Holmes turned to the Book of Revelations and there he found an ancient envelope stained with yellowed dots. On it was scribbled Last Will and Testament of George Anton Hudson of Bermondsey. Perusal of the will showed that it was drawn up in June of 1842, two months before the death of the Black Brigand and executed in August of 1842 - it was clear to me from the carefully preserved articles and the execution of the will that the Black Brigand was Mrs Hudson’s husband, George. The will stated Mrs. Martha Louise Hudson was the inheritor of a forty-three thousand pound fortune and was to allocate, in monthly installments, the sum of twenty-five pounds on the last Friday of every month to each of her twin sons, Ernest and Charles, a rich payout at the time. This was to go on until the death of Mrs Martha Louise Hudson, then what remained of the sum was to be distributed evenly among the sons.
“Twins?” I ejaculated. “Mrs Hudson is a mother? Why would she hide something like that from the world?”
“I’m sure it had to do with the fact that her husband was the Black Brigand and she didn’t know about it until he was shot dead. If it came out that she had sons who were annually receiving the stolen booty pinched by the Black Brigand, She and her sons risked going to prison.”
“But she knows she can trust us –”
“Everyone has their secrets, Watson, even you and I. Believe it or not, I’m as stupefied by this as you are,” Holmes said. “But it confirms my earlier suspicion; that you’d seen the twin of the murdered man in the window, he was the third man in the flat tonight... the murderer. That’s why Mrs Hudson isn’t cooperating with Scotland Yard, she’s protecting her only remaining son.”
“It boggles the mind, Holmes!” I exclaimed. “Mrs Hudson married to the Black Brigand! I remember hearing stories about him from my parents as I was growing up. They used him as a sort of bogey man to scare me into staying in bed at night.”
“And now, forty years later after his death, the bane of his ill-gotten gains have caused the predictable disintegration of his own family,” Holmes stated.
“You think greed was the motive for the murder, then?”
“Indeed, Watson. What else could it be? That’s why the brother returned to the flat tonight, to collect the rest of his inheritance then disappear, perhaps leave the country. The safe where the booty has been kept all these years is right there, at our feet, all we need to know is the combination.”
“Surely you can break into it?”
“Of course, but that would diminish its use as bait.”
“You mean to trap the murderer in the act when he returns?”
“Why not? It worked against his father, it should work against his son.”
VI
Holmes went up, shut off the gas to the lamps in the kitchen then cleverly placed the rug over the trap door from underneath, while on the steps inside the vault, making the flat look abandoned, the trap door undiscovered.
Then we hid in the small space next to the steps, extinguished the oil lamp wick and waited in silence. Holmes had his pistol out and ready. He was betting that the man would return again that night, and he was right.
It wasn’t an hour later when we heard the creak of the back door opening followed by footsteps thumping above our heads. Then the trap door flew open and the shadowed figure of a man came down the steps in a hurried, desperate gait, his right hand holding a lit lamp of his own high and forward. He stopped at the table, placed the lamp on top then knelt down, quickly spinning the dial on the Mosler’s steel reinforced door. I could see from the glare of the lamp that he had copper colored hair.
There was a loud click and the man clapped his hands together in satisfaction. As he reached into the bowels of the safe, Holmes stepped out of the shadows of our hiding place, pistol pointed at the man. “Are you Charles or Ernest?” he said once we were close enough. Thinking quickly, I re-lit our lamp in case the man tried to pull a fast one and extinguish his to make an escape.
The man froze in place, his hands still plunged deeply inside the Mosler. “Who-who are you?” he asked.
“Friends of your mother’s,” Holmes said as he carefully stepped around so that he stood next to the table, facing the man. “Slowly pull your hands out of there and stand up, we have much to talk about. Do you have him, Watson?” Holmes bluffed, making the man think I had a pistol trained on him.
“Yes, Holmes,” I said boldly, playing along.
The man did as Holmes ordered, then stood there with his hands up.
“Frisk him,” Holmes said.
I did so, found nothing dangerous on his person.
“Sit down,” Holmes ordered as he waved the pistol at the chair.
The man, hands still up, did as told.
“Well?” Holmes asked. “Which one are you?”
Visible beads of sweat were gathering on the man’s brow, I was amazed at how closely he resembled his brother. “I’m Ernest,” he said weakly, his green eyes were wide and intent upon my compatriot’s figure.
“Ernest,” Holmes began. “I’m Sherlock Holmes, this is my friend Doctor John Watson. What kind of man is it that lets his mother take the fall for his own crime?”
“It’s not like that, Mr Holmes. I was going to send the Yard a letter, detailing the whole story once I was safely out of the country-”
“I don’t believe you,” Holmes interrupted. “Tell me what happened tonight that made you kill your own brother.”
Ernest took a long, hard swallow, then began talking. “Charles and I never got along. The only time we ever saw each other was when we’d meet in our mother’s kitchen to receive our monthly endowment. He’d been complaining recently that he needed more... he wanted mother to double his stipend, which was contrary to father’s wishes-”
“Do you know who your father was?” Holmes asked.
Ernest nodded. “Mother told us about it after he was killed. You must believe me when I say she knew nothing of his activities. Father kept everything hidden from all of us, we didn’t find out about the safe and what was in it until after the will was read. And even then it was hard for her to obey his instructions, knowing that our inheritance was collected under dubious circumstances. But we were destitute at the time. Father was an unskilled man, worked odd jobs wherever he could find them, barely kept food on the table for us. That’s why he turned to crime, Mr Holmes... to support us. The only time I ever saw him spend any money was when he bought mother a coat she’d seen in a store window in London.”
“A black fur coat, like the one upstairs in the closet?”
“That’s the one, sir,” Ernest said. “He brought it home for her a few days before he was killed but she never wore it. Ever. Charles talked about pawning it for cash all the time... how that angered mother so.”
“I assume, after Charles demanded an increase in his endowment, an argument ensued.”
“And nothing mother or I said to him could change his mind,” Ernest answered, staring down at the floor. “I understood his argument, of course. We’re both approaching fifty and, like they say, you can’t take it with you. He wanted to live the good life before he died, waiters and dinner parties and such, but mother was against anything pretentious like that. She was afraid that, even after all this time, people would suspect where his money came from if he began showing it off. She was very ashamed of it, never took a single shilling from the safe for herself as far as I know. Always called it a curse upon our family.”
“She was right,” Holmes said. “Tell me about the actual murder.”
“Charles threatened to tell everyone who father really was if she didn’t give him the increase, expose the one family secret above all others that would destroy all of us. Hell, even Charles and my existence was kept secret from everyone. I couldn’t let him do that to mother, I had to protect her... so we fought... during the altercation my hand fell upon a carving
knife lying on the counter near the sink basin.” Ernest’s eyes began glistening with tears as he did his best to control his voice, avoiding a complete breakdown. “It-it all happened so fast, Mr Holmes. I didn’t even know I’d stabbed Charles until he fell to the floor and mother screamed. Realizing the horrible crime I’d committed, seeing the deep sadness and horror in my mother’s eyes, I panicked, dropped the knife and ran out of the flat. But I’d left without my part of the monthly stipend, I couldn’t leave the country without it, so I came back a little while later to take it all, hoping things had settled by then and the flat abandoned... that’s when I saw Doctor Watson in the kitchen... and he saw me.”
A long, terrible silence followed as Holmes and I stood there digesting what Ernest had told us. I couldn’t have felt more sympathy for Mrs Hudson, or more powerless to do anything about it.
“On your feet, Ernest,” Holmes said. “We must take this story down to Scotland Yard and free your poor mother from your father’s terrible curse. Watson, grab a container and secure the booty. It must be extricated from this house and given to the proper authorities. Only then will some form of peace fall over Mrs Hudson.”
VII
After Ernest told his story to Detective Inspector Lestrade, Holmes pleaded for leniency in the charge against him, citing the terrible loss Mrs Hudson had already endured of one son. Convinced it was the right thing to do, Lestrade charged Ernest with the secondary crime of defensive manslaughter, which carried with it a maximum sentence of ten years in prison.
Holmes promised to testify on Ernest’s behalf, this eased Mrs Hudson’s mind considerably and in the hansom on the way back to 211a Baker Street, she held on to Holmes’ hand, never letting it go, grateful that he’d given her a chance at a new life.
We never spoke of the incidents of that night again, nor of Mrs Hudson’s marriage with the Black Brigand. One day, a month later, I heard hammering going on in down in 221a. When I asked Mrs Hudson about it, all she would tell me was that she’d finally put the past behind her.
Good for her.
The Late Constable Avery
As I sit here in the sunny parlor of 221b Baker Street, taking my afternoon tea, I’m suddenly struck with the urge to tell you about a most interesting case my good friend, Sherlock Holmes, and I tackled together early on in our friendship. It was a rather unexpected affair.
The constables of Scotland Yard hold their annual benefit to raise funds for the London Constables Retirement Fund on the last Friday of every October and this particular year they’d asked Holmes to give a short speech about his recent, wildly successful partnerships with Scotland Yard. But getting Holmes to appear at any public function has always been comparative to putting a collar on a feral cat. His blade-sharp mind considered public appearances and speeches utter faff; pretentious strokes of the ego. It took a fortnight of prodding by me, thickly printed flattery from various editorial columnists of local news sheets and a personal request from Commissioner of Scotland Yard, Yancy Carruthers, to convince him to take a night off from his mental ruminations and violin practice.
As our cabriolet rode up to the marble stepped entrance of the London Central Event Hall on Belgrave Street, I asked Holmes if he’d had his speech with him. He shot me a confident glare and tapped his fingertip to his temple. “It’s all in here, Watson,” he said.
“Quite, quite, of course,” I agreed, sincerely embarrassed at my error. Holmes had the memory of a hundred pachyderms.
When we entered the event hall we found it full of formally dressed constables and their wives. A five piece brass band played “Oh, Tallulah” on a large stage at the rear of the hall but I could barely hear them over the din of countless voices and jovial laughter. Immediately, Holmes and I were beset by one constable after another, eager to shake Holmes’ hand. Some of them remembered working with Holmes on this case or that. A well-timed glance at my friend told me that he was enjoying every minute of his newfound fame.
Finally, like a ghost, silver haired Commissioner Carruthers appeared out of the crowd and led us up to the stage. I was seated at a table in front, with three other constables and their wives as the Commissioner quieted the band and told people to take their seats. Then he introduced Holmes and the hall erupted in exuberant cheers and applause lasting sixty whole ticks. There was complete silence during his speech, except for the moment when a tardy constable rushed into the hall and seated himself at a table in back. Holmes hesitated a moment, took notice of the interruption, so quickly I doubt anyone except me noticed, then he finished his speech with kudos to Commissioner Carruthers and the good constables of London proper. That brought the roof of the event hall down with applause, cheers and whistles, this time lasting ninety whole ticks.
The five piece brass band started up again as Commissioner Carruthers, knowing Holmes preferred to make his exit, again led us through the crowd of hand-shakers and back-patters. Near the doors, that tardy constable greeted us, his hand outstretched. Holmes took the young man’s hand and shook it briskly. But what struck me about the man was the pale and glossy tint his face held and there was a small purple bruise on the left side of his chin. I’d seen this paleness on the faces of many fever victims over the years. It concerned me so much that I asked him about it.
“I was caught in the rain last night during my rounds and feel only a little under the weather, it’s the reason I arrived late. I do apologize,” he said in a forced, jubilant tone.
“Is that a bruise on your chin?”
“The bruise? Oh... yes, I had a run in with a drunken laborer last night, just before it began raining. It doesn’t hurt as bad now. I’m fine, really, Doctor Watson.”
“You know me then?” I asked, not recalling the man’s features at all.
“Of course he does, Watson,” Holmes interrupted matter-of-factly, still grasping the constable’s hand. It seemed to me a prolonged hand shake. Then I caught just the briefest glint of suspicion in his eyes as he stared at the man. “This is Constable Richard Avery, he along with Commissioner Carruthers and a pair of other constables helped us catch the Black Rose Ruffians two years ago, remember?”
I glanced at the man again and it all came back to me. The Black Rose Ruffians were a gang of kidnappers, holding wives of the wealthy for huge ransoms. Constable Avery, his family going back seven generations in England, had reported his wife kidnapped by them. It was only because of Holmes’ brilliant deductions that Scotland Yard found them, broke the gang up, and secured Avery’s wife unharmed.
“And how is your wife... Camilla, is that correct?” Holmes asked, pretending for some reason to find it hard to remember her name.
Young Avery nodded, blinked his eyes quickly and answered. “Very well, sir.” His answer didn’t sound convincing to me at all, but apparently Holmes hadn’t heard the answer, which was strange because I’ve seen him track a cricket down in a field from fifty yards away. He leaned in closely, his nose nearly touching Avery’s neck, and asked him to repeat his answer. In a louder voice, Avery said, “Very well, sir! Thank you!”
“Good, good,” Holmes said. “Is she here tonight?”
“No, sir,” Avery replied, he was sweating profusely now, his skin growing so pale it seemed transparent. That purple bruise on his chin was disappearing right before my eyes. I thought he was going to faint straight out. “She’s visiting her cousin in Cornwall. But she sends her good wishes to you.”
“That’s very nice of her,” Holmes said as he politely pulled away from Avery’s neck and released his hand, but not without a quick look at the constable’s fingers. Then he flashed a glance down at Avery’s boots. Something was going on right in front of me but I didn’t know what it was. Why was Holmes acting so strangely? What was all this suspicious inspection about?
Commissioner Carruthers looked as in the dark as I was.
“Tell me, Constable Avery,” Hol
mes began. “When did your wife leave for Cornwall?”
“Uh... two days ago, sir. Wednesday. I put her on the steamer in Paddington Station two days ago. Yes, that’s right.”
“Hmmm. I would love to go up to Cornwall and visit her. See if she’s completely recovered from that horrible event of two years ago. Do you think she’d mind?”
“Uh... not at all, sir. But she’ll be back in three days, you could call on us then, at Averyshire. I think that would be better.”
“I see,” Holmes said flatly. There was a long, uncomfortable silence between the two men, most of which Avery spent refusing to make eye contact with Holmes. “As I recall, your wife has blond hair, does she not?”
“Yes-yes, sir. That’s correct.” Young Avery was trembling like a plucked violin string now.
Holmes reached out, fingered something on Avery’s jacket, then pulled his hand back. In between his fingertips was a single strand of blond hair. Holmes brought it up to his nose and sniffed it. “Commissioner Carruthers,” he said. “I think it proper that you arrest this man.”
Sherlock Holmes Page 9
