Sherlock Holmes & The Master Engraver (Sherlock Holmes Revival) (38 page)

Today I probably know him better than any man alive. But still he confides so little.

And thus Sherlock Holmes is still to me, and for all I know may well remain as long as I live, an eternal and unfathomable enigma...

JOHN H WATSON MD: April 1891, London SW1

*        *       *

If you have enjoyed

Sherlock Holme & The Master Engraver
,

read on for a sampler of the

second adventure in the series,

Sherlock Holmes & The Murders On The Square
,

to be published in

paperback and ebook editions

later in 2013...

Copyright © 2013 Ross Husband

- ONE -

A BODY OF EVIDENCE

Of all the strange cases in which Sherlock Holmes and I have been involved during the years of our intimacy, surely one of the most bizarre, the most outlandish – the most outré as my friend might playfully term it – commenced as these matters so often do, with the most trivial of events.

While he was generally mindful of the need of resources sufficient to maintain a tolerable degree of quality in his daily life (in an abstracted sort of way) Holmes lived mainly for the love of his art, rather than for the acquisition of wealth, and refused to involve himself in any investigation which did not tend towards the unusual, and even the perfectly fantastic.

As we were shortly to discover, the case of The Murders On The Square would live up to his expectations in the very highest degree.

On a warm late-July morning in 1885, shortly after breakfast we were seated comfortably in the parlour at 221B Baker Street where we roomed together on the first floor; Holmes was poring intently over the agony column in The Times and others of the more sensational news-sheets, as was his custom; I was deeply engrossed in a complex but fascinating paper lately delivered at a conference of The Royal College of Surgeons by the eminent physician Sir Edward Runciman, describing his novel treatment for the intractable problem of pulmonary embolism.

A sharp rap on the door heralded Billy, the page, with a telegram for Holmes; he opened it immediately. I returned to my studies, only to be interrupted again after a short pause.

“It seems that a large leather travelling trunk was found in Trafalgar Square yesterday, Watson.”

“Mm?” I looked up, distracted. At something of a loss as quite to how to respond to this extraordinarily banal piece of information I replied “A humdrum enough mishap Holmes – no doubt it has been conveyed to the lost property office in Paddington or the like and its careless owner will perhaps claim it in due course. I make no doubt dozens of trunks are mislaid in London every year” and I returned to my reading.

Another short pause ensued...

“I’m sure you are right Watson, but then is it not so frequently the humdrum that presents the quite extraordinary?” There was a short silence, then he resumed “For example, I doubt very much that many carelessly mislaid steamer trunks contain the body of an expensively-dressed gentleman in his late seventies, folded neatly in three, wearing heavy prison leg-irons and sporting a garden weed in his buttonhole.”

I set the paper down upon the instant and gave my friend my entire attention – he never jested about such matters. “Good Lord Holmes!” I noted his eyes were alive with excitement – he clearly scented the prospect of a case entirely to his liking. “Who is the dead man; how did he meet his end? And whence comes this news?”

“At present I can answer only your third question – this intelligence comes from Inspector Tobias Gregson, one of the sharper tools in the Force’s box. He invites us to attend at the police mortuary; as there is a body involved I can think of no better-qualified companion than Doctor John H Watson MD – I would much value your experience if you would care to accompany me.”

For me, nothing raises the pulse or tests the mental faculties more than the dispensation to assist Holmes on a case, particularly one as strange as this promised to be. “Of course I am entirely at your disposal Holmes – nothing would please me more; when do we depart?”

He leapt to his feet and rubbed his hands in glee. “When else Watson – upon the instant of course! The matter is too serious for hesitation...
Carpe diem!
”

To the common man, a mortuary is a dismal place, a place to be anticipated with great trepidation, particularly when we know it to be the penultimate halt before our final interment in a cold, dark grave, and whatever fearful mystery awaits us beyond.

It is a place of limbo, a way-station to the unknown.

But to Holmes and for me, from our quite different perspectives, it can be a place of the liveliest interest. As a medical man, ever since my student days spent examining and dissecting cadavers, I quickly discovered it can be a veritable seminary of mortality, a source of much scholarship and invaluable research; and for Sherlock Holmes, certain of its more macabre inmates may offer a dark treasure-house for his singular skills of observation and deduction.

And
de facto
, any cadaver that makes a cheerless final journey to the police mortuary, rather than a tranquil passage to the lily-wreathed undertaker’s parlour, most likely has a dark and sinister story to tell for those able to read it.

In the inner office a grave-faced Inspector Gregson greeted us. “It is extremely good of you to attend Mr Holmes, you too Doctor Watson. I’ll be mighty grateful for any insights you can offer on this pretty little problem – for it has me completely foxed. We don’t yet know his identity or where he comes from. We don’t know even how he died. And as you shall see, there will be some small difficulties in performing a post-mortem. Shall we go through?” and he indicated the double doors that led to the morgue.

Through the bulls-eye glass in each I caught occasional glimpses of pathologists and their assistants at work and once, when the doors opened briefly, the top of a newly-trepanned skull being removed.

“Indeed we shall” replied Holmes “But first, if you will Inspector, be so good as to relate the circumstances preceding the trunk’s arrival here.” Gregson flipped open his notepad. “Very well Mr Holmes. Yesterday in the late afternoon a large brown leather steamer-trunk was observed beneath the head of one of the new lions in Trafalgar Square; it was subsequently transported here last night. It had appeared to be quite unattended and a member of the public called it to the attention of a passing constable who noted that it was securely padlocked and fairly heavy; it bore no labels or identifications whatsoever. The constable detected a strong smell of corruption issuing from within it and, becoming deeply suspicious, arranged for it to be carried here where it has remained since.”

Holmes produced his slim leather-bound notebook and pencil. “Who reported the abandoned trunk?”

Gregson consulted his jottings “One Mr Benjamin Skerritt; I have his address – 17a, at the top of Upper St Martin’s Lane. Yesterday he was feeding the pigeons on the square as is his custom every day; around five o’clock in the afternoon he observed two men alight from a growler; they unloaded the trunk and placed it directly beneath the head of one of Landseer’s lions.

Apparently the two then seated themselves upon the trunk for some minutes, in conversation; Mr Skerritt continued feeding the birds but when next he glanced up, the two men had vanished, leaving the steamer-trunk unattended beneath the lion. When it became apparent it had been abandoned Mr Skerritt brought the matter to the attention of PC Burke who was passing by on his beat.”

“Did Benjamin Skerritt furnish a description of the two men?”

“He did, Mr Holmes, but he is an elderly man – his sight is poor due to cataracts in both eyes; beyond the fact that he estimated them both to be in their early or middle sixties, respectably dressed and swarthy or sun-tanned, he could offer little more.” Holmes made rapid notes in his book. “Ho hum” said he, “Not a lot, but better than nothing I suppose. In view of the exceptionally warm weather I have no need to ask why PC Burke’s suspicions were aroused.” Gregson wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“Indeed Mr Holmes; and the air in there gets worse by the hour.”

“You have my sympathy. I trust the body still rests within the trunk, untouched?” Gregson nodded; “It does indeed Mr Holmes. The instant I lifted the lid and saw the contents I felt certain that I should appreciate your observations, and yours too Doctor Watson, and I know from our past association that nothing ruffles your professional feathers as much as a crime scene needlessly disturbed!

“We have confined ourselves to severing the hasps of the padlocks and opening the lid; I gave strict instructions that nothing was to be touched until your arrival.” Holmes nodded his approval at the Inspector.

“Excellent Gregson; I was in little doubt that I could count on your admirable judgement in such a matter. Shall we..?”

The Inspector ushered us through the double doors into the cool, tiled morgue. It was clinical and perfectly utilitarian as such places must be; worn, much-mopped grey linoleum floor, walls tiled drab green to shoulder height, dull cream above. The air was heavy with the pungent odours of coal-tar soap, carbolic acid, formaldehyde – and death.

There were six waist-high stations; each consisted of a heavy white-glazed slab seven feet by four with a faucet and deep runnels that drained into an adjoining basin and gutter. Three were in use; the trepanning I had earlier observed, a further whose incumbent was clearly in train of having the major viscera removed, and on the third, what I guessed to be a recent arrival, unattended but covered with a blood-stained cotton sheet; from the profile I judged it to be a woman.

Beside the fourth slab stood a trolley, upon which rested a very large, new-looking brown leather steamer-trunk of plain, almost rustic manufacture. Two burly mortuary attendants waited close by; there was no requirement for Gregson to point out the object of our enquiry. Holmes removed his coat, handed it to one of the attendants and proceeded to examine the trunk closely from all sides; he repeated the exercise using his powerful lens, apparently paying particular attention to two areas of the lid, one at each end; throughout he muttered quietly to himself, as if committing notes to memory. He also took considerable note of the two severed padlocks.

At length he appeared satisfied that he had gleaned all that he could, and gestured to one of the attendants to open the lid, at which point his companion offered us nostril-sized wads of cotton waste impregnated with camphor oil – an essential when in close proximity with a cadaver entering the early stages of decomposition. Gregson took the same precaution.

When the trunk was opened, even through the prophylactic wads of camphor-soaked cotton, we were quickly assailed by the powerful, sickly-sweet odour of the onset of corporeal decay. Holmes, Gregson and I gathered closely around and peered at the body; it was that of a man in his late-seventies or thereabouts, impeccably clad in an expensive, clearly bespoke suit, silk shirt and necktie, and sporting costly hand-made patent leather shoes.

The corpse lay on its left side, in a foetal position, chin sunk low on the chest, thighs drawn tight up to the rib-cage, the arms wrapped closely around the knees.

It had clearly required some considerable effort to manoeuvre it into the confines of the trunk, particularly weighed down as it was with a massive pair of clearly-visible, heavy prison-style leg-irons, which must have weighed thirty pounds or more. The shins of the cadaver were cruelly chafed and lacerated from the irons. At this early stage in the examination I could observe no external wound or other cause of death.

Holmes made a lengthy and painstaking examination of the body, then gestured to the attendants to lift it onto the slab; the degree of rigor mortis present was immediately apparent, for when they had wrestled the cadaver free from the trunk, it stubbornly retained its foetal posture. The heavy chain between the rusty leg-irons clanked dismally upon the cool mortuary slab.

While Gregson and I stood by in silence, Holmes scrutinised the frightful object at close range through his lens. Oddly at variance with the man’s affluent attire was the flower in his buttonhole.

It was not a rose; it was not a camellia, nor even a carnation.

It was something much meaner – a withered dandelion.

After several minutes Holmes turned to me; “Your views Watson?” Experimentally I attempted to flex the cool, rigidly-clenched fingers, then a near unbending arm, and considered my opinion. While not trained as a pathologist, I have considerable experience of death, gained during my time as an army surgeon in Kandahar serving with the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers.

Rigor mortis generally commences within two to six hours of death; over the next four to six hours, it spreads to the other muscles, then gradually dissipates until approximately forty-eight to sixty hours after death; but when conditions are warm, as those we had enjoyed for several days now, the onset and pace of rigor mortis are considerably hastened and markedly exacerbated.