offered. “How in blazes are
we going to find Bean’s?”
“By using logic, my dear Watson,” Holmes replied cryptically. We started off heading northeast on Shaftesbury Avenue then south on Charing Cross Road. Holmes seemed to know where he was going so I followed him quietly. It was the kind of delightfully mild, sunny morning that made foot travel bearable. On our left appeared Covent Garden, a grand sized public park always filled with people because the Covent Garden Market resided there. Trafalgar Square was further down at the end of the road and I could see the high, dark pillar of Nelson’s Column in the distance. The glass fronts of countless businesses stared back at me from both sides of the road; a tailor, a shoe shop, a candy emporium, a cigar shoppe, etcetera. When we reached Strand, we turned northeast again, following it for some time until we reached the London Transport Museum. Outside the red brick façade sat a long row of black cabs, their burdens standing patient, blinders on, ready to transport fares. I’d never seen such a conglomeration of cabs gathered in one area before but kept my inquisitiveness to myself, knowing the answer would come from Holmes soon enough.
Holmes slowly inspected each cab as we passed by, each had a driver sitting out front holding leather reins in their fists, each stared at us as if we were the Queen of England, some even tipped their hats to us, hoping their geniality would secure a fare from us. They looked such a downtrodden, desperate lot I felt almost guilty at not hiring them in bulk. Then we came upon a cab, the only cab in the line, mind you, that was absent a driver out front. Closer inspection revealed the number on the cab to be 1930.
“Ah, here we are, Watson,” Holmes said pleasantly. “Our mission is complete.”
“And so it is,” I agreed in amazement. “Tell me, Holmes, how did you know Bean would be here?”
“What time is it?” Holmes asked.
I pulled at the chain of my pocket watch and read the hands on the face. “Eleven twenty-two,” I replied.
“The calm before the noontime storm,” Holmes mused. “We are very near the center of London, look around you.”
I did so and saw that we were surrounded on both sides of the street by banks, accountant’s offices, barrister’s offices, and high-end retailers.
“The heart of the business district, Watson, approaching lunch hour. Over the years I’ve noticed that cabbies gather here at this time every day, waiting to grab fares from those of the higher class breaking for lunch. In less than an hour there will be so much chaos here it will seem as if the entire street has been set on fire. Drivers incur more income during this one single hour than they do the rest of the day, so it was natural to assume Bean would be here.”
I was not aware of this and I would definitely remember it for future reference. “But where is Bean himself?” I asked, pointing to the empty driver’s seat.
“Remember, the manager told us he’d been working all night, pulling a double shift,” Holmes answered. “You’ll find that he’s inside the compartment napping. Wake him up, my friend, and let’s expedite this interview quickly.”
I went over to the door and could hear the unmistakable rumblings of snoring coming from inside. I knocked on the window of the cab briskly, three times. I must have startled him because the whole cab compartment throttled to-and fro as if floating freely on harsh seas.
“’Ooth’ bloody ‘ell is it?” a suspicious voice rang out.
“My name is Watson,” I replied. “I’m here with consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. We have some questions concerning the disappearance of –”
The compartment agitated again then I heard a long squeak followed by the slam of the door on the opposite side. Next, there were two hurried footsteps, a deep thud, a man’s grunt. I realized Bean had been trying to make an escape by using the other door. This confirmed his guilt in my mind; why should he run if he wasn’t guilty of anything? I called out for Holmes, looked behind me and discovered the great consulting detective was gone.
“I’m over here, Watson,” my friend’s voice echoed from the other side of the cab compartment. As I hurried around the back, I noticed that the other drivers were ignoring what was going on, wisely realizing that it wasn’t any of their business.
When I reached Holmes, he was standing next to the cab with his walking stick held like a club in his hand. He’d cleverly predicted the man’s escape attempt. Bean sat on the ground rubbing the top of his head with both hands.
“You didn’t ‘aff to ‘it me so ‘ard, sir,” he complained.
“Up on your feet, Bean,” Holmes said. “And explain why you ran.”
Keeping one hand on his tender head, Bean used the other one to grab on to Holmes’ outstretched hand, then stood up, a little wobbly though. He looked at Holmes then began: “I was scared, is all, sir. In recent days I been ‘arrassed by police about a killin’ I know nothin’ about. An’ then, respectfully, sir, but I don’t know you from Adam an’ you want to question me about it too. You could be th’ killer for all I know.”
“I never said anything about a killing,” I protested. “I said ‘disappearance.’ Why do you think the woman you’d been driving has been murdered?”
“When a woman disappears in London, sir, it usually means murder.”
“Sound logic, Bean,” Holmes agreed. “Tell me about that day, the twenty-seventh of October, starting from when you collected Mrs Walsh at her residence.”
“Well, sir, it be about ten in th’ mornin’, same time as every other day. The Ambassador escorted Mrs Walsh down th’ stairs, ‘elped ‘er up into th’ compartment, bid me good morning then went back inside.”
“Did the Ambassador seem different that day? Angry? Sad?”
“No. ‘E was more than regular, sir.”
“Did you notice anything suspicious during the drive to Master Benford’s studio?”
“Nothin’, sir, other than that it was a bright an’ cheerful day that day.”
“What about when you dropped her off at Master Benford’s studio?”
“No. Nothin’, sir... wait! There was somethin’ odd, now that I think about it. Master Benford actually came out of th’ studio an’ ‘elpedth’ lady out of th’ compartment.”
“That’s unusual?” I asked.
“It is for Master Benford, sir,” Bean answered. “In all th’ times I brought th’ lady over there, ‘e never came out. She always went in alone. And stranger still, sir, ‘e seemed to be rushin’ her inside, ‘ad his hand on her back an’ was pushin’ her.”
“Are you sure?”
“That’s what I’ll testify to, if I ‘aff to, sir.”
“What did you do after you dropped Mrs Walsh off? Did you come here?” Holmes asked.
“No, sir, didn’t ‘aff to at th’ time. Th’ Ambassador paid me real well, tipped even better. Some days I’d just drive round, catch short, local fares if I could. Other days I’d land a pub, ‘av a few drinks until I ‘ad to collect th’ lady again. That day I picked up some fares an’ with it bein’ such a nice day, I drove through Covent Garden, watched people an’ enjoyed th’ weather. Nothin’ special.”
“And when you attempted to collect Mrs Walsh that afternoon, what happened then?”
“Well, she wasn’t waitin’ for me outside like she usually did, so I waited for damn near twenty minutes before I decided to go in an’ see what was takin’ ‘er so long. Found Master Benfordwashin’ ‘is arms and ‘ands in the sink. ‘E was scrubbin’ an’ scrubbin’ with a wire brush, but it didn’t seem to be workin’. There was white stuff clingin’ to ‘im like paint. Then he saw me standin’ there watchin’ ‘im an’ ‘e wasn’t ‘appy about it. Called me a few choice words, trespasser bein’ one o’ them, before I could get it out that I was there to pick up Mrs Walsh. That changed his tune right quick, he became all nicey-nicey, told me th’ lady ‘ad left an hour before, on foot. ‘E even tried to shake my ‘and but ‘e still ‘ad that
white stuff on his ‘ands an’ I wouldn’t do it. Took me a moment to realize ‘e’d been laying concrete. Saw the fresh surface outside th’ rear studio doors, leadin’ to th’ back yard.”
“A patio?”
“Yes, sir. Small one, longer than it was wide. ‘E did a terrible job of laying it, didn’t seem to fit th’ space properly. It was nice and perfectly flat, though, an’ whiter than any concrete I ever saw before.”
Holmes stared at the man, a look of intense concentration on his face. “Did you tell this to Scotland Yard, Bean?”
Bean shook his head. “No. Didn’t seem important at th’ time, sir, they were more interested in targetin’ me as a criminal so I was too busy defending meself.”
“My good man,” Holmes began. “If I pay you triple your fare, would you kindly take us across the river and to Master Benford’s studio as quickly as you can?”
Chapter Three: Interview with Master Benford
On the way to Master Benford’s studio, we stopped at 4 Whitehall Place, the familiar location of Scotland Yard, and Holmes informed Detective Inspector Lestrade that he’d planned to interview the sculptor concerning the disappearance of Mrs Walsh. He requested Lestrade come with us, along with two constables armed with hearty sledgehammers and shovels. Inspector Lestrade didn’t blink an eye at my friend’s request as Holmes had proven his infallibility so many times in the past.
Sherlock Holmes Page 4
