The Adventure of the Tired Captain A Sherlock Holmes Case (11 page)

My
entire body ached as I climbed the single flight of stairs to my room. I looked in the mirror and the face which I saw was barely recognizable.

By the time I had struggled out of my jacket, waistcoat, shirt and tie Mr. Brown was at the door with a basin of hot water, some clean strips of cloth and a large tumbler of brandy.

I mumbled a thank-you to him from between swollen lips and closed the door. I had not the foresight nor the inclination to bring my medical bag with me on my journey so the hot water and brandy would have to do for the moment. I used some of the brandy to disinfect the wounds and the stinging pain made my head swim. By the time I completed this agonizing task, my whole body hurt, and I downed the remainder of the brandy and lay down on the bed. I tried to interest myself in my copy of ‘
The Wreck of the
Grosvenor
’ by Clark Russell which I had brought from London. My head ached too much though and I turned down the lamp and tried to sleep. I tossed and turned all night and slept little.

The morning sun seared it
s way beneath my eyelids and my throbbing head and aching limbs reminded me of last night’s events. I lay there for a time before a knock came at the door. I mumbled some reply and was greeted by the unwelcome odor of kippers and eggs.

“Thank you, Mrs. Brown,” I groaned “but
I seem to have lost my appetite; you can however leave the coffee.”

“My
goodness, Doctor,” she said clucking over me like a mother hen. “Your clothes are in tatters. Give them to me and I shall have them mended by the end of the day.”

“But what shall I wear?” I asked.

“I have some old things which belonged to my father. I will see if I can find something that will fit.”

“Mrs. Brown,” I called out as she was about to leave “is there a doctor in your
charming
little village?” I am afraid more than a hint of sarcasm crept into my voice. “I have neglected to bring my medical bag with me and some of these cuts need more attention than I can give them.”

“Of course sir, there is a new doctor in town who has just recently moved into a house in the high street. I have not needed his services yet but I here that he is very good.”

“That is most kind of you, Mrs. Brown.”

I sat by the open window, savoring the strong black coffee and letting the fresh air clear the cobwebs from my head. After some fifteen minutes Mrs. Brown returned, a suit of black broadcloth draped over her left arm. She gathered up the unused breakfast things and took her leave. The clothes were a little large and out of fashion but they would have to do. The throbbing in my head had diminished some, however my legs were rubbery and I proceeded down the stairs slowly. The landlord was standing behind the desk.

“Good morning, Mr. Brown,” I said “I wish again to thank you for your help last night.”

“It was the least that I could do to maintain the reputation of our fair village,” said Mr. Brown.

“None the less. One other thing Mr. Brown, I did not realize it last night but I also seem to have been robbed of my purse. I have no money with which to settle my account with you.”

“You get those wounds looked to first and we can discuss that matter later.”

I thanked him and stepped out into the bracing sea air. The walk to the town’s surgery was but a short one which was just as well, as my battered face drew a number of stares from many of the town’s citizens some of whom felt a need to cross to the other side of the road to avoid me.

I was about to ring the bell of the small Georgian style house when the name ‘J. Stamford’ which was tastefully engraved upon the small brass plate, caught my eye. I had known a Jack Stamford many years ago when he had worked as a dresser under me at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. It was he who had first introduced me to Sherlock Holmes.

I wondered if this was the same man.

The page boy who answered my ring was a pimple faced, red haired lad. He ushered me into the well appointed consulting room.

Even though it had been a dozen years since I had seen him last, the face which looked up to me from behind the desk was as familiar as an old shoe. Fat and balding, time had not been kind to my former associate.

“You seem to have come a cropper sir,” he said with that air of professional detachment which unfortunately is all too common among my colleagues. Suddenly a look of recognition crossed his face.

“By Jove, is that really you, Watson?” he cried, a welcoming smile spreading across his homely face.

“How have you been Stamford, old fellow?” I said taking his outstretched hand.

“I have been well, Watson, but I think the question of the moment is, how are you?”

“Aside from this,” I said pointing to my face, “I have never been better.”

“Those look to be some nasty abrasions. What has happened?”

I told him of the previous night’s events and there was a look of concern in his eyes.

“This is the sort of thing which one likes to think happens only in London or Liverpool. Let me take a look at those wounds, Watson,” he said going over to a cabinet on the wall and coming back with a bottle, and some gauze and bandages.

“I would appreciate it, Jack. I have cleaned them as well as I could however I do not have my medical bag with me.”

He applied carbolised bandages and iodoform to the cuts on my head. I winced in pain, however he had a gentle manner and the glass of medicinal brandy served to dull the pain.

“So Watson, for a moment I
thought that you were here to get even with me for introducing you to that man Holmes,” he laughed.

“No. Indeed I am much in your debt for introducing us. I have shared many an exciting adventure with him. He has proven to be a most trusted and valued friend.”

“Yes. I hear of him everywhere since your account of his adventures have appeared in
Lippincott’s
. It was through your writings that I learned of your marriage to that governess whom you met in the matter of the Agra treasure.”

“Watson, whatever is the matter, you have gone as white as a sheet.”

“Actually,” I whispered, “my wife is the reason that I have come to Brixham. She has been kidnapped and one of the clues has led me here.”

“Kidnapped!” he exclaimed. “What has happened?” He quickly poured me another drink.

I related to him the events of the last several days. Following the incident of the previous night it was a relief to talk to someone.

“So these injuries are related to your wife’s disappearance then?”

“Either that, or it was a simple robbery.” I told him that my pocketbook plus two or three other items had been stolen. “However I myself do not believe that the object of the attack was robbery as the expensive watch which Holmes gave me on the occasion of my wedding was not taken.”

“I can advance you the money for your hotel and train fare to London, as my practice has been quite lucrative.”

I could see where his practice
would
be a successful one as he had a very soothing way about him; my head was feeling better already. “I could not ask you to do that,” I said.

“Nonsense. I have more business than I can possibly handle. It is in part due to you that I myself have achieved some measure of fame by being associated with you and Holmes. I even have a framed cover from
Beetons Christmas Annual
hanging on my wall,” he said pointing to a spot beside his bookcase.

For the first time I noticed the item he mentioned.

“So you see it is I who owe you the debt.”

“I don’t know how to thank you,” I told him warmly. He handed me a five pound note, which would easily cover the cost of my hotel and train fare.

“I shall reimburse you as soon as I return to London.”

“Do not forget to include the interest, Watson.”

“The interest,” I said.

Again he broke into his engaging laugh. “Yes, I would much value a signed copy of one of your stories,” he said.

“Done!” I cried.

“And what of you?” I asked. “You have completed your medical studies I see.”

“Yes, some years ago. I too attended the University of London. I have been married for nine years and have two young children. We moved here from Aberdeen six months ago and it has up until now been a peaceful home.”

It was then that it occurred to me to ask him if he knew of anyone in the village by the name of Croft or Craft. It has been my own experience that no-one knows the inhabitants of a village as intimately as the doctor, except perhaps the priest.

“Yes there is an elderly couple who live in the pretty little villa at the end of the village called Hawthorn Cottage. Why do you ask?”

At that moment the
red haired page boy entered announcing the arrival of a new patient.

“Well I must attend to my patients
, Watson. It has been very nice to see you again. Give my regards to Holmes and Godspeed to you in the search for your wife.”

“Thank you, Jack. We must keep in touch.” I shook hands with him and left, never to see him again.

I walked down the high street and found the cottage that Stamford had indicated. Hawthorn Cottage was an attractive little cottage in the Old English style. There were no hawthorns in view; however a number of cabbage rose trees adorned the front yard. An owl sat in a small cage beside the door. The tiny creature peered at me inquisitively from behind the bars of his prison. My knock was answered by a matronly looking elderly lady.

“Mrs. Craft?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied a bit hesitantly as she noticed the bruises on my face.

“My name is Johnson,” I said. “I am a detective in the employ of the Great Western Railway. An attendant found a case abandoned on one of our carriages. It was filled with some valuables and a number of personal possessions. There is a sticker on the case indicating that the traveler had departed from Devon while some of the papers bore the name of Craft. We are attempting to locate the owner. If you can identify the case and contents we can return them to you.”

She called her husband to the door and explained the purpose of my visit.

Mr. Craft, a solemn white haired old man thought for a moment. “No, Mr. Johnson we have not left Brixham for probably five years and haven’t been on the train for longer than that and we are missing no valuables. I am afraid you must continue your search.”

I thanked the couple and left them standing in the doorway. I returned to the hotel, hoping that Mrs. Brown had been able to effect repairs to my suit. It was very kind of my hosts to lend me the clothes which I was wearing, however the weather had turned unseasonably warm and the heavy black material was now quite uncomfortable.

“There is a telegram
here for you, Doctor Johnson,” called out Mr. Brown as I came in. A small square of paper was clutched in one of his large sweaty hands. I had arranged for Holmes to contact me under my assumed name if need be. Indeed the message was from the detective and it instructed me to return to London as soon as possible, as there had been further developments.

“I must return to London, Mr. Brown I have a young pat
ient suffering from sooty warts and he has taken a turn for the worse.” I went up the stairs to collect my meager belongings. Mrs. Brown had patched up my clothes so they were in a serviceable condition and I returned her father’s clothes to her. I thanked the couple for their kindness and climbed into the trap which they had provided for me.

The driver drove me the short distance to the small train station in Dartmouth and within minutes I was on the train heading for London, poorer and none the wiser.

I was oblivious to the passing scenery as the great engine steamed north through
the verdant countryside with its human cargo.

I tried to interest myself in the day’s copy of the
Times
but a multitude of questions danced and whirled through my head like so many dervishes. What were these further developments, Holmes had mentioned in his telegram? Had my wife or my neighbour been located and more importantly, were they safe? Damn Holmes for being so ambiguous.

The rocking of the coach and my own thoughts seemed to mesmerize me and before I knew it we had arrived at Paddington. I disregarded the porters, taking up my own bag. I whistled for a cab and to my surprise a familiar voice rang out from the first vehicle in line.

“Come, Watson. The game is afoot,” said Sherlock Holmes.

“Holmes, what brings you here?
” said I, handing my bag up to him.

“A second wire to Brixham informed me that
you had already departed and my handy
Bradshaw
told me the rest,” he explained. “I have taken the liberty of bringing along your medical bag.”

“Why do I need my medical bag?” I said lowering myself into the seat opposite him. “Have you found Mary?” I asked with a mixture of hope and trepidation.

“Not yet, my friend but there has been some other developments. Not half an hour ago I left Baker Street and our old friend Lestrade. He had come straight to my lodgings after a body was discovered in Clarence Road in St. Pancras.”

“And Lestrade believes that this might have a connection with Mary’s disappearance?” I asked him.

He sat silently for a moment.

“Holmes?”

“Lestrade has seen the body and from his rather lurid description it is very probable that the body is that of your neighbour, Dr. Anstruther.”

I leaned back in the seat in sho
cked silence as the cab made its way through the late afternoon traffic.

“What happened?” I asked quietly.

“Lestrade could not say. He came straight around to me after viewing the scene, leaving a constable in charge. Until the body is examined by the police surgeon he would not speculate as to the cause of death. He has though, with uncommon good sense, left the scene as it was knowing our interest in the case. The body was evidently found in an empty house in Clarence Road.

“So what did you learn on your
trip to Brixham?” he asked suddenly. The man was a master at leading the conversation down the paths which he so chose.

“You summoned me back much sooner than expected and I had little time or opportunity to make inquiries. But to answer your question I did visit one of several public houses as you have before suggested. It is where I made the acquaintance of the group of men who attacked me. This morning I asked around the village. There was no one by the name of Croft in the town however I did talk to one family named Craft. They were an elderly couple who had not left the village for years.” I related to him all of the details of my investigation including the assault upon myself.

“I was about to inquire as to those bandages and scrapes which I see upon your person. I trust you were not seriously hurt, Watson?”

“Nothing to sp
eak of save my pride and pocket-book. I see you also have had some excitement,” I said pointing to his blackened eye. “You must let me take a look at that.”

“It is nothing,” he replied. “You have done well, Watson, the story you told to the Craft’s of working as a railroad detective was inspired,” he said surprisingly. Perhaps because my friend was himself a perfectionist he was intensely critical of the investigative efforts of others, especially those of myself.

I then told him of my fortunate meeting with Stamford.

“I am
glad to hear he is well,” he said as I finished my story, “I shall forever be indebted to him.”

For the first time in what seemed like weeks I allowed myself a small smile.
We fell into a companionable silence for the remainder of our journey.

Clattering down Marylebone Road we passed the familiar environs of Baker Street and Regents Park. Turning up Albany Street we soon found ourselves in, what was to
me, some of the more unfamiliar parts of St. Pancras. Holmes though made it his business to familiarize himself with all of London’s byways and called out the names of the streets and public buildings as we passed them.

Clarence Road was a dreary little thoroughfare. The house itself was easy enough to identify as there was a small knot of bystanders standing near the front door. A constable stood immobile on the front steps to discourage the curious.

Holmes was out of the cab before it had even come to a stop, while I flung some coins to the cabby and hurried to keep pace with my friend.

The young policeman at the front door stepped in front of Holmes.

“I am sorry sir but only police are allowed inside. I can let you in, Doctor,” he said glancing at my bag, “as the inspector has been waiting for you, but I cannot allow this other gentleman to enter.”

I thought Holmes was going to physicall
y push aside the young man when Lestrade poked his head outside of the door.

“What is the meaning of this
, Perkins?” demanded Lestrade. “Good evening Doctor Watson, Mr. Holmes.”

“This man was attempting to enter the building,” said the young policeman, “however your instructions were not to allow anyone save the doctor to enter.”

Lestrade could barely contain a smile. “The doctor is certainly above reproach. This other gentleman though
is
certainly somewhat suspicious looking.”

“Lestrade,” said Holmes sharply, “this is hardly the occasion for such childish banter. We are here at your request so let us get on with matters.”

“You are right of course, Mr. Holmes,” said the official policeman suitably chastised. “This gentleman is Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” he said pointing to my friend, “and the other is Doctor John Watson, you would do well to remember their faces as they have helped the official force on a number of occasions.”

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Holmes,” sputtered the young constable in awe. “I did not recognize you.”

Holmes had already forgotten about the incident and had brushed by Lestrade and Constable Perkins.

“You were only doing your duty and you will no doubt rise high in your profession if you continue to display such dedication and determination,” I told the young man as I followed Holmes inside.

The constable flushed with pleasure.

Lestrade led me inside the dec
ayed and broken down dwelling. In one of the ground floor rooms lay the naked and grotesquely sprawled body of an elderly man. He lay face down in a small pool of blood his arms outstretched.

A vile stench permeated the room. As in most cases of sudden death the bowels had emptied. Black flies swarmed around the body and one or two rats skittered into the wall as we entered. Aside from the small pool of blood on the floor there was little visible signs of violence on the body. Dust covered the few pieces of rickety furniture which remained in the room. They looked like they had existed in that same place since time immemorial.

“There is no question he is dead?” I asked and immediately I cursed myself for posing such a stupid question.

“No
, Doctor. He is most certainly dead. The police surgeon will of course have to determine the cause of death but their in no question that the man is dead,” said Lestrade.

“You say it is Dr. Anstruther?” I asked.

“Yes, Doctor. When we first found the body I took a brief look at his face. I am sure it is he. I would not have asked you and Mr. Holmes to come, if I had not been sure it was your most unfortunate neighbour.”

“Yes I see that your men have been stampeding through here like a herd of buffaloes,” Holmes said looking at the footprints in the thick carpet of dust. “Lestrade
, will you never learn?” Holmes said with some exasperation.

“Actually Mr. Holmes
, the police photographer has been here and has taken photographs of this entire room including the prints on the floor. You may see them at your leisure. I can also point out the prints of Dr. Anstruther and his assailant,” Lestrade said a little smugly.

“The footprints are not the problem, Lestrade. It is but a simple matter to pick out the footmarks of a London policeman from those of any others. It is the minute traces of evidence, of which there may be any number that concerns me.”

Holmes turned his back on the official detective and took out his magnifying lens. In a moment he was down on all fours examining every inch of the floor. Nothing escaped his attention not the windows, not the few pieces of furniture not even the droppings left by the rats. It was only then that he turned his attention to the dead man.

“Come, Watson. With your assistance and Lestrade’s permission we shall turn him over,” said Holmes.

“By all means, Mr. Holmes I should welcome your opinion,” said Lestrade.

“Steady yourself old man the sight will not be a pretty one,” Holmes whispered to me.

We turned the body over. Holmes heard my sharp intake of breath.

“My word Holmes, he has been nearly decapitated.”

“It is your neighbour then, Doctor Watson?” asked Lestrade.

I looked at the distorted face, and despite the fact that the features had already begun to swell they were still quite recognizable.

“Yes, Lestrade,” I said pointing to the body. “Doctor Anstruther had this identical small crescent shaped mark on the back of his hand. I have noticed it on a number of occasions when Mary and I would play whist with them during the long winter evenings.”

Holmes and I return
ed the body to its former position.

“What do you make of it, Watson?” asked my friend.

“He has obviously been dead for some time,” I said quietly. Death had seldom struck so close to home. “The blood is certainly not fresh and rigor mortis is no longer present. There is also a greenish color on the abdomen which usually begins to appear about forty eight hours after death. The smell also seems to indicate that the body has begun the process of putrefaction.”

“Yes I believe that you are right as to the approximate time of death,” said Holmes.

“There also appears to be a bullet wound in his shoulder,” I said taking a drink of brandy from my hip flask, “although I doubt if such a wound would prove fatal. I imagine that he was killed right after being taken from his house.”

“You are no doubt correct
Doctor; nevertheless I wish to be thorough. The actual time and cause of death will, have to await the outcome of an autopsy,” said Lestrade.

“Of course,” said Holmes.

“Does it not seem strange that he would have been killed in this room, a room in which there is an unshuttered window facing the street?” remarked Lestrade.

“I don’t think......,” began Holmes.

I was familiar enough with my friend’s methods to venture an opinion and I interrupted him. “Perhaps he needed the light given off by the moon or possibly a nearby street light to help him in his task.”

“I think that Dr. Watson is onto something, Mr. Holmes,” replied Lestrade.

“No, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “If the Doctor or yourself had taken the trouble to observe our surroundings when we entered this lonesome and derelict place you would have seen that there are no street lights close enough to be of any help and any outside light which entered the room would have been of little help. Besides, at this time of year there is a good chance that it may still have been light outside.

“Also this assault was a singularly brutal and violent one and the victim most certainly would have cried out. As the murderer would not wish to be observed in his ghastly task by a curious passerby I am given to think that
the assault must have taken place in a different room. It could not have been otherwise.

“There is something el
se Lestrade. As I have pointed out the body has had its throat cut from ear to ear and yet there is only the one small pool of blood.”

“His name was Mortimer,” I said.

“What’s that, Watson?” replied Holmes.

“His name was Mortimer and he was my friend. He was a kind man and a fine neighbour and physician. His wife will be inconsolable and I would prefer that you do not treat him as one of those nameless dregs of society which normally inhabit Whitechapel or Limehouse,” I said turning away.

“Forgive me old friend, I meant no disrespect,” my friend responded kindly.

“You were speaking
of the blood, Mr. Holmes,” interjected Lestrade quietly.

“It is my experience Lestrade,” said Holmes, his moment of compassion fleeting, “that when one of the major arteries, such as the carotid artery, is cut, there is a great spurting of blood and it is not unusual to have the walls and even the ceiling covered in it. There is no evidence of such an occurrence here. Aside from the one small pool of blood beside the body there is only the telltale trail of minute blood droplets leading away from the body.”