Sherlock Holmes (23 page)

As he said this, I almost
dropped my pipe, gasping, "Surely not! I cannot believe it! That is
some ten thousand guineas in blackmail payments alone... plus the
thousands of pounds from the sale of the pills!"

I looked to Holmes and saw that
he too was surprised by the scale of the deception. Holmes nodded
appreciatively and was sincere in his praise when he said, "It is a
job well done, Lestrade. I congratulate you."

Lestrade's face lit up and he
managed to stammer, "Thank...thank you, Mr Holmes. I am grateful
for your... involvement." Holmes smiled. Little more was said of
the affair and, on shaking hands and saying our goodbyes, Lestrade
left our rooms a happy man.

Holmes, however, was not so
easily pleased. He had returned to his leather armchair and had
drawn up his knees to his chest, gazing into the distance. As I
watched, he seemed to be turning the case over in his mind, saying,
"This affair still troubles me greatly, Watson."

I looked at him closely as I
asked, "Is it the involvement and escape of Moriarty?"

Holmes nodded slowly before
replying, "It is partly that, Watson. She will reappear at a later
date; of that you can be certain... but it is something more. It is
her involvement in the underlying ethics of the case. We have
removed a menace that both exploited and offered false hope to
desperate women. Furthermore, we have upheld the law of the land
and spared them from the ensuing blackmail…but at what cost?"

I sat and pondered what he had
said for several minutes before asking, “Whilst the law may be
satisfied, do you not think that by removing this sworn
undertaking, we have lost an element akin to ‘conscience’?
Something that might cause some women to think again before
contemplating taking an unborn life?”

Holmes’ brows furrowed as he
considered this.

I continued, “Will women without
this element of 'conscience', this solemn promise, even though
obtained under duress by Moriarty, be driven to ever more desperate
measures? Have we, by our actions, somehow failed these desperate
women that we sought to protect?” As I finished speaking, I shook
my head, adding, “In truth, Holmes, I am unsure."

Holmes did not reply and
remained silent for several hours, deep in thought.

For my part, I sat and smoked
steadily. This case had raised questions to which I had no answers.
Even now, years later as I write this, they still trouble me.

It was a most distressing event
late one evening in the early days of April, 1898 that marked the
beginning of the case that I have here recorded as that of “The
Bulgarian Clockmaker”.

Holmes and I had settled down
after a rather splendid dinner of Dover sole followed by one of Mrs
Hudson's most excellent rice puddings. The air in our sitting room
had begun to take on a delicate, blue haze from our pipes when we
heard the sound of galloping hooves in the street below. This was
immediately followed by a frenzied cry of “Whoah!” together with
the screech of iron clad wheels and the clatter of similarly clad
hooves on the cobblestones beneath.

Holmes sprang from his chair and
hurried towards the window, pulling aside the heavy curtain and
peering into the street below. “Hello! That is the cab of Henry
Wiggins and he seemingly has a fare in some distress.”

No sooner had Holmes uttered
these words than our doorbell rang in a fearsome manner as though
someone’s life depended upon it being heard. On reflection, this
was not far from the truth! Holmes and I hurried from our sitting
room and were barely halfway down the stairs as Mrs Hudson opened
the front door. We stood aghast as she was almost knocked to the
ground as Henry Wiggins staggered across our threshold. He tottered
into our hallway, supporting the almost lifeless figure of a black
coated, stocky man.

Holmes took but a brief glance
at the haggard face of Wiggins and his burden before rushing to
assist him. “Your bag, Watson! Quickly, man!” I thundered back
upstairs whilst Holmes and Wiggins followed me to our rooms with
their burden. I had hastily moved some chairs to clear some little
space before Wiggins and Holmes gently laid the man upon the carpet
in our sitting room.

It was immediately obvious to me
from the pallor of the man and his blood soaked coat that he was
most grievously wounded. Tearing at his outer garments and then his
shirt, I soon revealed a wound of a kind I had so often seen whilst
serving in Afghanistan. Blood was pouring from the exit wound
caused by a gunshot. I quickly gathered a dressing from my bag and
pressed hard upon the wound in an attempt to stop further blood
loss. The man coughed and I saw bloody froth form upon his lips.
His eyes flicked open and then locked on mine. He grabbed my jacket
sleeve, crying out in heavily accented English, “They have
them!”

Holmes was kneeling opposite me,
one arm supporting the man’s shoulders. On hearing this, he gently
patted the man's arm, saying, “You are safe here, friend.”

The man’s head turned. He looked
at Holmes and then gasped, “They have them, the mules…. both… both
of them. They must be stopped. It is my fault!” His eyes closed
momentarily and he continued to speak quietly in a language that I
did not know. Holmes, however, spoke softly to the man, seemingly
in the same tongue.

I looked down at my hands; blood
was oozing freely through my fingers from the now sodden dressing
that I had applied. The flow was unquenchable. Holmes turned
towards me with a questioning look and I briefly shook my head. All
colour had drained from the man's face. With a final gasp, he
whispered in English, "You must find Pavlin… O’Leary... he is the
one." With that, the man sighed and was gone.

I looked up and cried out to
Holmes as I saw the legs of Henry Wiggins begin to buckle. Holmes
made a grab for him and was just able to guide him to a chair
before Wiggins collapsed. Seeing that I could do no more for the
injured man, I now turned my attention to Wiggins. Reaching into my
bag, I located a small bottle of smelling salts which I swiftly
uncorked and waved beneath his nose. Within a few moments, Wiggins
was once again conscious, coughing and wiping his eyes that were
now streaming from the effects of the ammonia salts.

Holmes had already rung the bell
and had scribbled a telegram to Scotland Yard. A clearly shaken Mrs
Hudson appeared in our doorway. She took the telegram and then was
swiftly despatched to prepare some tea. For my part, I went to
Holmes’ room and returned with a blanket to cover the corpse. This
was rather more for the benefit of Henry Wiggins than for any other
reason. I knew that Holmes would want to examine the body in
meticulous detail once Wiggins had departed.

We sat almost in silence until
the tea arrived but once each of us had a steaming cup in our
hands, Holmes, I could see, was keen to question Wiggins regarding
his fare. After a sip of tea, Holmes asked, "Tell me, Wiggins,
where did you pick up this fellow?"

Wiggins seemed somewhat revived
by the tea and shuffled in his chair before answering. "Well, Mr
Holmes, it was like this. I was coming along Dorset Street when
this fellow lurches out into the road, right in front of
Daisy."

I sat, puzzled for a moment.
"Daisy?"

Wiggins gave a weak smile, "It’s
the horse… the horse what pulls my cab." I nodded and Wiggins
continued, "Well, I shouts out and curses at him something rotten.
I thought he'd been at the drink and had too much. Anyways, he
stands there, staggering and then he grabs the horse’s halter. I
was having none of it so I gets down off the cab and is about to
push him away when I sees the blood. It fair turned me, Mr Holmes.
I knew it was bad so I helps him into the cab and as I wasn’t far
from Baker Street, I comes straight here at the gallop."

I looked across at Holmes; he
was now sitting with his knees raised and a forefinger to his lips.
"Did you see anyone else around?"

Wiggins answered straight away,
"No, Mr Holmes, nobody."

Holmes leaned forwards slightly.
"You seem very sure!"

Wiggins smiled weakly. "It had
been a bad night for me, even before this. I had had only one other
fare since six o'clock so I was watching out all the time for a
customer. Cabbies are always on the lookout for a fare Mr Holmes."
Holmes nodded.

"You did not hear a shot?”
Wiggins slowly shook his head. Holmes considered this reply before
saying, “Well, Wiggins, we will detain you no further. No doubt the
police will require you to make a statement in the morning. You had
better get back to Daisy and be on your way."

I looked towards Wiggins, his
expression made it clear that he did not relish the prospect of
contact with the constabulary. He nodded and sighed. With a touch
of his cap and a quiet "G’night", he was off down our stairs. In
truth I felt sorry for him. His night’s work would now be to try
and clean the bloodstains from the inside of his cab and from his
clothes.

Holmes and I sat in silence for
perhaps a minute or two before we set about the grim task of
examining the dead man lying on our carpet. Holmes removed the
blanket that I had placed over the body and began by examining the
outer garments of the man. I stood back to give Holmes a little
more room and for the first time, I looked in detail at the man
before us. He was well built; his age I would estimate to be around
fifty years. His complexion was slightly dark, almost Mediterranean
and his hair was black, oiled and greying at the temples. The face
was round and bearded and had brown eyes that now gazed blankly at
our ceiling. I reached down and closed them and in doing so, I
noticed that upon the sides of his nose there were slight red marks
from wearing a pair of spectacles, although none were in evidence.
His hands, I saw, were well manicured and appeared to be quite
soft.

After some ten minutes, Holmes
had completed his examination and was once more seated in his
leather armchair, drawing steadily upon his pipe. Holmes had
carefully laid out the contents of the man’s pockets on our dining
table. There seemed to be little of particular interest save for a
small leather-bound notebook. This Holmes had spent some minutes
examining closely. The rest of his possessions amounted to a
handkerchief, a pair of spectacles, a used tram ticket, a few coins
and a silver pocket watch and chain.

At last the silence was broken
by Holmes turning to me and asking, “What do you make of this
fellow, Watson?”

I thought for a moment before
replying, “Well, he is late middle aged, well built and well
nourished. He wears glasses with a strong prescription. His hands
are soft and so I assume then that he carried out some clerical
task. From his skin tone, language and accent, he appears not to be
a native of Britain.”

Holmes nodded. “Yes, but there
is more. Did you notice, for example, the indentation in the flesh
of his forehead above his right eye?” I had not and shook my head,
waiting for Holmes to enlighten me.

Holmes continued, “This man was
originally from the Balkans, although he had lived in England for
many years. You heard him speak briefly in his mother tongue in a
dialect, I believe, common to the region that is now the
Principality of Bulgaria. The English that he spoke had a trace of
the accent prevalent in the East End where, no doubt, he had
learned it. Indeed, the tram ticket I found in his waistcoat pocket
was from Hackney.”

I nodded in wonder at Holmes’
linguistic knowledge and urged him to continue. “The case of his
pocket watch has European silver marks and the movement carries the
name of a well-known maker, Moritz Gottlieb of Banja Luka. Our late
guest was, I believe, also a watchmaker. The very strong
prescription of his spectacles suggests that his eyesight may have
been compromised by years of intensive close work. The indentation
in his forehead was caused by a watchmaker’s loupe, which is worn
on the forehead when not in use.”

Again I nodded but then asked,
“Why a watchmaker rather than, perhaps, a jeweller …and what about
his notebook?”

Holmes smiled and wagged a
forefinger in my direction. “An intelligent question, Watson! I do
not believe him to have been a jeweller as, when I examined his
clothes, I detected the distinctive smell of a very light machine
oil. This is used when repairing and servicing watches and clocks.
It was particularly noticeable around his shirt cuffs which would
have been in contact with his work bench.” After saying this, he
sat back and drew on his pipe before blowing out a thin stream of
blue smoke.

Holmes paused for a few moments,
seemingly deep in thought before adding, “The notebook is most
intriguing, Watson. It bears the name of its owner, Mihail
Konsulov. It contains many diagrams of mechanisms that at first I
thought were those of clocks… but there is something more…
something that I have yet to find a use for.”

I was still puzzled. Why would a
watchmaker come into contact with mules? Were they his and had they
been stolen? Who was Pavlin O’Leary? I scratched my head. My mind
was a whirl and these were questions that I felt I would have to
ask in the morning.

It was perhaps some thirty
minutes later that there was a ringing again at our doorbell. We
heard the heavy steps of three people ascending to our rooms. Two
of these were the coroner’s mortuary assistants who placed the body
on a stretcher and then carried it away to the waiting closed van
in the street below. The third person to enter our rooms was a
police sergeant. With the body now removed, he saluted smartly to
Holmes who, within a few minutes, had apprised him of the evening’s
events. The sergeant asked a handful of questions and made some
preliminary notes in his pocket book before again saluting and
wishing us goodnight. On his departure, I felt drained of emotion
and was glad the evening’s events had drawn to an end and that I
was now able to retire to my bed.