The Disappearance of Alistair Ainsworth

by Leonard Goldberg

  “And to me,” Lestrade added.

  Joanna handed her son the magnifying glass and said, “Examine the smudge and look for a pattern within, then tell me what produced it.”

  Johnny studied the smudge at length before noting, “I see the impression of lines, many of which are slanted, although a few are vertical.”

  “What would make such an imprint?” Joanna asked.

  “I am at a loss.”

  Joanna reached for a gooseneck lamp and turned it on prior to placing it by the bloodstains. “Now tell me what you see.”

  Johnny closely reexamined the smudge for a full half minute, then jerked his head up and exclaimed, “It is a palm print!”

  “But whose?”

  “It is impossible to tell.”

  “Gaze carefully at the top of the narrow streak and determine if there is yet another imprint.”

  After a quick study, Johnny cried out, “A fingerprint!”

  “Excellent!” Joanna lauded. “So would it not be a reasonable assumption to say that the fingerprint and the palm print were made by the same individual?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  “Thus, we appear to have an uncut hand making a bloodied palm print and, in all likelihood, a finger on this very hand dropping down to leave its print before forming the letter h.”

  Johnny looked at his mother quizzically. “I am having difficulty following your line of thought.”

  “All of the evidence points to the fact that the blood on the palm print and fingerprint did not come from Dr. Verner.”

  “So Dr. Verner did not make the prints.”

  “I did not say that,” Joanna corrected. “I distinctly said that the blood on the prints did not come from him.”

  “But how then—”

  “It is blood from a German,” Joanna pronounced. “The sequence of events occurred in this order. Verner sees the Germans coming for him, so he dashes to the medicine cabinet for the bottle of chloroform. As he reaches in, the German grabs Verner’s hand, but the doctor resists, and in the process manages to push the German’s hand against the broken glass in the cabinet door.”

  “But Verner was a small man and could not have possibly overpowered the German,” Lestrade argued.

  “Small, but with a powerful grip,” my father informed us. “Alfred Verner had incredibly strong arms that could restrain a highly agitated patient without great effort. I myself witnessed this feat at St. Mary’s Hospital.”

  “Thank you for that helpful information, Watson,” said Joanna. “So Verner’s hidden power allows him to push the captor’s hand into the broken glass, which causes a deep laceration that bled heavily. The blood soaks the surface of Verner’s hand and eventually produced a bloodied palm print. Verner then uses the blood to leave us a message as to the identity of his abductors.”

  “How can you know this?” Lestrade asked.

  “Because at the very top of the bloodied streak is a fingerprint, no doubt belonging to Verner, which will descend and form the letter h, for us to see.”

  “And what do you believe the h stands for?”

  “Hun,” Joanna replied. “Verner was telling us he was taken prisoner by the Huns.”

  “As in Attila the Hun?” Johnny inquired.

  Joanna nodded. “Hun is a derogatory term for the Germans, who are known for their viciousness in battle.”

  “Of course Verner could not have used the G, for the Germans would have noticed it and had it removed,” Lestrade surmised.

  “Nor could he have scripted a D, which his captors would have known stood for Deutschland, the German word for their fatherland.”

  “It does all seem to fit, yet you must admit your evidence remains circumstantial,” Lestrade challenged.

  “But can be proven beyond a doubt,” Joanna countered. “Have a fingerprint taken from Verner’s remains and matched against the bloodied print on the cabinet. I am certain the Fingerprint Branch of Scotland Yard would be up to the task.”

  “Indeed they would,” Lestrade concurred, and quickly jotted down a note to himself. He paused for a moment as he tapped his finger against the notepad, obviously lost in thought. “I am still not convinced that a small man like Verner could struggle against a larger foe and inflict such damage, at least not with the evidence we have on hand.”

  “There is more,” Joanna went on. “For embedded in the top of the bloodied smudge is a fragment of human tissue, which in all likelihood was gouged from the German’s hand.”

  “Pray tell, how do you know it is human tissue?”

  “Because it has several hairs protruding from it, and one of those hairs appears to be blond, which Verner was not,” Joanna affirmed. “This tissue comes from a German, who now has a gouged-out wound on his hand that bled excessively.”

  Johnny asked, “Did he place a bandage over it, Mother?”

  “He may have, but it was a very serious laceration that would continue to bleed.”

  Johnny considered the matter further before saying, “Perhaps he persuaded Dr. Verner to care for it.”

  Joanna’s eyes suddenly widened as a smile came to her face. She reached over to affectionately ruffle her son’s hair. “A most excellent thought, and one that had not crossed my mind.”

  “Is it helpful?”

  “Very,” Joanna said, and turned to the group. “With a large, deep wound that continued to bleed, the German may well have required medical attention and would certainly not depend on Verner, who was to be tortured and killed as quickly as possible. He would have most likely gone to a clinic or private physician for treatment. You see, such a wound would undoubtedly require sutures. This being the case, he would not have sought treatment nearby, for they would have hurried to depart the area.”

  Lestrade nodded his agreement. “They were aware of the trail left by chloroform, which could be followed.”

  “They were not fools,” Joanna went on. “So they would have visited a doctor or clinic away from the crime scene and nearer their next residence. With this in mind, a bulletin should be sent out to every physician in the metropolitan London area, seeking information on a Teutonic-appearing patient, perhaps with a facial tic, who was treated for a serious laceration of the hand.”

  “But the event would have occurred days ago,” Lestrade countered. “The patient is in all likelihood long gone by now, and may have even relocated to yet another neighborhood.”

  “True,” said Joanna. “But keep in mind, sutures had to be used to close the wound and must remain in place for at least a week to allow for complete healing. Once that has occurred, the sutures must be removed. And the physician who inserted the sutures will be the one to remove them.”

  “A bulletin will be sent out to all physicians in London as well as to those in its remote suburbs,” Lestrade said, with a firm nod. Turning to Johnny, he added, “That was a fine observation on your part.”

  Johnny showed no response, other than to say, “It was obvious the wound would require care.”

  Again my father and I exchanged knowing glances. The lad was so much like his mother and grandfather before him, in that praise meant little, the significance of an observation everything.

  “Mother, what determines how much time will be needed for a wound to heal?”

  “It might be best for Dr. Watson to answer your question, for he has extensive knowledge on the subject, both in war and peace.”

  “Healing time is largely measured by the size and depth of the wound,” my father informed. “A superficial laceration caused by a knife or razor would heal nicely in a week after suturing. By contrast, a jagged, wide wound caused by a shell fragment would require weeks. If it was too wide to suture together, it would heal from the bottom up by the process of granulation, which could take a month or more.”

  “Can you determine beforehand the time needed for a terrible wound to heal?” Johnny asked thoughtfully.

  “Not precisely,” my father replied. “That requires repeated examina
tions of the wound, which allows one to estimate the rate of healing.”

  “So, here it depends on the doctor’s experience.”

  My father shook his head gently. “Here it depends on what one has learned in the classroom about the signs of healing, which can then be applied to the examiner’s careful observations, which in turn will lead to an accurate assessment. You see, without facts, observations have little merit or even less depth.”

  Johnny nodded ever so slightly, then mused to himself, “Facts together with observation is the key.”

  “Facts together with observation is the key,” my father reiterated.

  Another lesson learned, I thought, watching the subtlest of smiles cross Joanna’s face.

  As we headed for the door, Johnny stopped to stomp down on a large piece of brown glass from the chloroform bottle. He then leaned over to pick up and study the piece, which had remained intact. Satisfied, he tossed the shard aside. Like the best of investigators, he was unwilling to accept the observations of others, but would depend only on those he himself made.

  10

  The British Museum

  We hurried into the British Museum, for we were already twenty minutes late for our meeting with Sir David Shaw. As was frequently the case, the first floor was crowded with tourists, many of whom seemed to congregate around the Rosetta Stone, which was considered a most prized possession of the museum.

  “Why do people find that large stone so interesting, Mother?” Johnny asked.

  “Because the writings on it provided the key to unlocking the mystery of Egyptian hieroglyphs,” Joanna replied.

  “Why was that so important?”

  “For many reasons, but mainly because it was a script that mystified the world for thousands of years,” Joanna explained. “It also told the history of ancient Egypt in great detail.”

  “Did they not have books back then?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “So these peculiar figures carved into stone were like a secret language?”

  “One might very well say that,” said Joanna, as we strode by the Rosetta Stone. “But you should save your questions for Sir David Shaw who is a true expert on the subject.”

  “How do you come to know him?”

  “Through Dr. Watson, for they are friends dating back to the Second Afghan War.”

  Johnny quickly turned to my father, his curiosity aroused. “I had no idea you fought in that war.”

  “It was a very long time ago,” my father said, downplaying his soldiering days.

  “Were you wounded?”

  My father nodded. “A jezail bullet found its mark in my shoulder.”

  “How long did it take to heal?”

  “Over a month, for although the wound was sutured, its edges did not hold well.”

  “Thus, it had to heal from the bottom up.”

  “So it did in large measure.”

  “I believe you called the process granulation.”

  “That is the correct term.”

  How remarkable, I thought. The lad had a mind like a steel trap, for once a fact entered it, it did not escape.

  “And now,” called out a guide leading a group of tourists, “we shall visit the Elgin Marbles.”

  The announcement was greeted with loud and obvious approval. En masse the group moved away from the Rosetta Stone, but Johnny kept his eyes on them as they walked on.

  Joanna smiled at her son. “And now you no doubt wish to know what these Elgin Marbles are.”

  “I do indeed, for they seemed to generate a lot of interest.”

  “I am afraid my knowledge on this matter is somewhat limited,” said Joanna. “I was told these huge slabs of marble, with their intricate carvings, were taken from the Acropolis in Greece by Lord Elgin during the last century, and eventually found their way into the British Museum.”

  “Were they stolen?” Johnny asked, searching for a possible crime.

  “That is another question we might ask Sir David,” Joanna replied. “Or perhaps we should purchase a monograph on the subject that will provide even more detailed information.”

  “I favor the monograph, which I can discuss with the tutor we shall choose.”

  We took the stairs to a quiet, upper floor, with my father and Johnny leading the way. The corridor itself was vacant, but we could hear muted conversations coming from behind closed doors. A stale, musty odor filled the air.

  “Pray tell, Joanna, what brings us to see Sir David?” my father asked quietly.

  “He is a multilingual codebreaker, is he not?” Joanna replied.

  “Of the first order.”

  “Then we shall present him with the German word rot,” Joanna went on. “You may recall that the good Dr. Verner heard that word being shouted from the house where the prisoner was held.”

  “It was from the second story.”

  “Precisely,” said Joanna. “What do you make of it?”

  My father shrugged. “I am afraid French is my only foreign language.”

  Joanna turned to her son. “And what about you, Johnny?”

  “We are just beginning the class in German at Eton and have not yet come to rot.”

  “It means red.”

  Johnny gave the matter thought. “I trust the word has some significance here.”

  “It does indeed.”

  “Well, I am certain my tutor here in London will inform me of the German term for red and its variations.”

  “I am certain he would,” Joanna said. “But he would teach you grammatical German, which will give you a fine vocabulary, but will not give you the fluency you require as an investigator,” Joanna cautioned. “To that end, Eton will serve your purpose far better. In your classes and clubs you will have no choice but to speak German, and thus learn all of its subtleties and nuances. If you are not entirely fluent in a language, it will be of little help in your investigation, for you will only be aware of the obvious. You do wish to be a cut above the others, do you not?”

  “I do, Mother.”

  “Then carefully consider my words.”

  “Nuances and subtleties,” Johnny uttered to himself.

  Upon turning a sharp corner, my hand touched Joanna’s and I allowed my cheek to brush up against her hair. We exchanged secret smiles as a warm, wonderful feeling flowed through both of us. My mind went back to our first journey together at the British Museum when our hands had touched and brought about the very same captivating sensation. Then as now, I was certain I would never grow accustomed to the wondrous affection that such simple contact brought with it. For the hundredth time I was reminded how fortunate I was to have married the most stunningly unique woman I had ever encountered.

  Approaching Sir David’s office, Joanna reached into her purse for a folded slip of paper and gave it to Johnny, with the following instructions. “You are to open it once we leave the museum.”

  “Is it a puzzle?” Johnny asked.

  “More like a solution,” Joanna replied.

  Sir David Shaw met us at the door to his office, and I was again struck by how odd the man looked. He was tall and stoop shouldered, with reddish-gray hair and a hawklike nose upon which rested the thickest spectacles I had ever seen. But behind those heavy lenses was a brilliant mind, the owner of which had been knighted by Queen Victoria for his wartime skills in deciphering top secret, coded messages, some of which were so sensitive they would never be allowed to see the light of day.

  “Ah, Watson!” Sir David greeted, and cordially extended his hand to my father. “What a pleasure to see you again.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” said my father, with a most vigorous handshake. “I believe you recall my son and his wife, Joanna, from our earlier visit.”

  “I do indeed.”

  “And with them is Joanna’s son, Johnny, who has a number of questions for you.”

  Sir David gave the lad a half bow. “Are these questions of yours difficult to answer?”

  “So it would seem
, sir.”

  “Good,” Sir David approved. “For those are the only questions worth asking.” He gestured to the chairs in front of his cluttered desk and waited for us to be seated before sitting and continuing on. “Now, my good fellow, tell me of your questions. Do they have a unifying topic?”

  “They concern the Egyptian hieroglyphs, sir.”

  “Ah, the mystery of all mysteries,” Sir David cooed, obviously warming to the subject. “Let us begin with the Rosetta Stone. Are you aware of its significance?”

  “Only that it is said to be the key.”

  “Oh yes! But a marvelous key to a script so complex it baffled us for thousands of years.” Sir David reached for a clay tablet that had hieroglyphs written upon it and handed it to Johnny for examination. “Tell us what you can make out.”

  Johnny studied the tablet at length before noting, “I see rows of small figures that have no meaning.”

  “Ah, but to the Egyptian scribes who devised the script they had every meaning,” Sir David said. “Believe it or not, the hieroglyph system contains over seven hundred basic symbols, pictures, and signs that represent objects, activities, sounds, and ideas. All of it was indecipherable until Napoleon’s soldiers discovered the Rosetta Stone in the Egyptian desert. The stone had three distinct scripts carved into it. The upper text was Egyptian hieroglyphs, the middle written in demotic Egyptian, and the lower in ancient Greek. Because all three read essentially the same, it unlocked the mystery of the Egyptian hieroglyphs. The tablet you are holding contains one of the simpler hieroglyphs.”

  Johnny restudied the tablet at length in an attempt to decipher the hieroglyphs. “I clearly see a drawing of a bird in profile.”

  “Which translates to weak or small,” Sir David said.

  “And a feather.”

  “That signifies justice or balance.”

  “What of the reclining lion?”

  “It designates a temple or tomb.”

  “Then I note a circle with a dot in its center.”

  “Which indicates the sun or strong light.”

  Johnny furrowed his brow in concentration before a faint smile crossed his face. “The circle with the dot precedes the reclining lion and that tells us the sun was shining on a temple.”