by Val Andrews
She was an attractive lady of about eight and thirty, comely of shape, and exquisitely dressed in a silk dress of great complexity. She had chestnut hair, piled upon her head, lightly flecked with grey. To my inexpert eyes, her cosmetic arrangements seemed to be a bit on the heavy side.
I told her the story of the lunatic, and her sympathies were profound. She poured me a glass of some excellent port and received the ring with delight. ‘Dear Doctor, you have saved my life… well, at least, you have spared me a very great embarrassment. You see (she recharged my glass without being prompted), my husband gave me the ring about ten years ago. It cost him something like ten thousand pounds. It is a very famous ring with a long history. The exact arrangement of the diamonds and rubies is unique. It is illustrated in all the reference works on the subject.’ She hesitated, as if about to tell me something. I said, ‘You can rely on my discretion Lady Windrush.’
She looked at me with a tremble of the lip and moisture in the eye and said, ‘Of course, I trust you completely. You see, just a few years back there was a man with whom I had a clandestine friendship. Then a little later he threatened to tell my husband about it, unless I gave him a large amount of money.’
I started and all but rose in my chair, ‘The blackguard!’
She continued, ‘I realise that I take a risk in telling you this, but I am so desperate. I have explained that it was blackmail. There was no way that I could meet his demands, without asking my husband for the money, which of course I could not do. So I did a really dreadful thing. I had a good friend, a jeweller, whom I knew I could trust. He had the ring copied for me with far less expensive stones and he broke down the original ring and sold the stones for me.’
I could not believe what I was hearing and said, ‘But you have worn the copy since and no-one has noticed the difference?’
‘Amazingly, no! The piece is so well documented that it can be recognised at a glance. Moreover the copy is made from stones that are genuine, just far less valuable. So it would fool an expert.’
I took the ring in the tiny box in which we had placed it, and put it on the wine table beside her. I said, ‘But Lady Windrush, after the unfortunate affair at Maskelyne’s Theatre…’ She interrupted, ‘I wish I had never been to the wretched place. If the original ring had been involved I would have sued Maskelyne by now.’
‘Even so, you went there and the ring disappeared as part of a conjurer’s publicity scheme. But that scheme went wrong with the ring being stolen, by a man who may well have committed murder. He evidently took it to a receiver, from whom we managed to regain it. Before you explain, my next question would have been how did the thief fool the fence?’
She said, ‘The fence doubtless recognised the setting, and then cut glass with the ring. I just thank God it’s back, for I could not have told my husband Sir Percival that it was “being cleaned’’ indefinitely. I have you and your friend to thank for my deliverance, dear Doctor.’
She leaned forward to fill my glass, and had I not known her to be the lady that she undoubtedly is, I could have sworn that she leaned over a little further than was strictly necessary. She said, ‘You will, both of you, be able to keep the matter from the police and newspapers, will you not dear Doctor Watson?’ And she turned upon me such a ‘little girl in trouble’ expression that I was forced to say, ‘Dear lady, I will do my very best to be discreet.’
The port was excellent, the afternoon was warm, and I felt a little faint. This was doubtless a threatened recurrence of the malaria fever from which I had suffered. I believe I may even have nodded off for a moment or two, and when I came to myself again, Lady Windrush was tidying her hair. She said, ‘Dear John (I’m sure I may thus address you), now I know that you will do your best to keep the matter of my ring quiet.’
Our business concluded, there followed a pleasant enough half hour, during which Lady Windrush showed me portraits in her family album. There were many portraits of Sir Percival, stripped to the waist, in pugilistic poses. For variety there were some of him in wrestling leotards, the lady explaining that Sir Percival was possibly one of the finest wrestlers and middle-weight boxers in the country.
‘Perhaps you will be able to stay for dinner? Percival is in the city today, but he will be back later and I know he would love to meet you. Of course we cannot mention the true reason for your visit, but we could say that you were here to examine me. You are a doctor, after all!’
It was then that I suddenly realised that I had been away from Baker Street far too long, and that for all I knew Holmes might be expecting me to support him in some exploit or other. I explained, ‘Dear lady, much as I would love to accept your invitation, I really must depart. My friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, relies upon my assistance with most of his activities. Moreover, our housekeeper, Mrs Hudson, prefers that I keep strictly to meal times.’
As the elderly retainer helped me into a dog-cart, I glanced back to the front entrance of Windrush Towers, where Lady Windrush, reunited with her mastiff bitch, stood, beautifully posed, with one hand resting upon its huge slavering head.
‘Farewell dear Doctor, I look forward to our next meeting!’ She waved a long silk cravat as the vehicle negotiated the gravel drive.
The return train journey to Victoria was rather uneventful, except that I fancied one or two people seemed to recognise me. Anyway, they looked at me and smiled, or else remarked to each other. And at Victoria the cabby, who took me to Baker Street winked at me hugely.
Mrs Hudson, unbidden, brought me some steaming hot coffee, and advised me to drink it black. ‘Works wonders Doctor, you’ll see!’ I sometimes think that perhaps her retirement might be considered.
I was about to go to my bedroom, to freshen myself, when my ablutions were interrupted by the return of Sherlock Holmes. I noticed that he carried the large carpet bag, in which he kept his disguises. He looked at me keenly.
‘My dear Watson, I notice that you have had some dalliance with a lady. Her height would be about five and a half feet and her hair auburn, with the slightest hint of grey. Do not look so surprised, for you have rouge upon your face, and your lapel bears some auburn tresses. Oh, yes, and you have partaken liberally of forty year old port wine!’
I felt somewhat foolish and could only say, ‘By Jove, was it as old as all that?’
Holmes looked at me with, I felt, mock severity. ‘Watson, I sent you on an important errand concerning a valuable diamond ring, not to dally with a married woman, and a titled one at that!’
I told Holmes everything that had occurred since I had last seen him, including the episode with the lunatic on the train, and the fullest details of my meeting and conversation with Lady Windrush. Eventually I reached the point when I dropped what I had thought was my bombshell, and gave him the information concerning the imitation status of the famous diamond ring. To my surprise my friend simply nodded wisely.
‘I was aware that the ring was an imitation of the original, albeit an extremely clever one and made from real though far less valuable stones. It was clever enough a fake to take in a hardened jewel fence, so it is indeed a splendid replica, but the known character of the setting must have aided in the deception.’
I came to a delicate request. ‘Holmes, do you think it will be possible to continue to keep the whole episode of the ring from the eyes and ears of the police and the newspapers?’
He turned upon me this time a look of real severity. ‘My dear Watson, you have made Lady Windrush no promise to that effect I trust? Ah, I see from your expression that you have! Upon my word Watson, you had no right to do that. Now perhaps you can understand why I find it necessary to stand completely aloof to the wiles of women? You would be well advised to do the same whilst acting for me.’
Perhaps the forty year old port had made me bold. I said, ‘Come Holmes, I would remind you of that affair of “Scandal in Bohemia’’. Did you not allow your admiration for a woman, Irene Adler, to affect your judgement and indeed your actions in the matte
r?’
He selected a pipe, a meersham, and charged it, tamped it and lit it before he replied. I noticed the veins at his forehead working, and regretted what I had said. However, I believe it was Confucious who once remarked, ‘Twenty teams of oxon cannot withdraw a remark, once it has been made.’ After what seemed an age, Holmes looked me squarely in the eyes and said, ‘My dear Watson, that was unworthy of you. I thought you were friend enough to understand my dilemma of that time. Had I not been solely dedicated to pure, clear and positive thought, and avowed to follow my vocation rather as a monk does his, unhindered by such entanglements, I could have loved her. I say “could” you will note, because I was then and am now, dedicated to the way of life that I have chosen. She was a fine woman, the woman, I do not wish you to compare my admiration for Irene Adler with your flirtation with a woman who merely tried to use you to gain her selfish ends!’
I said nothing. I was full of anger, sorrow, regret and sheer hurt.
It was Holmes who next spoke.
‘My apologies Watson, I have been harsh with you my dear fellow, more than harsh. You are a fine and very human person, a man with all the natural characteristics of a really noble gentleman, which you undoubtedly are. Of course you felt sorry for this seemingly frail and troubled woman. Let me say this: I will do all in my power to help you to keep your promise to her, however misguided it may have been. In fact I count it as a half-promise, for your good nature has been taken advantage of.’
I hardly knew how to reply for I felt wretched. My minor infidelity and over consumption of port had almost cost me the friendship of the wisest and finest man I have ever known. I had been cruel in bringing up an episode left to lie. Such is Holmes’ nobility of character that he has never held my cruel outburst against me.
Although our friendship was mercifully intact there was yet a long silence before more was said. I broke it first by saying, unwisely perhaps, ‘What sort of a day have you had Holmes?’
He chuckled and said, ‘Good old Watson, the only ray of predictability in a world of confusion. I have had a very constructive day, I thank you. I met Devant at seven of the clock this morning, as arranged, and he took me onto the roof of the hall, where he makes his “films”, as he calls them, for presentation as “animated photographs”. I now have at least a tyro’s knowledge of the principles involved.’
Although I did not say so, I felt that this thirst for knowledge regarding that which has since become known as ‘Cine-photography’ was a little misplaced. Were there not other more pressing matters worthy of his thought and study? What I actually asked was, ‘Have Lestrade or yourself made any progress in the matter of the murder of poor Cyrano?’
He replied, ‘You mean have I done anything else today beside playing around with a moving picture camera? Well, for your information I have again interviewed all those who might conceivably have had opportunity to commit the crime.’
‘Madame Patricia, although not herself of sufficient strength to have committed such a violent act, couldn’t entirely be ruled out as far as collusion was concerned.’
‘So you questioned her?’
‘Yes, very fully, particularly concerning those early fairground days of which we became aware through study of the scrapbook. She admitted that he was a man of uncertain temper and did not always see eye to eye with his fellow artistes. He had a violent quarrel with a midget, perhaps one of those depicted in the photograph.’
I wanted to hear more of his interviews with those whom we had considered more likely candidates for the role of murderer. I asked, ‘Did you speak with De Kolta?’ ‘Yes, a charming if somewhat eccentric gentleman. He has the required strength and indeed the motive. But he could not have entered through the window, with his broad build. Craig, on the other hand could have dislocated his body to negotiate the window if, indeed that means of entrance was employed. His strength might have been sufficient to have committed the crime, for he has carpenter’s hands and we know that he was acquainted with Cyrano, through the photograph.’
‘Does he deny knowing Cyrano?’
‘No, but he has not volunteered the information, which I find interesting. Of course he may be trying simply to avoid implication.’
‘Who else did you question?’
‘The elder Maskelyne, but he was somewhat put out by the loss of a tool from his workshop, some sort of calliper. He could not spare me much of his time. As far as I can establish he was in his eyrie at the time when Cyrano was killed. His son, Nevil, entered the room next to Cyrano’s dressing room to place the automata there, not long before our estimated time for the crime. He heard nothing suspicious.’
‘Did you speak with the clown with the whitened face?’
‘I did, but the fellow seems to be a little limited intellectually. What in your inimitable style you would refer to as “ten pence in the shilling’’ Watson. He repeated those strange beliefs that the room where the automata is kept is haunted.’
‘And the pickpocket fellow?’
‘An interesting man, an American. He even gave me some lessons in the art of the “artful dodger”! I may write a monograph on this interesting subject.’
I laughed, ‘Pickpockets are born, surely?’
Holmes smiled, with mischief in his eyes. ‘Oh I don’t know Watson, a little earlier I managed to deprive you of your watch and your wallet. Perhaps you would like them back?’
I felt for the articles that he had mentioned and experienced that moment of panic which their absence was sure to produce. My nimble fingered friend returned my property to me with a flourish. I said, ‘Upon my word Holmes, you are incorrigible!’
And so, as Samuel Pepys would have said, ‘To bed’.
Chapter Seven – Pathology and Horology
Breakfast at 221b on the following morning was reasonably uneventful by the standards of the last few days. Of course for an individual like myself this was to the good. Yet a part of me hoped that order would not reign. I had also to consider my friend, his breakdown of the previous year and the detrimental effect that inactivity might have upon him in the future. I thanked my maker for giving him work to do with his brilliant mind. There were two pressing matters for him to be concerned with: the Windrush diamond ring and the terrible murder of our poor client, Cyrano the illusionist, also known as Cyril Randolph.
‘What are your plans for today Holmes?’ I enquired. He replied, ‘They have been made for me Watson, for a message from Lestrade requests that I rendezvous with him at the scene of the post-mortem. Not a jolly experience, and I would appreciate your support. After all, as a medical man you are more accustomed to such things.’
He was of course right in a literal sense, for I could not count the cadavers I had been forced to inspect. But from my experience, Holmes always seemed considerably less affected than I by such scenes. I have never quite gained that ideal detachment.
*
Lestrade pointed vaguely at the poor body on the slab with just that familiarity that does indeed breed contempt. Over the body crouched an elderly, silver-haired man in a bloodstained medical gown.
Lestrade introduced us, ‘Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, this is Sir Bertram Staines, who has been conducting this postmortem.’ We nodded respectfully but did not offer to shake the hand that held the scalpel.
Sir Bertram spoke, ‘You see Holmes, detectives as talented as yourself and the Inspector can be mistaken.’ Holmes said, ‘Certainly in my case Sir Bertram. My Boswell here does not document my mistakes and failures.’
The pathologist continued, ‘My first thought was that the poor fellow had been very brutally strangled by some assailant with very large hands and enormous strength, which was I understand, your own conclusion. However, careful examination reveals that those equidistant discolourations have been caused by some powerful tool or implement, like some very large serrated calliper.’
Holmes and I, on closer inspection, could quite take his point. No fingers could have been quite so evenly placed.
Holmes said, ‘Could it perhaps be some sort of calliper for adjusting a mechanism. For example, clockwork? Maskelyne tells me that he has lost a hand tool. Perhaps you could check upon its nature Lestrade?’
The Scotland Yard man sent a constable to Maskelyne’s Theatre. Holmes said, ‘You see, more failure on my part Sir Bertram. I knew about the missing tool, but in my mind I dismissed any importance that it might have…’ The pathologist confirmed my on the spot diagnosis of a fractured vertebra. ‘Whoever used this calliper on the deceased certainly used considerable strength, and threw him like a terrier with a rat.’
For the next half hour Sir Bertram gave us a very complete list of his findings. Cyril Randolph, we had known as a brilliant stage conjurer. The little more that we knew had been gleaned from photographs, press-cuttings and the oral statements of those who had known him. But the pathologist gave facts and not opinion.
‘What we have here is the body of a well nourished man of about forty years of age. His height was exactly five feet eleven inches. He had no serious ailments and aside from a small patch of nervous eczema, was in good health, he spent a great deal of his life following occupations which required him to stand for long periods, illustrated by a tendency to varicose veins in the legs.’
Holmes was, I could see, most impressed. He tried to draw the pathologist to be a little more daring in his diagnosis. ‘You didn’t see him in life Sir Bertram, but can you deduce anything about his character from the body?’ Sir Bertram looked shrewdly at Holmes and said, ‘He was a man more concerned with his outward appearance than his actual physical condition. Note the neatly cut hair and expertly trimmed whiskers. This and the carefully manicured hands contrast strangely with the overgrown and slightly calcified toenails. Until they actually caused him pain he would put on his boots and ignore the problem. The stains at the back of his teeth indicate that he was a cigar smoker, a moderate one. He had his appendix removed some years ago. The size of the scar indicates that he had neglected to have it attended to until forced by danger. So we have a man who would put off taking even important decisions until forced to.’
