Sherlock Holmes (9 page)

“Best leave him be,” Tomlinson advised. “The man clearly wishes to be alone.”

“It’s not like Holmes to be a sore loser,” I said.

“Have you ever seen him lose before?”

“Not as such. There was that one occasion where an impressive young lady got the better of him, but he continues to count that as a victory, albeit a pyrrhic one.”

“Then how would you know how well he handles losing?”

“I take your point. But even when a case is not going as he would like, or he is stymied, or a culprit has temporarily slipped through his grasp, he usually manages to remain stoical. Setbacks serve only to stiffen his resolve. This – this is something different.”

“He has been embarrassed, doctor. That is what is different. Quantock’s machine has mimicked the incredible deductive processes which Mr Holmes believed were his exclusive domain, until today. What must that do to his self-opinion?
I
am upset just thinking about it. To have been outshone, not even by any person, but by an agglomeration of cogs and such. Inconceivable…”

Holmes did not emerge from his room for the rest of that day. Several times I knocked on the door, either receiving no response at all or else a curt cry of “Whoever you are, go away!” I even tried the handle once, only to find the door locked.

“Holmes, old man,” I said through the panels. “Let me in. We should talk.”

He, however, seemed in no mood for discussion of anything. I was minded to beg the key off the duty manager and force an entry thus, but elected to give my friend the solitude he craved. If past experience had taught me anything, his funk would run its course eventually. Tomlinson was right in as much as Holmes had not been bested in quite this way before. The circumstances were unique, and the blow to his ego had to be devastating. I remained confident, nonetheless, that he would see reason soon enough. The world had not ended just because the Thinking Engine had arrived in it.

The next morning, Holmes came down to breakfast as though nothing untoward had happened. Helping himself to a generous portion of brawn slices and bacon-wrapped oysters, he engaged in airy conversation on such topics as the Dreyfus Affair and the critical reception for Oscar Wilde’s latest play
The Importance of Being Earnest
, which most of the reviewers had deemed hilarious but heartless. I dared not raise the subject of the Thinking Engine lest it mar his mood. It seemed we were sweeping the whole episode under the carpet and moving on.

Then Inspector Tomlinson appeared.

“Ever so sorry to interrupt your meal, gents, but I felt I ought to bring you the news in person. I’d rather have you hear it from me than some other source.”

“No apology necessary, inspector. Enlighten us.”

“It’s just that there’s been a discovery, Mr Holmes. Down in Port Meadow. That’s a patch of common land running between Jericho and Wolvercote, next to the river.”

“A discovery?”

“In the water, snagged on reeds.”

“Ah. A body. That of Nahum Grainger, I’ll be bound.”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“He hardly ever is,” I said, thinking that yesterday had been one of those rare occasions when he was.

“It was altogether too likely,” Holmes said. “You would only have come to tell me about something, inspector, if it was connected with either the Jericho killings or the Thinking Engine or both. A leading player in the drama has not been seen for five days. Grainger turning up dead could not be discounted as a potential by-product of his crime.”

“You reckon it is suicide, then? He was driven to kill himself through remorse?”

“I cannot say anything with any certainty unless I am permitted to view the body. Is it still
in situ
?”

“Just about. My men have dragged it up onto the bank and are awaiting a cart to come and take it to the mortuary.”

“Then we must hurry.”

Leaving our breakfast unfinished, we donned coats and boots and made our way north along Walton Street, past Jericho, thence cutting down across the railway line onto a broad spread of unploughed pastureland where several herds of cattle and a scattering of horses grazed somnolently. We waded shin-deep through grass, ragwort and plume thistle, following the meandering course of the river which, though the Thames, is known as the Isis where it flows through Oxford. Mist was still lifting off its turbid brown surface, like steam rising from milky tea. Geese and ducks dabbled, unconcerned.

Two uniformed policemen stood on the bank, at their feet a slumped heap of wet rags which proved to be the corpse. Nearby, an angler sat dazedly on his heels, clutching his fishing rod as though barely aware of it. He, it transpired, had spotted the body just as he was about to cast his first fly of the day. Having recovered from the shock sufficiently to fetch help, he had since lapsed back into a traumatised, uncommunicative state.

Holmes and I both knelt by Nahum Grainger’s mortal remains.

“It is him?” Holmes asked. “Beyond doubt?”

Tomlinson confirmed it. “I’d recognise him anywhere, even if he were not so… disfigured.”

The body was bloated, the face bulging until it had a froglike cast. The stench of putrefaction was strong, although it was accompanied by another sweeter smell, that of alcohol – gin, to be precise.

“How long, in your estimation, Watson, has he been in the water?” Holmes said.

I essayed an examination, gently touching the clammy wet skin of Grainger’s cheeks and hands.

“The level of dermal maceration suggests two or three days,” I said. “Likewise the distension of the belly. It usually isn’t until at least forty-eight hours have passed before the build-up of intestinal gases is sufficient to buoy a drowned body back up to the surface. Prior to that, it will have lain on the river bed.”

“As evidenced by the amount of silt adhering to the clothing.”

“Also by the weed clutched in his hands. That shows cadaveric spasm. After death, his fingers involuntarily closed tight, seizing whatever happened to lie within their grasp.”

“He had been drinking, by the smell of it.”

“Which almost certainly contributed to his death. Even strong swimmers are liable to drown if heavily inebriated. Alcohol causes a rise in skin temperature, rendering the shock of immersion in cold water all the more intense.”

“The Isis, at this time of year, is icy cold,” Tomlinson offered.

“There could have been sudden cardiovascular collapse when he fell in. Death would have been instantaneous.”

“A part of me wishes otherwise, doctor. For what he did, I would like him to have suffered. I’m not proud of that, and it’s not professional of me to admit it, but it’s true.”

In a gingerly fashion, Holmes went through Grainger’s pockets. The search yielded a single item beyond the usual paraphernalia of keys, loose change and handkerchief. He held it up for all to see.

It was the head of a boathook.

“Proof conclusive,” he said. “Inspector, your murder weapon. Part of it, at any rate.”

“The crucial part,” said Tomlinson, taking it from him.

“I thank you for the courtesy you have shown us today,” Holmes said, straightening up. “I can add little to what Watson has said already. It would appear that Grainger became very drunk two or three evenings ago and went for a walk by the river, no doubt unsteadily. He lost his footing and met with a grievous mishap. In that respect he has spared the Crown the trouble and expense of a trial, and done us all a favour. Watson!” He beckoned. “It is a pleasant enough morning and I could do with some fresh air and exercise. Would you accompany me?”

We traipsed alongside the river, tracing its course upstream. Holmes was wrapped in silence, intently scrutinising the path we were on and the bank next to it. The policemen and angler were well out of sight when, all at once, he sank into a crouch with a cry of triumph. On hands and knees he examined a patch of disturbed earth, poring over it as one might a detailed illustration, his head cocking and canting like a bird’s.

“What is it, old man?” I enquired after I had stood watching him for some ten or so minutes. “What have you found?”

“Evidence,” came the reply. “I only wish it were more conclusive. You noted, of course, Grainger’s hobnail boots. Specifically, the soles.”

“Well, yes. And no. I saw that he had such footwear on.”

“The hobnails in the soles formed a distinctive pattern. A few had fallen out, making that pattern in its way unique on each boot. Here is a corresponding imprint on the ground. Here too. And here. The placement indicates that Grainger paused at this very spot. And there, right at the lip of the bank, observe? Yet another imprint, that one smeared.”

“This is where he slipped and fell in.”

“We are perhaps three quarters of a mile upstream from where the body fetched up. The current could easily have carried it that far.” Holmes stood, brushing mud from his palms. “Unfortunately, many other people have since trodden along this route, not to mention livestock, so I cannot construe a precise picture of what went on from foot impressions alone. It is like trying to read the original underlying text of a palimpsest. Nonetheless, I have seen enough to confirm my suspicions. All is not as it seems, Watson.”

“Really?” I said. “I assumed the matter was over and done with. Grainger is guilty but dead. We can return to London confident that justice has been served, even if the law did not play its full part.”

“Who said anything about returning to London?”

“I thought—”

“Thinking, Watson, does not always serve you well. Sometimes, indeed, it is your worst enemy.”

“Dash it all, Holmes! That’s unfair. I am far from being the blithering buffoon you often like to paint me as. Just because you are fond of playing your cards close to your chest, you should not mock the rest of us for not being able to see what hand you are holding.”

He looked appropriately contrite. “Forgive me, my friend. You’re right. Sometimes I do not make allowances. I forget that you haven’t devoted quite as much time to mulling over this situation as I. As a matter of fact, I have been up half the night, deliberating. There are anomalies in recent events which bear further investigation.”

“How so?”

“Consider, for one thing, the character of the late and not much lamented Nahum Grainger. A vile man, prone to anger and the liberal use of his fists, particularly against those least able to defend themselves. Intemperate in every respect. Yet when he commits a murder, it is done with guile and forethought. He did not kill his wife and daughters in a drink-fuelled fit of rage, as one might expect. He planned the deed coolly and rationally and executed it with some aplomb. The detail of the boathook – is that something you would think a mere bricklayer capable of? A manual labourer?”

“People are often more cunning than they appear, even manual labourers.”

“No, no, Watson, it is quite incongruous. It points to a level of calculation and sophistication well beyond the reach of someone like Grainger. The same goes for bricking up the attic. A reasonably clever move, but also one as likely to draw suspicion as allay it. It is almost as if Grainger wanted to be caught – or rather someone else wanted him to be caught.”

“He had help?”

“The penny drops, the drums spin, the winning combination appears. Grainger, I would submit, received advice and encouragement from a third party. He followed instructions – instructions which, unbeknownst to him, were designed to generate intrigue greater than the killings would otherwise have accrued by themselves. He was coerced into using a method which he believed would cover his tracks but which actually was leaving a spoor that the trained eye might readily follow.”

“Then this is a conspiracy. A stitch-up, as the Americans might say.”

“Grainger’s subsequent demise would seem to confirm it. The moment he had done his bit, discharged his role, he became surplus to requirements and, moreover, a liability. He had to be got rid of. And how easily it might be accomplished. Ply him with gin all evening. Invite him to take a midnight stroll along an unfrequented patch of riverside. And then…”

Holmes seized me by the shoulder and made as though to push me in the water. I instinctively planted my heels and shoved back.

“Confound it, Holmes!” I remonstrated hotly. “Why did you do that? I nearly toppled in.”

“See what a simple matter it would have been? Had you been in the throes of intoxication, you would not have resisted. You would have gone straight over the edge. An almost foolproof way of disposing of you, and few would suspect foul play. What this also tells us is that Grainger trusted whomever he was with that night, his aider and abettor. He was happy to accept the drinks he was offered and happy to walk beside the Isis with the other person positioned on the outside of him, so that he was between that person and the river. He thought he was with a friend and ally, and he was not. I almost pity him for that.”

“This is a monstrous turn of events. If one is to see any bright side at all, it is that you have discovered an element to the case which the Thinking Engine, in all its wisdom, has not. That puts you ahead. The machine is not as infallible as we have been led to believe.”

“I would not count it out just yet, Watson. I did not come to the conclusion that Grainger was a dupe until he turned up dead. Who’s to say the Thinking Engine might not do the same, once apprised of the information?”

“What do you propose to do?”

“There is an unseen adversary at work here,” Holmes said grimly. “Who he may be is at present a matter of conjecture, and I do not hold with conjecture. Facts are my deities; anything else, heresy. The only possible course of action is for me to prolong my stay in Oxford. For how long, I know not. All I do know is that this sombre business is not yet over and requires my continued attention.”

I myself did not remain in the city of Oxford, for I could not. My work commitments prevented it. I tendered my regrets to Holmes, who responded equably, saying my presence, though desirable, was not compulsory. He promised to keep me abreast of developments by telegram and to summon me if I was required. We took our leave of each other warmly and I travelled by train back to London.