Sherlock Holmes- a Duel With the Devil

by Roger Jaynes

  ‘Splendid, Holmes! ’ I effused. ‘Why, you have re-created it all perfectly! ’

  ‘One other point of significance,’ Holmes added, ‘is that the initials “E.B.” are carved into the ladder, just below the topmost rung.’

  ‘You don’t say?’ Lestrade remarked, glancing up from his notebook, in which he was scribbling furiously. ‘And what of this latest scrawl, Mr Holmes? You are more familiar with these runes than I.’

  Taking the policeman’s pad and pencil, Holmes studied the markings for a time, transcribing them into a row of letters on the page. After which, he transposed the last to first, and so on, until the reversal of the entire line was complete. The result, which he held before us in the lightly falling snow, was this:

  Truth, red says, is what is not

  For a moment, we all stared silently down at that intriguing scrap of paper, each, I felt, thinking our particular thoughts about what the line could mean, as well as those which had proceeded it.

  ‘This tells us nothing more than we knew before,’ I stated, finally, unable to hide my disappointment. ‘It’s obvious these Vandals are a screen for some other act, or crime. But what?’

  Lestrade rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘What, indeed,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, Doctor. If what Mr Holmes tells us is true, I’d give a fortnight’s pay to see that final line.’

  ‘Oh, you shall,’ Holmes assured him. ‘But by then, I fear, all will be too late. Come. Perhaps something will turn our way in Stepney.

  Peter Jacobsen’s small art store was located on the corner of a rather nondescript, aged brick building, one of many such plain structures which lined the snowy street called Abbott’s Lane. In spite of nature’s soft white covering, it seemed a dreary venue, an endless hodgepodge of grimy shop windows, advertising posters and frontages sorely in need of a coat of paint. To the left, Jacobsen’s establishment was buttressed by something called ‘The British School of Monitoring’; to the right was a small alleyway, which led to the rear of the building. As we alighted, I noted a few people had already gathered in the street – curious, no doubt, at seeing the black police van outside, and two uniformed constables at Jacobsen’s door. Given the grim reason for our visit, the two bright landscapes on display in the dealer’s front window seemed grotesquely out of place.

  Holmes paused before the door. ‘Who discovered the body?’ he asked.

  ‘I did, sir,’ the nearest constable answered. ‘It was a bit after four; I was making my normal round.’

  ‘And what did you see?’

  ‘Footsteps in the snow, sir. And this door open, just a crack. At first I thought perhaps it was forgetfulness – you know, a toff home late with a drop too much to drink. But then, I had this feeling. So I stepped inside, and flashed my light about, and called up the stairs at the back. When I got no answer, I went on up – and found ’im dead for sure, lying on his back.’

  Holmes knelt down and examined the keyhole of the door closely with his glass.

  ‘This is interesting,’ he said. ‘There’s not a mark upon it. Not a scratch upon the ward, where pressure would have been applied.’

  Lestrade jumped like a cat upon a mouse. ‘Well, if entry was not forced,’ he declared, ‘then it’s certainly simple enough. Either Jacobsen knew his killer, and let him in, or the killer had a key.’

  Holmes said nothing, and stepped inside.

  We followed Lestrade to the rear of Jacobsen’s crowded shop, past displays of oils and watercolours depicting various, time-honoured themes: forested landscape, young girls swinging gaily in a park, bright-coloured birds perched alertly above a stream, large bowls of gleaming fruit. (At the thought of food, my stomach growled, reminding me that I had not had breakfast.) Jacobsen, I noted as we passed the counter, had sold art supplies as well: his shelves were stocked with brushes, tubes of paint, palettes and boxes of coloured charcoals and chalks. Blank canvasses and empty frames lay stacked against the wall.

  Lestrade then led us up a flight of stairs, to Jacobsen’s living quarters. Holmes, I noticed as we progressed, paused once or twice to press the boards with his bare hand. At the top of the stairs was a window on our left and a long hallway to the right. Two doors were visible, and a burly constable standing beside the first.

  ‘Jacobsen lived here,’ Lestrade explained. ‘The other door leads to a storage room. I have already examined it; nothing appears to be missing.’

  Holmes stepped to the window, and examined the latch.

  ‘Locked, as you can see,’ Lestrade commented. ‘As was the door leading to the alley. This way.’

  ‘How many people have entered this room?’ Holmes asked, as Lestrade swung open the door. At first glance, the flat appeared plain enough, a small kitchen, table and chairs, and a sleeping area at the rear, which had been partitioned off by a curtain. Next to the bed, a bureau drawer hung open, and two objects lay upon the floor – a metal cashbox, empty save for a few odd shillings, and a small candle in its stand.

  ‘Why, no one. Save myself, and the constable who originally happened on the scene.’

  ‘Good. Then, with your permission, we shall have a look about. Watson, if you would – the body?’

  Peter Jacobsen was lying on his back in the middle of the room, dressed only in his nightclothes, his dead eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling. Just below his rib cage, and slightly to the left, a dark circle of blood had soaked through the material and coagulated. Rigor mortis had set in.

  ‘A powerful man did this, Holmes,’ I said, as we knelt beside the inert form. ‘You see how the wound is jagged at the edges? The blade was clearly pushed from side to side repeatedly, after the initial thrust, to cause maximum damage. By the condition of the body, I’d say death occurred some time after midnight.’

  ‘And the angle of the wound?’

  ‘An upward thrust, certainly. An examination, I’m certain, will show the blade mortally pierced the heart. Death was almost instantaneous.’

  Holmes whipped out his glass, and began to crawl about on his hands and knees, in an ever-widening circle around the body. Then, while Lestrade and I watched silently, he examined the entire area, carpet and floorboards, from the victim’s outstretched feet to the doorway, and out into the hall.

  It was then I heard his yelp of triumph.

  ‘What did you find, Holmes?’ I asked.

  ‘What I had hoped for, Watson. Candle wax.’

  Lestrade snorted. ‘Wax, indeed! ’ he said, as Holmes continued his investigations in the hall. ‘Why, what happened here is clear enough to see! The thief entered this room and began his search, which woke poor Jacobsen from his bed. Before he could manage to strike a light, the man was on him! They struggled, and he stabbed him here. After that, the thief lit that candle, found the money, and fled back down to the street. Have I missed anything, Mr Holmes?’

  ‘Except for the quite obvious fact that Jacobsen’s moneybox has been emptied,’ Holmes replied, as he re-entered the room. ‘I conclude you have missed it all. Now – would you be so kind as to accompany us to the alley?’

  As we stepped down off the kerb, Holmes cautioned us to walk behind him, pointing out two sets of footprints in the snow. ‘You’ll note both were made by the same set of shoes, Lestrade,’ my friend remarked, as we carefully made our way. ‘Also, that both sets head in the same direction. The second, however, which at times covers the first, is spaced much further apart. It is, you must admit, most suggestive.’

  Lestrade said nothing. He was, I could see, still smarting from Holmes’s rebuff inside.

  In the alleyway behind the building, Holmes noted a set of wheel marks, which, along with the two sets of footprints, we followed until we stood at the rear of Jacobsen’s store.

  Holmes glanced about, a look of satisfaction on his lean face.

  ‘Thanks to Mother Nature, it is all before us,’ he said. ‘Why, they could not have done better had they left a map! The first set of prints, you see, follows the cart down the a
lley, then walks to the other side, while the cart waited here – you see where the horse’s hooves crushed down the snow? Then our man recrossed the alley, and placed his ladder under Jacobsen’s window –’

  ‘Ladder –!’ Lestrade ejaculated.

  ‘Yes. That window is where the murderer entered, not the shop door from the street.’

  Before Holmes could continue further, we heard the harsh scrape and creak of a door opening behind us. Turning round, we saw a bearded fellow peeking out from his back step across the alley.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Are you the police?’

  ‘We are,’ Lestrade said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I wish to issue a complaint. Someone has stolen my ladder.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yes. I placed it against this wall last night, before I retired to bed. And this morning I found it gone.’

  ‘Would it be a twelve-footer?’ Holmes enquired. ‘With your initials carved inside the rail?’

  ‘Yes, sir! ’ the man fairly beamed. ‘You’ve found it, then?’

  ‘That depends. What is your name and occupation?’

  ‘Biggle, sir. Edward Biggle. I’m a mason, and when things are slow, I wash windows for Mayhew & Gardner’s. That’s why I need the ladder, sir. I’ve got a job today.’

  Holmes chuckled. ‘Well, take heart, then, Edward Biggle. This is Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Thanks to his abundant perspicacity, your ladder is already in the hands of the police.’

  Holmes turned on his heel and strode jauntily off, leaving Lestrade to fume again.

  ‘If you check the hall window carefully,’ Holmes explained, as we retraced our steps to the street, ‘you will find the latch is sprung. The window was forced, then locked again, so it would not attract attention. There are, however, blade marks upon the outside sill, and the snow has been disturbed in three places upon the ledge.

  ‘The killer, I have no doubt, entered there. And, upon hearing Jacobsen approach, waited in the shadow by the staircase. When the unfortunate man stepped out, he grabbed him from behind and thrust home the knife, killing him on the spot.’

  ‘And how can you prove that?’ Lestrade enquired, this time without the sarcasm.

  ‘Candle wax, Inspector. When the killer grabbed Jacobsen, he surely dropped his candle. Yet there were no drops of wax beside the body. You will, however, find them on the floorboards in the hall. A close inspection of the carpeting also showed the line of the victim’s heel marks, made when his body was dragged into the room. After establishing robbery as the motive, the killer left through the front door of the store, making sure it was left open, and returned to the alley. He was in a hurry this time, which is why the second set of footprints are a bit further apart. After all, he and his confederates still had a visit to pay to the statue of George IV.’

  ‘All well and good, Holmes,’ I concurred. ‘But why, then, was Jacobsen killed? And why bother to conceal where the killer entered the building? It doesn’t seem to matter to me.’

  ‘My dear Watson! ’ Holmes exclaimed, as we turned the corner on to the street. ‘Don’t you see? The answer to one question is the answer to the other. I can only hope we find that answer inside.’

  Upon re-entering the art dealer’s shop, Holmes began to slowly pace about, examining this and that, taking in all that was before him. As he stepped behind the counter, he suddenly knelt down and pressed his palm against the floor. ‘Another suggestive point,’ he said. ‘These boards, like the stairs, are still quite damp. Yet elsewhere about the counter, there is no evidence of heavy traffic.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘That someone stood in this particular spot for quite some time, Watson. Someone whose shoes were wet.’

  ‘Perhaps it was the killer, seeking money from the register,’ Lestrade suggested.

  ‘Or someone else, seeking this?’ From beneath the counter, Holmes produced a small brown ledger, which he began to pore over intently, running his long index finger up and down the pages. ‘Let’s see, sales on the left, purchases on the right – Hello! What’s this?’

  Next to his finger, under ‘Items Sold’, were written the words: Velvet Vision, J. Potter, 10/6.

  ‘Good Lord! ’ I exclaimed. ‘Joseph Potter, Moriarty’s artist! So they knew each other, then?’

  ‘For quite some time. The sale of Potter’s painting is dated August the seventh. Actually, I’m not surprised; Brook Street is only a few streets away.’

  ‘Holmes, do you think it was Jacobsen who introduced Moriarty to Potter?’ I asked.

  My friend gave me a quizzical look. ‘Or,’ he replied, evenly, ‘was it the other way around?’

  Furiously, Holmes continued to comb the pages, until suddenly he uttered a cry of despair. Before us was the final page of recorded entries, covering transactions Jacobsen had made in recent weeks. On the left side under ‘Items Sold’, three lines were written. The right half had been torn away.

  ‘This,’ Holmes said, ‘explains it.’

  Lestrade and I exchanged a glance. What Holmes was driving at, neither of us could clearly fathom.

  ‘My dear fellow,’ I enquired, ‘whatever do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t you see, Watson? It all fits. Potter introduced Moriarty to Jacobsen, in order that he could make a purchase for him. A purchase Jacobsen duly recorded in this ledger. That is what Moriarty wished to conceal. It is the reason Jacobsen was killed, and why great pains were taken to make it appear a thief had entered from the street.’

  ‘Then you think the killer removed this page, after he stabbed Jacobsen?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘No. After all, he had other business awaiting him at Trafalgar Square. Besides, this was too important an errand to be trusted. My guess is that the killer – Langdon – hurried down and let Moriarty himself in through the front. After which, he returned again to the alley.’

  ‘Well, given the dead man’s profession,’ I speculated, ‘it seems safe to assume he secured a painting for Moriarty. Now if we only had some way of knowing what it was –’

  ‘Perhaps we do,’ Holmes replied. He removed a small card which had been inserted face down in the spine of the ledger. The inscription read:

  Claude Jarre

  Objets d’Art

  40 Blvd des Chenes

  Calais

  ‘A stroke of luck, indeed! ’ Holmes intoned. ‘In the half-light, Moriarty must not have noticed, in his haste.’

  ‘But, Holmes,’ I insisted, ‘that card might not have anything to do with Moriarty’s purchase. It could, for example, refer to any of these three items that are listed.’

  ‘It is not likely, Watson. All are inexpensive, priced at ten pounds or less. It would hardly be worth Jacobsen’s while to seek out a dealer on the Continent, unless the consignment were valuable enough to assure a healthy fee. Flip back through these pages, and I doubt if you’ll find a handful thus, during the past two years. No, this card concerns Moriarty, and what he sought – of that, I’m certain.’

  ‘And what do you propose to do?’ Lestrade enquired. ‘It’s clear to me that Langdon is our man.’

  ‘I have two leads, at present,’ Holmes replied, ignoring Lestrade’s remark. ‘Joseph Potter, and the card of Monsieur Jarre. I shall spend my afternoon attempting to locate the former; if I fail, the latter shall accompany me to Calais.’

  When Holmes returned to our lodgings at Baker Street at approximately half past five, I could tell immediately by his downcast expression that the day had not gone well – which meant, of course, that he had been unable to discover the whereabouts of the elusive artist, Joseph Potter.

  ‘It’s as if the man had vanished from the face of the earth, Watson! ’ he declared, as he threw off his coat and hat. ‘Is there possibly a glass of Tokay about? This has been a frustrating day. Ah, well, perhaps young Wiggins will have good news for us. I’ve told him to report to me here at six.’

  ‘No news, more likely,’ I muttered, as I poured him the
requested wine. ‘Holmes, why do you insist on retaining those grimy urchins, anyhow? As I see it, you’re throwing good money after bad.’

  Holmes clucked his tongue disapprovingly, as he sank back into his favourite armchair, tobacco and pipe in hand. ‘Now, now, Watson,’ he chided, as he proceeded to fill the bowl with shag. ‘Let’s not be uncharitable. You must admit, those ragamuffins have done us more than one good turn in the past.’

  Holmes referred, of course, to the Baker Street Irregulars, a group of unsavoury street Arabs he had recruited some years back for searching the streets of London. His idea being that, unlike any member of the official force, the rag-tag boys could go everywhere, see everything, and overhear anyone – all without the slightest suspicion. Two of his more notable successes (dutifully recorded in previous cases) were in locating the cabbie, Jefferson Hope, and the steam launch Aurora. However, at a shilling each per day, I felt the unwashed vagabonds were horrendously overpaid.

  ‘I am well aware that these children have been helpful – on occasion,’ I replied, as I joined him before the fire. ‘But from a practical standpoint, I view their infrequent services as highly overpriced.’ Holmes seemed amused. ‘A Scotsman’s opinion, no doubt,’ he said.

  I frowned. My first thought was a tart reply, but my intense curiosity concerning his whereabouts overruled my pique. ‘Perhaps,’ I conceded. ‘But come now, tell me: What have you been up to these past hours?’

  Holmes savoured a taste of the sweet, Hungarian grape, then lit his pipe and inhaled deeply, causing small clouds of smoke to emanate from his black clay.

  ‘My travels,’ he began, ‘took me first to Brook Street, where with some help from Inspector Lestrade we were able to persuade Potter’s landlady to allow us to inspect his flat. I had hoped it would provide a wealth of clues, Watson – you know how untidy those Bohemian types can be! Alas, however, our search revealed little, save for one intriguing fact: according to a passbook I discovered, our struggling artist recently opened an account at Barclay’s on the tenth, depositing no less than one hundred pounds! ’

  ‘Whew! ’ I whistled. ‘Surely, none of his paintings are worth a fraction of that.’