Sherlock Holmes (39 page)

It was some months later, as we
sat one evening, enjoying a pipe of tobacco that Holmes suddenly
asked, "Why do you think she let us live, Watson?"

I knew immediately to whom he
was referring. I thought for a few moments before answering, "I am
unsure, Holmes. Perhaps, as the railway carriage was moving, there
was no clear shot and she could not be sure that we would
perish."

Holmes shook his head slowly.
"No, Watson, I do not believe so. Once Tindall had been killed, she
allowed the train to proceed. She was playing me as an angler plays
a trout. She had let me run and wanted me to know that she had
beaten me."

I sat and considered this whilst
Holmes continued, "I realise now that a bomb would not have suited
her purpose. My destruction has become a personal crusade for her.
If I am to die, it must be by her hand and her hand alone."

Listening to my friend, I found
this a most sobering thought... but a crusade was something that
Julia Moriarty would find was not her own personal preserve.

It was a stormy evening in October 1901, when
Holmes and I first became involved in the case I have recorded as
'The Rattle-Jacks Affair'. We had finished dinner and were just
relaxing with a pipe of tobacco when a loud ringing of our door
bell, followed by raised voices, caused Holmes to become instantly
alert. A tumultuous staccato of footsteps on the stairs preceded
our door flying open and two bedraggled figures hurtling into our
rooms. Both of them were soaked to the skin and their entrance was
swiftly followed by that of a clearly enraged Mrs Hudson. "I'm
sorry sir, they pushed past me and..."

Holmes held up his hand, saying, “It’s
alright, Mrs Hudson, they are friends.”

Mrs Hudson still seemed unsure as she watched
the two sodden figures steadily drip rain upon our carpet. “If you
say so sir...” She looked again at the rain soaked, shivering
children standing before her and her heart clearly softened. “I’ll
bring some tea and some towels.”

Holmes had instantly recognised the
diminutive figure of 'Little Alfie', a member of the Baker Street
Irregulars who was tightly clutching the hand of a girl of about 14
years. Holmes beckoned the pair forward. “Come, Alfie. Bring your
friend nearer the fire.” Alfie looked at his companion who towered
a good head and shoulders above him. He nodded and, still grasping
her hand tightly, he led her towards our welcoming fire.

It was a good minute or so before Alfie
spoke. Steam was starting to rise from the pair as they stood
before the fire. “Please, Mr Holmes. This is my cousin Lucy. Her
sister Flora is in bad trouble. She has been arrested for murder
and she ain’t done it, honest!”

Holmes put down his pipe and leant forward in
his chair. “Murder, you say? When was this?”

Lucy looked up and, in a quiet voice filled
with emotion, mumbled, “Yesterday, sir. They came and took her to
Bow Street...in irons, sir.” Lucy began to sob softly.

Mrs Hudson appeared with a tray of hot tea
and with two large bath towels draped over her arm. She wrapped
each of the children in a towel and started to gently pat them
dry.

 Holmes, I could see, was clearly moved
by the children's plight and wanted to know more. He reached out
and took Lucy's hand, saying, “Tell me about Flora.”

Lucy looked up and began to tell her tale.
“It was two days ago. I was sleeping at Alfie's ’cos we only have
the one bed, see. Flora told me that she was sleeping at the foot
of Mum and Dad’s bed. She woke up and our Dad was lying dead across
her legs and she couldn't move.” Lucy began to sob again and I was
moved to put my arm around her shoulder. “She…she told me that she
called out for Mum but Mum just cried, “Help me, I’m dying!” and
she fell forward dead on the bed.” Lucy was now inconsolable. Her
little body was wracked with emotion and she could say no more.
Alfie could only hug his cousin and the pair stood for several
minutes, in silence, sipping the tea.

It was obvious that Holmes was intrigued by
Lucy's story. The children were starting to dry off a little and
appeared to have benefitted from drinking the hot tea.

Holmes reached into his pocket and took from
it a florin. “Here, Alfie. Take this and go and buy some hot food
for you both.” Holmes pressed the coin into Alfie's hand and patted
him gently on the head. “I will go to Bow Street in the morning and
enquire further.” Holmes rose from his chair and took an umbrella
from the large, Chinese jardinière by the door to our rooms. “Take
this and return it to me when I send word that I have some
news.”

Lucy handed me the towels and then took the
umbrella from Holmes. Looking up, she asked, “Can you help Flora,
sir?” Her lip trembled as she spoke and she reached for Holmes’
sleeve.

Holmes smiled. “I will do all I can for her,
Lucy.” With that, the pair of them left. I watched from our window
as they walked away along Baker Street, Lucy, being the taller,
holding the umbrella with Alfie close by her side.

Rarely had I seen emotion in Holmes but now
he was clearly moved. “This is a strange case, Watson. If what Lucy
has said is true, why should Flora have been arrested for
murder?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know Holmes...it is
a mystery… and how did her parents die?” Holmes was deep in thought
but nothing further could be done until the morning and our visit
to Bow Street.

The following morning the rain had cleared
and, after a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs followed by a round
of toast smothered with Mrs Hudson’s fine strawberry preserve, we
set off for Bow Street Police Station.

On arrival we presented ourselves at the desk
of the duty Sergeant who, of course, knew Holmes. At our approach
he stood and saluted. “Good morning, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson. How may
I help you?”

Holmes touched his hat, saying, “Good
morning, Sergeant. You have a young girl here called Flora, who, I
understand, has been arrested on a charge of murder.”

The Sergeant looked a little surprised. “Why
yes, Mr Holmes...but it is hardly something that you might be
interested in.”

I could see Holmes bristle a little at this.
“Never the less, I would like to speak to her, if I may.”

The Sergeant reached for a large bunch of
keys and beckoned us to follow him. “This way, gentlemen, if you
please.” He led us down a narrow, stone flagged passage towards the
women’s cells where he stopped outside one of the large, iron
doors. To one side of the door was a small, framed slate on which
had been chalked the name of the prisoner, 'Flora Smith'. The
Sergeant looked through the peephole in the cell door. Satisfied,
he unlocked the cell and turned to us, saying, “Here you are, sir.
Call when you are finished.”

We entered the cell and the door closed
behind us with a solid 'clang' as iron met granite. Before us was a
slight figure in a coarse, prison dress and sitting on a straw
mattress. She was a girl, I would say, of around 16 years, thin
faced and with fair hair. As she turned to look at us, I could see
that her face was tear streaked. Holmes touched his hat and said,
“Good morning, Flora. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend,
Dr Watson. We are here at the request of your cousin, Alfie.”

Flora wiped her face with her hand and gave
us a small smile. “Good morning, sir. Would you care to sit down?”
Flora moved up a little on the mattress and Holmes sat beside her.
I sat on the single chair that was placed beside a small table.
Together with the latrine bucket, it was the only furniture
present. I looked around the bleak cell. It measured barely ten
feet by six feet and was painted a sombre green. The only light to
enter the cell was from a small, barred window made from square
glass blocks.

Flora looked at Holmes. “I have heard stories
about you, Mr Holmes from Alfie. You are a famous detective.”

Holmes smiled. “I am here to help you, Flora,
if you will let me. You must tell me everything about what happened
on the day when your parents died.” Flora’s face clouded over and
her head dropped as the memory of her parent's death was clearly
painful for her. Holmes reached for her hand. “Tell me what
happened...from the beginning.” Flora looked up at Holmes and,
again, gave a weak smile and nodded.

“Well, sir. We had only recently moved to
Broad Street from Fairbrother Street where we had been renting a
cellar. This new house was much better as we had a front room, a
kitchen and two bedrooms. We couldn’t use the front bedroom though
as the roof leaked so.

Anyway, on Friday evening it was windy and
quite cold. Dad had not been able to work for many weeks. He used
to go door to door selling firewood but he had become so weak that
he couldn’t do that no more. Mum used to go with him, she pushed
the barrow but that was bad for her. She was always coughing, it
was the bronchitis and couldn’t breathe proper. Neither of them had
been able to earn a penny in the last week or so. I was the only
one earning from hawking drapery… and that paid very little.”

Holmes was attentive but I could see that he
was eager to get to the events leading to her parent's death,
asking, “What happened that evening, Flora?”

Flora began again. “Well, sir. As I said, it
was cold so before bed I laid a fire in the bedroom grate. Dad had
already had a fall in the cellar trying to get some coke. My
brother, Stephen, had brought some Rattle-Jacks the previous week
on his cart and...”

Holmes held up his index finger, and the
child paused. It was clear that he did not know the term, asking,
“Rattle-Jacks?”

Flora looked at Holmes, a little bemused.
“You never heard of Rattle-Jacks? They're bits of waste coke that
you gets from the gas works. They glow nice and warm once they gets
going. So, I gets some sticks, breaks up a bit of coal I found in
the cellar and, with the Rattle-Jacks, I lights the fire. It was
the first time that we had lit a fire in the bedroom grate and we
goes to bed about eleven o’clock.”

Flora paused for breath and, with a sniff,
she continued, “Anyways, when we retired, the bedroom was full of
smoke so Dad opens the window for a while, just until it clears,
like. The wind was strong and there was a fierce draught from the
window. Dad had to place a piece of folded newspaper in the gap in
the frame to stop it. At about five o’clock the next morning I
hears a strange noise and wakes up...and...and...Dad is lying dead
across my legs. It’s like he's kneeled up and then fallen asleep.
I...I...couldn’t move! I just screamed but I couldn't get up.”
Flora began to sob and her poor little body shook.

Holmes took her hand again, saying, “What
about your mother, Flora?”

Flora wiped her eyes on the sleeve of the
prison dress. “I cried out 'Dad’s dead!'... and... and then Mum
cries out, 'I can’t breathe, I'm dying! Help me!' and then she
collapses on top of Dad and she just died. I tried to get up, Mr
Holmes, I really did. I banged on the wall but nobody heard me. I
was trapped there for most of the day. I finally managed to get
free and I staggered to the shop to get help. I was
stumbling...like I was drunk but I hadn’t touched a drop, Mr
Holmes, there was no drink in the house."

 Flora gave a huge sob. Holmes patted
her hand again and waited for her to continue. "The next thing I
know, a police Sergeant had arrived and I was questioned… but I was
all confused. He went away and then later he comes back and I was
arrested. He put me in hand cuffs and I was brought here!”

At this point Flora collapsed before our eyes
and I rushed to her side. Taking my hip flask from my coat pocket,
I forced a little medicinal brandy between her lips. Flora coughed,
due to the fiery spirit, but she swiftly recovered. She looked up
at Holmes. “Please, Mr Holmes. I ain't done nothing wrong, honest.
They put me in this cell and then a little later they said...they
said they was going to charge me with murder!”

Holmes
smiled, saying,
“I believe you Flora. I
will take your case and we will see you again, quite soon.” Holmes
stood and called for the Sergeant who promptly arrived to release
us from the cell.

Back at the Sergeant's desk Holmes asked to
see the police report of the incident and was given a transcript of
the events. “May I borrow this...just for today?”

The Sergeant rubbed his chin. “Well, it is a
bit irregular, Mr Holmes, but as it's you, I suppose it will be
alright. As it's here, you might also want to see the result of the
post-mortem too.”

Holmes smiled. “Splendid! I will return them
both to you in the morning, Sergeant.” With that he swept from the
police station with me hurrying in hot pursuit.

Back once again in Baker Street, Holmes sank
into his leather armchair and reached for the Persian slipper which
contained his tobacco. “Something is not right here, Watson. Why
should Flora be charged with murder? What have the police
found?”

Holmes filled his favourite Meerschaum and
lit it. He puffed steadily upon it and then began to read the
police report. “Ah, now we have it. Listen to this, Watson. It is a
report by Sergeant Grey who attended the scene. 'When I entered the
premises at eight in the evening, I questioned the prisoner about
why she had not reported the deaths immediately. She told me that
she had been pinned beneath the body of her father for several
hours and could not move.'

"That's just what Flora said, Holmes." I was
pleased to hear that her account to us was accurate.

Holmes nodded and returned to the police
report, "The sergeant continues… 'I went into the rear bedroom and
whilst the prisoner had said the room had been full of smoke, I
could not detect any. There were, however, the remnants of a fire
in the grate. I briefly examined the bodies of the prisoner’s
parents. There was bruising to the side of the chest and to the
head of the father but no marks on the mother’s body. I did,
however, find a large hammer under the sink in the scullery. The
prisoner seemed confused when questioned about the hammer and, when
asked about the bruising to her father's face and torso, said he
had fallen down the cellar steps the previous evening. I reported
my findings to the Inspector. He was not satisfied with the account
given by the prisoner and ordered her arrest'.”