Sherlock Holmes (24 page)

The following morning there was
little to show of the events that had haunted my thoughts as I had
tried to sleep. The only evidence now was the large, dark stain on
our sitting room carpet. Even that was destined to disappear as I
watched Mrs Hudson’s maid enter our rooms with a bucket of steaming
hot water in one hand and a large bar of carbolic soap in the
other. On seeing me she stopped but I waved for her to
continue.

I rang the bell for breakfast
and settled into my chair. Holmes, I could see, had already
breakfasted and was sitting back in his chair, eyes closed and with
an almost totally blank expression upon his face. This was
something, that over the years, I had become accustomed to. It
occurred whenever he mentally retreated from the world around him
and was engaged in considering all the known facts and
contemplating a seemingly infinite range of possibilities. The only
sign of consciousness was the occasional puff of tobacco smoke from
the pipe which was supported by his hand and clamped between his
teeth.

My breakfast arrived and it was
only after I had finished and was wiping my lips with a serviette
that Holmes spoke. “Watson, do you find the name Pavlin O’Leary
incongruous?”

I thought for a moment, “Well,
O’Leary is a common enough Irish name but I must admit it does seem
a little strange. I have not heard the name Pavlin before and I
have little idea as to its origin.”

Holmes nodded and seemed to be
considering what I had said. “Pavlin is the Slavic form of Paul and
has its origins in both the Ukraine and Russia.” Taking a draw on
his pipe, Holmes paused before saying, “It seems to me to be an
unlikely combination with the surname O’Leary. I suggest then, that
these are in fact two different individuals: the first being
someone from within Konsulov’s own circle, the other, O’Leary,
being the one responsible, perhaps, for taking the mules.”

I considered this and it was
indeed a plausible explanation. My doctor’s instinct prompted me to
consider the wound and the final moments of the victim. “Why do you
think Wiggins did not hear the shot that killed Konsulov? With such
a wound and the resulting blood loss, he cannot have travelled far
along Dorset Street.”

Holmes had once more become more
contemplative. He now continued as though speaking aloud his
thoughts, “Yes, it is something I had thought strange. The sound
would have carried to Wiggins…but consider this: Konsulov was shot
in the back. I suspect that he was shot inside a building as he was
leaving…or perhaps even escaping. In his last few moments, it
seemed to me that Konsulov was indeed apportioning blame to this
O’Leary. Perhaps he is the murderer? Also, Wiggins saw nobody else,
nobody giving chase. Dorset Street was not the scene of the crime
but perhaps a building in some side street close by.” Holmes would
say no more. For the next few hours he simply sat and smoked in
silence with his eyes closed.

We were indeed surprised that we
had not been asked to make a full statement on the day following
the death of Konsulov. It was a further two full days before a
telegram arrived asking us to attend at the office of no lesser a
person than Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard. In truth, Holmes
was not well pleased to be summoned to Scotland Yard but he seemed
to put on a brave face.

Being April, we still needed to
be prepared for some inclement weather. Gathering our hats and
waterproof coats, we hailed a cab in Baker Street and within a few
minutes, we were climbing the stairs to Lestrade’s office. A burly
constable had escorted us from the front gate and now rapped on the
navy blue, half glazed door which bore the name plaque ‘Insp. G.
Lestrade’. From within the room a voice shouted, “Yes?” The
constable opened the door, saluted and ushered us inside before
quickly shutting it again.

The room before us had that
oppressive gloom that only government buildings could manage to
impose. High windows in one wall allowed some light to enter but
not sufficient to provide anything like an adequate working
environment. Behind an old, Government Issue desk, piled high with
papers, sat a lean, thin-faced man that we knew to be Inspector
Lestrade. Lestrade was, as Holmes had once described him, ‘a
tenacious plodder, a reliable policeman but one whose ideas are as
constrained as a railway engine is to its tracks.’

Lestrade looked up as we entered
and rose from his chair. “Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, please come in. Sit
down, sit down. I will be with you in a moment.”

I looked around and, after
moving several piles of files, I managed to acquire two rather
rickety chairs for Holmes and myself. After waiting two or three
minutes, I thought that Holmes was trying to lift the gloom when he
asked, “You seem to be having a somewhat busy time Lestrade. Apart
from the pressing matter of a body in our Baker Street rooms, what
else is taking up your time?” Clearly Holmes was becoming impatient
but it was as water off a duck’s back to Lestrade.

Looking up from the papers on
his desk, Lestrade pointed towards an open cardboard file, saying,
“Ah, there is still so much wickedness in London. Take yesterday
for example. The lads of the River Police fishes some poor young
girl out of the Thames, hands tied behind her back, lump on the
back of her head. No reason for it that we can see. Dreadful! …And
then there’s the Fenians with their dynamite.” Lestrade shook his
head, closed the file and now gave us his full attention.

Holmes was becoming increasingly
displeased. “I take it that you wish us to give you a full
statement regarding the events, as we know them, regarding the
death of Mr Konsulov?” His tone was such that even Lestrade was now
aware of his displeasure.

Lestrade nodded and shouted
“Jenkins!” at the top of his voice. Within moments, a sergeant
appeared with a notebook at the ready. “Escort Mr Holmes across the
hall and take a written statement from him.” The sergeant nodded.
Turning to me as I rose from my chair, he added, “No need for you
to bother yourself Dr Watson. I’m sure that Mr Holmes’ statement
will be full and complete in every respect.”

I looked across at Holmes and
saw that his arms had become two rods of iron by his sides and his
hands had become fists of ivory, white with tension. I nodded and
seated myself once more as Holmes left with the sergeant.

It was whilst I waited and idly
looked around Lestrade’s dingy office that I spied a strange item
on a shelf to one side of the office. Its presence was totally
incongruous: a bright, shiny, metal artefact within this sea of
gloom. From where I was sitting, it appeared to be a model of an
early steam locomotive with four large wheels… but lacking the
smoke stack. I was intrigued and eager to examine the object. I
coughed slightly and Lestrade looked up from his work. I raised my
arm and pointed towards it, asking, “Do you have an interest in
model engines, Inspector?”

Lestrade followed my gaze and
gave a thin chuckle. “Well, it is an engine of sorts, Dr Watson,
but its precise use is baffling.” Lestrade rose and took the engine
from the shelf and passed it to me. “Have a care, Doctor, for it
has a surprise for the unwary.” At this, he chuckled again and
returned to his work.

I held the ‘machine’ in my
hands. The workmanship was superb. However, for a model, I was
surprised by its weight; it seemed to be a good few pounds. The
body of the engine was a beautifully turned brass cylinder, being
about twelve inches in length and six inches in diameter. Attached
to this were four large, spoked wheels with flat rims that were
covered with what appeared to be abrasive grit. This was, I
supposed, to enhance its traction. At what I presumed to be the
front end, was a brass cap over the cylindrical body and within the
cap was a recessed button. I tried pressing the button but nothing
happened. On the top of the body was a sliding switch that I
assumed controlled any mechanism within. It was at this point that
I noticed that Lestrade had stopped working and was sitting back in
his chair and observing me with something of a smug expression upon
his face.

Working my way along the
cylindrical body, I noticed that there was a ¼” hole drilled in the
top surface and another drilled in the bottom surface of the
cylinder. Similar holes were apparent on opposing sides of the
cylinder. The purpose of these seemed a mystery. Beside each wheel
was a round keyhole with a square shaft within. At the opposite end
of the cylinder was another brass cap upon which was mounted a
small shackle. A little to one side was another hole from which
protruded a rod, upon the end of which had been soldered a small
brass ring. I was about to investigate its operation when Lestrade
quickly bent forwards and took the engine from my grasp.

I was shocked and sat blinking
for a few moments. Lestrade was now standing and his face bore a
grim smile. “I’m sorry, Doctor Watson, I could not let you harm
yourself.” He held the engine at arms length with one hand and with
the other he pulled upon the ring on the small rod. Immediately,
four spring-loaded steel spikes sprang from their holes around the
circumference of the cylinder.

I leapt up in my seat at their
appearance, crying, “Good Lord! …Is it…is it some kind of booby
trap?”

Lestrade leaned his head to one
side, saying, “It is a possibility, but we think not. It may,
however, be some kind of grappling device… but we are unsure.” As I
looked once again, I saw that a circular plunger had emerged from
its recess in the front-end cap of the engine. Seeing my interest,
Lestrade turned the engine towards me whilst, at the same time, he
applied pressure to the plunger. With a metallic click, the steel
spikes were seen to retract and latch back into place within the
body of the engine.

I sat intrigued! Now once more
composed, I asked, “Does the engine move?”

Lestrade smiled. Pushing back
his chair from his desk, he opened the top drawer and from it
produced a large key of the type commonly used for winding clocks.
Picking up the engine, he inserted the key into the keyhole beside
each of the four wheels. Each time he gave the mechanism only three
or four turns. Seeming satisfied, Lestrade stood the engine on its
wheels upon the floor, pointed it towards the door of his office
and slid the switch. I watched in amazement! I had imagined that
the engine would hurtle off at great speed but instead, it slowly
but surely travelled across the floor. Lestrade saw my look of
disbelief. “Try putting your hand in front of it to impede its
progress, Doctor.” I looked briefly towards him. He nodded and I
warily placed the palm of my hand against the front cap of the
engine. The engine now pressed steadily against my hand. I was
indeed shocked by the force that the mechanism was able to apply.
What it lacked in speed, it most certainly made up for in
strength.

The engine had travelled the
fifteen or so feet of the office in under a minute and was now to
be seen pressing steadily against the door. Lestrade retrieved the
engine and switching off the mechanism, he returned it to its
shelf. “How far would it travel if you were to wind the mechanism
completely?” I asked.

Lestrade smiled, “Well Doctor,
we wound it up fully and it easily travelled the length of the
corridor outside and that is some sixty feet.”

“Wonderful!” I cried, for the
engine fascinated me… “but how did you get it?”

Lestrade face bore a grim smile.
He patted a pile of cardboard folders on his desk, saying, “See
these? They are just some of the files we have on the Fenians. Two
nights ago we raided a house in Rosemary Lane along with the
Special Branch. One of our lads picked up the engine. Special
Branch showed little interest in it and so here it is.”

Our conversation was cut short
by the return of Holmes, accompanied by a rather red-faced
sergeant. Holmes, it seemed, had made his feelings plain to the
sergeant and he was now eager to return to Baker Street. In clipped
tones, Holmes addressed Lestrade. “If there is nothing further, we
will go. In future, Lestrade, unless Britain itself is about to
fall, please arrange for one of your officers to attend at our
rooms in Baker Street. Come Watson.”

With that Holmes turned on his
heel and, after a brief nod to Lestrade, I followed in his wake.
Quickly finding a cab, we headed homeward. Holmes was still
ruffled. “It is the stupidity of it all and the timewasting that I
abhor, Watson! A statement could so easily have been taken in our
rooms.” I nodded and thought it better to allow the dust to settle
a little before recounting my experience at Scotland Yard.

After luncheon, it was a little
calmer in our rooms. Holmes had settled into his leather armchair
and was to be seen conducting some imagined piece of music with the
stem of his pipe. For my part, I sat back and read the newspaper.
It was as I idly scanned the paper that an item caught my eye.
“Holmes, do you recall Lestrade mentioning a girl’s body being
retrieved from the Thames?” Holmes paused in his conducting and
nodded briefly. I read aloud from the newspaper… “At Bethnal Green
Coroner’s Court today, the inquest into the death of Miss Catherine
Ward, residing at number 14 Waverley Gardens, was adjourned. Miss
Ward, aged 23 years, was an employee of the London Hydraulic Power
Company. She was discovered floating face down in the Thames near
London Bridge by the River Police and pronounced dead at the scene
by Dr Alfred Bennett, a police surgeon, who had been summoned. The
circumstances of Miss Ward’s death lead the court to deliver a
verdict of murder by a person or persons unknown. Sergeant Peters
of Thames Division, representing The Metropolitan Police, informed
the court that the crime appeared to be motiveless and that
enquiries into the death continue.”