The Adventure of the Tired Captain A Sherlock Holmes Case (12 page)

“I did not see any trail of blood,” I said.

“The traces are barely noticeable and I saw them only because I was looking for them,” said Holmes. “Have your men been
through the rest of the premises Lestrade?”

“Only the immediate room, Mr. Holmes; once I
identified the body I posted a constable outside the door and came over to Baker Street immediately, knowing your interest in the case.”

Holmes again went down on all fours, and here his resemblance to a bloodhound was more physical than figurative. He applied his lens and began crawling about on the floor, his nose but an inch from the floor. The trail of blood was all but invisible in the dim light, and it was little wonder that Lestrade and I had overlooked it. It was quickly apparent where the trail must lead but Holmes followed every twist and turn, always on the lookout for any clues which may prove important. We followed my friend up the stairs and into a room which had probably once been used as a bedroom. H
olmes’ lens was now unnecessary; there was dried blood in appalling quantities, covering the walls, ceiling and floor.

“My God
, Holmes, it is a slaughterhouse,” I whispered.

“This is most certainly where your unfortunate neighbour met his untimely demise,” replied Holmes, his voice no more than a whisper.

“But why should the murderer do the killing here and then drag or carry the body to the room downstairs where it would more readily be discovered?” asked Lestrade.

“I think you
may have answered your own question Lestrade.”

“How is t
hat Mr. Holmes?”

“I believe that the murderers, for there were two of them, wanted the body to be found. We must only
ascertain the reason.”

“You say that there were two men involved, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, Inspector, you can see here in the dust the unmistakable indication of footmarks made by a second individual. You will notice a small horizontal cut across the heel of one left boot,” he said pointing with his stick, “while this left boot has a small nail imbedded in the sole. Another indication of a second person is a more practical one. Dr. Anstruther was not a small man.....”

“About sixteen stone,” I added.

“How do you know that, Doctor?” asked Lestrade.

“I was his personal physician and had recently examined him as regards to a minor ailment.”

“It would certainly have taken more than one man to carry him, unless that man was a Hercules,” said Holmes. “As you may have noticed, the blood on the stairs consisted of small droplets and not smears. Droplets would indicate that the blood fell from a distance whereas smeared blood would indicate that the body has been dragged. Also there are no heel marks on the floor as one might expect to see from a dragged body.”

Without another word Holmes turned on his heel and left that place of carnage. Lestrade and I followed.

“There is something about this which puzzles me,” said Holmes as we were sitting in the cab.

“What is that
, Mr. Holmes?” asked Lestrade.

“The extra set of clothes, Lestrade,” said Holmes.

“I saw no extra set of clothes, Mr. Holmes.”

“Of course not Lestrade, for the simple reason that there weren’t any,” replied my friend.

“You have lost me there.”

“I thin
k that you would agree Lestrade that even in the very worst parts of the city two men covered head to toe in blood, walking down the street would not go unnoticed. Our two men would have needed to change their bloodstained clothing before leaving the premises and entering the cab which they would assuredly have waiting. Even the ever imperturbable English cabby would look twice at a fare whose clothing is covered in blood.”

“A point well made, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade.

“Perhaps under the circumstances they chose to depart on foot rather than risk revealing their actions to another,” I pointed out.

To my surprise he did not immediately dismiss my conclusion. “Normally I would agree with you Watson, however if they already employed a cab to get to Clarence Road, as I believe they did, I think there is a good chance that they would have retained it’s services. After all they must have used some type of vehicle to transport the injured Dr. Anstruther to that place.”

“Perhaps they live in the area and had no need of a cab to go anywhere, they did after all know of this empty house,” I remarked.

“You scintillate today Watson and perhaps you are right,” replied my friend. “It is a possibility which had
already occurred to me and is something which will bear further investigation. However that abandoned dwelling was probably well known to the pair before hand. Criminals have much need for such places.”

“Holmes,” I said, “if Doctor Anstruther was murdered right after being taken from his home, what was done with Mary? You must have some theory.”

“You know Watson that it is a capital mistake to theorize without being in possession of all of the facts,” Holmes said with extraordinary patience.

“I have formed a theory which I think fits most of the facts,” said Lestrade.

“
All
of the facts must fit the theory Lestrade not just some of them,” said Holmes sternly. “You cannot alter nor omit facts to fit a theory you can only change a theory to fit the facts. If the facts do not all fit then the theory is in some way wrong.”

“Well let us hear your theory then, Mr. Holmes,” said Lestrade.

Holmes sighed. He was usually uncommunicative during a case, preferring instead to play his own game until he was sure of his facts. However he probably sensed my anxiety.

“I rather suspect that these two ‘gentlemen’ did in fact use a private carriage to travel to Kensington. They
had expected to leave your neighbor’s premises with only Mrs. Watson, alive and unharmed. However once Dr. Anstruther was wounded they must have felt that they could not proceed with their original plans. I believe that they would have sent Mrs. Watson with the private carriage, no doubt rendered helpless in some manner. Dr. Anstruther, they would have transferred to a cab, and then taken ultimately to his death.”

“You remarked
earlier,” said Lestrade with a trace of humour, “that any respectable cabby would hesitate to pick up a fare who happened to be covered in blood, would they not also hesitate to give a ride to someone who has been shot?”

“I am sure that any criminal worth his salt could come up with
a convincing story to cover such a situation.”

“But why take him at all?
” I asked. “Being wounded he could have only been a burden to them.”

“Possibly because they were known to him and he could describe them to the police,” replied Holmes.

“But could not Mrs. Dobson and Mrs. Anstruther also identify them?”

“No doubt, however the average eye witness to a crime is a very unreliable source of information. More often than not the description that they provide to the police tends to be filled with inaccuracies. Besides even among the lowest of the criminal class killing women does not come easily,” replied my friend.

“Except for that Whitechapel butcher,” commented Lestrade quietly.

“Quite,” replied Holmes simply.

As if in reverence a silence fell over us as we remembered the events from three years previous which had cast a pall over all of London. The failure to solve the murders was a blot on Holmes’ career and remained one of the detective’s few failures.

It was not until the four wheeler had pulled up to my
friend’s lodgings that we were shaken from our reverie. Holmes tossed some coins to the driver and instructed him to wait.

Lestrade and I followed Holmes up the seventeen steps which led to his rooms. Throwing his hat and stick onto the sofa Holmes made a bee-line to his desk where he took up pen and paper. He scribbled something upon the paper, and called downstairs for the page boy.

“Billy, I have an errand for you,” he said as the lad entered in response to his summons. “I need you to take the cab, which is waiting at the front door, and go down to Willings Advertising Agency in Fleet Street. This message must appear in tomorrow’s papers.” He handed the boy the slip of paper and some coins.

“Which papers, Mr. Holmes?”

“I think The Standard, The Daily News, The Telegraph, and The Times should be sufficient.”

The boy was off like a shot.

“You are advertising in the papers for the cab driver who may have dropped off a fare in Clarence Road?” I asked him.

“Yes, Watson, w
e will throw our lines in the water and see if we get a bite. If our fish has any brains though he will remain in the weeds.”

“What do
you mean, Mr. Holmes?” asked Lestrade. He emptied the tumbler of whisky which I had poured for him.

“Just this, Inspector, if I were a cab driver of the type that was not particular as to where my fares come from, I
would certainly be wary of any advertisement appearing in the papers seeking the driver of a cab which delivered a passenger to a particular address on the night a murder occurred.”

“And if he does not show
what then?”

“I will then try the cab yard and engage the drivers or liverymen in gossip. Men who work with horses are always free with their conversation and companionship, particularly over a cup of gin.”

At that moment there was a knock at the door and the commissionaire entered. He handed a message to Holmes.

“What is it
, man?” I asked.

He was silent for a moment. “There has been another murder.”

I caught my breath.

“Another murder, Mr. Holmes?”

“It appears so, Lestrade,” said Holmes. He crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it across to me. It read as follows:

BODY FOUND AT CHARING CROSS STATION. APPEARS TO BE CHINESE COME AT ONCE. BRADSTREET.

“I had not realized that Bradstreet had been transferred to Westminster,” I remarked.

“A temporary assignment unfortunately,” replied Lestrade with an air of professional jealously.

“I would think that we have enough on our plate without getting mixed up in another murder,” I said.

“Indeed. However if Bradstreet thinks that this murder would be of interest to us, we should not disappoint him.”

“And why should he think that, Mr. Holmes?” asked Lestrade.

“Bradstreet knows of my interest in such things,” he said simply. “A murder in Westminster is after all within his bailiwick.”

“Bradstreet!” exclaimed Lestrade dismissively. “You have forgotten your old friends on the force have you, Mr. Holmes.”

“My dear Inspector, I would never think to lay such a mundane task at your feet,” said Holmes with the easy grace and charm of which he was capable. “You are always much too busy to be bothered with such trifles.”

Lestrade seemed satisfied with this.

“Do you think that this is the same Celestial who was at my neighbour’s house two nights ago?” I asked. I thought it peculiar that the simple murder of an anonymous Oriental would hold my friend’s interest.

“That is a matter which we will have to investigate. Do you still have the cab, Billy?” asked Holmes of the boy who had just returned.

“Yes sir, I thought that you might want to use it.”

“Good lad,” he said and then whispered something into the boy’s ear.

“You will come with us, Lestrade?” Holmes asked. “No, Mr. Holmes. I shall leave you in the capable hands of Inspector Bradstreet. I have some other matters to look into as to the earlier murder.”

“Are you game, Watson?”

“By all means, Holmes,” it seemed like a lifetime ago that I had caught the train in Brixham. I was weary and hungry, but it seemed like we might be on a hot trail and I was filled with renewed vigor. I would stay on the trail of my wife until my body gave up.

Billy met us at the bottom of the stairway and handed a large paper sack to Holmes.

“Thank you, Billy,” Holmes yelled out to the boy as he slammed the front door. Holmes called out directions to the driver as the hansom pulled away from the kerb.

“What have you in the sack, Holmes? I have seldom seen you bring anything
to the scene of an investigation, aside from your magnifying lens and burglar kit.”

“It is neither of those things, Watson. It is our supper. I had Billy ask Mrs. Hudson to put together something for us.”

I laughed for the first time in what seemed like weeks.

He opened the bag and withdrew two thick roast beef sandwiches and two bottles of beer. I devoured my sandwich in an instant. Holmes then handed me some brown butchers paper in which was wrapped some cold pheasant. We shared this and the edge was taken off my appetite.

I was surprised at Holmes’ appetite as he was usually a light eater while involved in a case.

No conversation took place as befits two longtime friends who are comfortable with each other’s company. Holmes was at his taciturn best and I knew better than to try and question him. The long wearying hours and the rocking motion of the coach must have lulled me into a short and welcome sleep. In too short a time Holmes was nudging me awake, his hand shaking my shoulder. The cab was rolling to a stop.

The building, before which we had stopped was the London terminus of the South Eastern Railway, and was as always, teeming with people waiting for the great engines belching smoke, to take them to their varied destinations. A man whom I recognized as Inspector Bradstreet greeted us as we stepped from the cab.

“Inspector Bradstreet, it has been a long time,” said I.

“It has indeed, Doctor Watson,” he said taking my outstretched hand.

“So, Bradstreet you have something which may be of interest to us?” Holmes said by way of a greeting.

“Yes indeed, Mr. Holmes. A body was discovered lying by the side of the tracks and I think that it could be the man you are looking for,” said Bradstreet.

The inspector took out his dark lantern and led us to
the end of the massive building; at the side of the track stood a lone policeman.

“It is Inspector Bradstreet, Blacklock. All has been quiet?”

“Yes, Inspector,” said the uniformed official.

“This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson of whom you may have heard.”

“Shine your light on the body, Bradstreet,” said Holmes. “Let us take a look at it.”

Both Blacklock and Bradstreet turned their lights towards the thing lying in the grass. Holmes knelt down over the body and quickly examined it.

A few moments later he rose to his feet. “You have wasted our time Bradstreet,” said Holmes. Turning on his heel he began walking away.

“Wasted your time how, Mr. Holmes?”

“Mrs. Dobson was quite certain that the man involved in the disappearance of Mrs. Watson was a Chinaman. This man is obviously Japanese, not Chinese. Really Bradstreet you would think that your men could tell the difference.”

“It seems a trivial point, Mr. Holmes.”

“It is certainly not trivial to them, Inspector. Your attitude would seem to mirror that of much of the English populace, who have little knowledge and even less interest in happenings outside of their own village let alone events which happen outside of Victoria’s Empire.

“Granted the two peoples are somewhat similar
physically as they are both members of the Mongoloid race, however the Japanese people are on the whole smaller than the Chinese or for that matter most other members of the race such as the Esquimaux or the natives of Korea. Also Inspector, if you had bothered to look at his hands you may have noticed that the tattoo on the back of one of them is of a Japanese design not Chinese and he is missing the tip of the little finger on his left hand.”

“We seem to be faced with a surfeit of men with missing fingers,” I commented.

“There is a Japanese criminal organization not unlike the ones which plague Sicily, by the name of
Yakuza
which is known to punish its members by having them cut off the tip of their own fingers,” he replied routinely as if remarking on the weather.

With that he turned on his heel and briskly began
walking towards the waiting hansom. The two policemen stared at his back.

“Come, Watson,” he called from the darkness. I followed quickly, as my ability to see in the dark was not as acute as that of my friend.

As the cab drove away I could still see the silhouettes of the policemen, two lonely and no doubt mystified figures, just visible in the small circle of light given off by their lanterns. Holmes manner was sullen which was unusual for him. At times he could be taciturn and secretive while involved in an investigation, however I had seldom seen him in a bad mood.

I was much too weary to attempt to break the silence even though I very much wanted to ask him about the latest happenings. A steady rain had begun to fall and the trip home was long and uncomfortable. Baker Street which seemed dirty and almost drab much of the time gleamed brightly with the rain. Holmes left me to pay for the cab and had disappeared inside before I could even turn around. By the time I had climbed the stairs the detective had lit the gas and poured a large brandy for each of us. I tossed off my wet outer garments and warmed my hands in front of the now blazing hearth.

“You are shivering, old friend,” said Holmes passing me the brandy.

“Yes I am afraid that I have
rather over extended myself lately,” I said downing the fiery drink quickly.

I closed my eyes and contemplated the events of the
last few days while Holmes played on his violin. He was capable of the most light and fanciful pieces when the mood seized him however tonight his music seemed plaintive and introspective.

The mournful music retreated into the background as
I stared into the fire, my empty glass in my hand. Perhaps it was the warmth of the fire, or the effects of the brandy or even perhaps due to Holmes’ impromptu recital but sleep finally came. However it was a restless sleep and the worries which plagued me during the day manifested themselves as nightmares during the night. Nightmares in which I seemed forever doomed to search the endless labyrinth of London’s streets for my missing wife; and yet she remained as elusive as a wraith. I ran and ran and all the while I could hear her calling out to me. Her cries echoed in the strangely empty streets. I pursued her throughout London, finally arriving at Baker Street exhausted. I began to climb up the stairs when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around, expecting to see Mary but I was instead confronted with Sherlock Holmes shaking me by the shoulder.

“Come, Watson,” he said.

I shook the cobwebs from my head and rubbed the sleep from my eyes as I looked around. I was still sitting in my chair in the familiar surroundings of our old rooms in Baker Street. My brow and clothing were soaked with perspiration.

“Come, Watson,” urged Holmes again. “Mrs. Hudson has breakfast on the table and time is fleeting.”

I struggled out of my chair and made my way to the table which was already laid. The sideboard was filled with a welcome array of bacon, ham, eggs, preserves, and toast.

No conversation passed between us as I ravenously devoured Mrs. Hudson’s simple yet delicious fare while Holmes busied himself reading the morning paper which he had propped up against the coffee pot.

The urgency which was apparent in my friend’s demeanor a few moments earlier had been replaced by an uneasy calm. He now sat placidly at the table reading the
Daily News,
his own breakfast untouched and his head wreathed in a dense cloud of tobacco smoke. Finally he
threw down the paper in disgust.

“Damn. He is late.”

“Who is late, Holmes?” I asked looking up from my copy of
The Times
, which I usually preferred to Holmes’ present reading material and its Liberal leanings.

“Bradstreet. I received a telegram from him before you awoke. He said he would be coming around this morning at eight o’clock. There have apparently been further developments as to the affair of last night.”

“He has perhaps found the Chinaman,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he said doubtfully,
“although I do not think that the possibility is likely.”

At that moment there was a knock at the door.

“Come in, Mrs. Hudson,” he called out. His sensitive ears had no doubt recognized her footsteps on the stairs.

“I have come to clear the things away, Mr. Holmes,” she said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he said impatiently. “Hurry, and be off with you.”

She sniffed and rolled her eyes.

“Mrs. Hudson, would you be good enough to bring me some hot water so that I may have a shave,” I said kindly. “Mr. Holmes has been kind enough to lend me a razor.”

“Of course Doctor, I will have Jenny bring some up in a moment,” she said as she clattered out of the door with the tray of dishes.

I had not yet finished my second cigarette of the morning when the parlour-maid returned with a large pitcher of hot water. I thanked her and went up to my old room to perform my morning ablutions. Using Holmes old and well used straight edge I managed to scrape a days worth of whiskers from my chin. That, together with a quick wash made me feel like a new man.

As I descended from my former chambers I could hear voices coming from the sitting room.
“Good morning, Inspector it appears that you have spent a restless night,” I remarked as I took his outstretched hand.

“You are right there, Doctor Watson.”

“I understand that you have more information as to the body which was found at Charing Cross Station,” I said buttoning up my waistcoat.

Holmes walked over to the fireplace and filled his beloved brier pipe with the plugs and dottles of the previous day’s smokes which he had dried upon the mantel.

“Indeed I have,” Bradstreet answered. “Mr. Holmes arguments from last night not withstanding it would seem that the body we viewed last night
was
indeed that of a Chinaman.”

“Go on, Bradstreet,” Holmes remarked icily.

“
If
you would have taken the time,” responded Bradstreet smugly, “to examine the body more closely you would have seen that the man was a sailor by profession. The calluses on his hands and the evidence of tar upon his clothing, not to mention certain papers in his possession indicate as much. Once we determined the man’s calling it was but a matter of routine police work to locate the ship upon which he sailed. This ship ‘
The Orient
,’ is still berthed at the Docks. We examined the crew manifest which lists the man’s nationality as Chinese.