The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (78 page)

Whatever feelings of justifiable pride he may have felt at this moment on having his findings confirmed by the medical evidence, his lean, drawn features did not reveal them.

Patterson consulted his notes again.

“Police surgeon cautious about committing himself, but suspects unknown toxic agent of virulent powers, similar to that discovered by post-mortem examination of the body of Arnold Foote.” He stopped reading, then gloomily shook his head. “But we haven't found out yet how it was done,” he concluded woefully.

Sherlock Holmes tensed in his chair.

“What do you mean?” he asked abruptly.

“I mean that, although we know, thanks to you, that some queer poison was used, there isn't a cut or puncture anywhere to show how that poison entered the woman's body!”

Almost at once I sensed an awakening of interest in my colleague's manner. His face had regained the old familiar alertness, his shoulders had stiffened, his eye held the gleam I knew so well. Here, at last, was something worthy of his
steel. So far, the case had not called upon the full powers of his analytical genius. The deductions praised so highly by Inspector Patterson were, in his opinion, merely a demonstration of the more superficial aspects of crime detection and identification. They had whetted his appetite without satisfying it. Here, indeed, was a unique situation, and one calculated to appeal to his love of the complex and the seemingly inexplicable.

There was an odd light (I will not say of pleasure!) shining in his eyes as he asked quickly:

“Has the body been removed?”

“No. I thought you might care to look things over, so I gave orders to leave everything in status quo.”

“Excellent!”

Holmes was already on his feet when he turned to me. “Well, Watson, one more sortie?” Then he chuckled heartily as he caught a glimpse of my expression.

As we clattered down the stairs I experienced anew that never-failing sense of exhilarating adventure which would sweep over me whenever we set off upon a new phase of one of my confrere's cases. It was the thrilling sensation of moments such as this which urged me to abandon my humdrum, everyday pursuits, and play a willing, secondary role in the dramas in which my friend and colleague invariably performed so brilliant a part.

During our drive through the foggy streets, with the gas lamps flickering eerily over the wet and glistening pavements, Inspector Patterson gave us a brief resume of the events which had transpired that afternoon.

Mrs. Emma Grant, part-time servant of the Stauntons, reporting to work at four p.m., her usual hour, had found the dead body of her mistress on the bedroom floor. The police, whom she had notified at once, impressed by the sight of the dark blemishes which disfigured the body, had promptly called in Scotland Yard. It was quickly ascertained by the investigators that the purple marks were identical to those found on the body of Arnold Foote, and had quite evidently been caused by the same agency. According to the police surgeon, the woman had been dead approximately fifteen hours, or since early morning of this day.

The husband, Henry Staunton, having presumably taken to his heels, a warrant had been issued for his arrest on suspicion of murder. It was further learned from the maid that the Staunton household was not a happy one. The couple were childless. Their frequent and bitter quarrels had alienated the few friends they had, and visitors were rare. The disparity of ages (she being some twenty years his junior) plus his moody nature and a jealous and vindictive character, had no doubt contributed much to the incompatibility which had wrecked their married life. An importer of medicinal herbs, Staunton was often away from home for weeks at a time. According to Mrs. Grant, he had only recently returned from a ten day stay on the Continent; Paris, she believed.

Sherlock Holmes stirred for the first time since we had entered the slow-moving vehicle. He had listened silently and intently to Patterson's succinct summary, with chin sunk low on chest, hands thrust deep in his raincoat pockets, his eyes closed. But at this moment he raised his head.

“Did the maid recall the exact day of his return?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, she did. It was last Saturday, shortly before eight in the evening. She remembered it clearly because of the dreadful quarrel which broke out soon after his arrival. She also recalled hearing Staunton accusing his wife of infidelity, vilifying her brutally, and making ominous threats. To which Mrs. Staunton had retorted in furious rage, that all was over between them, and that she was leaving him. Thereupon, after having packed some of her more precious things, she had departed, swearing never to return.”

“And yet, strangely enough,” mused Holmes, “she was found dead in that house. What explanation did the maid offer, regarding her mistress's return?”

“She said Mrs. Staunton might have gone to get some of her clothes.”

“She was not certain?”

“No. You see, Mrs. Grant had been told by Mr. Staunton that, since the place would be vacant for several days, she did not need to return until Wednesday—today. He was evidently going off on another of his trips.”

“Or clearing the field for his next move, most likely,” commented my friend. Then he asked: “Have you attempted to trace his movements since last Saturday?”

“I've put two good men to work on just that angle. The ports are being watched, and a descriptive circular has been issued by the Yard. He won't get far if he's still in England. We did uncover the fact that Mrs. Staunton visited Foote's quarters yesterday afternoon. We learned from the housekeeper that the lady looked terribly pale and ill, and when told that Arnold Foote had not spent the previous night (Monday, that is) in his rooms, she had exhibited great distress and had left immediately.”

“A complex affair,” muttered Holmes. “Mrs. Staunton was indubitably leading a double life, taking advantage of her husband's absences to live with her lover.”

“That's how we view it,” agreed Patterson.

For some minutes the only sounds to break the silence which followed were the crunch of wheels on wet asphalt and the steady clop-clop of the horse's hoofs. Occasionally the gaslight from a passing street lamp would fall on the grave, brooding faces of my companions. Holmes, pale and tense, his lips clamped tightly on the stem of his pipe. Patterson, stoical and calm, his heavy-set features showing no sign of strain or fatigue.

“We must be approaching the Thames!” cried Holmes suddenly. “I am sure I heard a boat whistle just now.” He peered out into the foggy darkness for a moment. “Yes, yes, we ought to be there shortly,” he exclaimed. “This is Flood Street, and those are the lights of the Embankment.”

Holmes's accurate knowledge of London streets was never at fault, for a few minutes later we turned into Oakley Crescent.

No. 134 proved to be an old yet attractive Georgian dwelling, with wrought iron railings enclosing a narrow strip of garden. At the gate stood a stalwart police constable good-naturedly coping with a crowd of loafers staring up at the entrance. He saluted as he caught sight of the Inspector's large bulk, and waved the loiterers aside for us to pass.

I obtained only a shadowy glimpse of the narrow, dusty, panelled antechamber, lit by a gas chandelier, as we followed Patterson up a flight of carpeted steps, with its unpolished rods dully reflecting the light overhead. Then we were in the bedroom, the scene of the tragedy which, exploding in the press on the following morning, was to rock the entire country for weeks. A boyish-faced policeman rose hurriedly to his feet and saluted as we entered.

It was a largish room, tastefully decorated in blue and gold wall trimming, with heavy curtains at the wide windows, chairs in brocade and silks, soft rugs, and a vast gilt-framed mirror placed before a well carved dressing table. But I noticed all this later.

It was the slender, sheet-covered form, lying between the bed and the dressing table, which instantly caught my eye and held it with all the fascination that only swift and mysterious death can evoke. Mrs. Edna Staunton had been a beautiful creature, with clear blue eyes, light brown hair, and exquisitely modeled nose, lips, and throat. In spite of the hideous blemishes which now marred her features, she still radiated a faint, perfumed aura of feminine attractiveness which tugged at one's heartstrings.

While I had stood shaking my head sadly over the piteous ruin of one of Nature's perfect creations, Holmes, who never wasted a moment in maudlin sentiment, had been giving the room a searching examination. Lens in hand, he had carefully scrutinized the various toilet articles which littered the dressing table. Then, on his knees, he had meticulously gone over the carpet in the immediate vicinity of the body. Like some lank, weird bird of sombre plumage, he hopped about the room, muttering to himself,
intent upon his work with all the powers of concentration at his command, completely unaware of those of us who were witnessing this strange spectacle. In silence we watched and waited, while he continued his investigations, impressed by the earnestness he exhibited, and his painstaking exactitude.

Finally he approached the sheeted figure, bent one knee and studied the lurid discolourations with frigid analytical detachment. An exclamation broke suddenly from his lips. A movement of his hand attracted my attention and in an instant I was at his side.

He had parted the soft brown hair and was pointing at the white scalp beneath. The keen, alert expression on his face, the tightening of thin lips and the quiver of nostrils were symptoms I diagnosed with ease.

“What do you think caused that, Watson?” he muttered, his voice hoarse with excitement. Craning my head, I could see to what he had alluded. Directly over the parietal bone, above the right ear, were a series of thin parallel scratches, less than an inch in length.

“What do you think it is, Holmes?” I countered, unable at the moment to account for so slight an abrasion.

“The solution to the mystery,” he replied, rising to his feet and brushing the knees of his trousers as he went towards the dressing table.

“The mystery of her death?” I asked, following him.

“No, Watson, the mystery of how the poison was administered!”

I heard an ejaculation from Inspector Patterson and turned in time to see him retrieving the cigar which had toppled from his lax lips as my friend's ringing words fell on his ears.

As we eagerly approached the toilet table, watching Holmes with expectant eyes, he carefully lifted an object from its surface, then whirled round.

“And this,” he cried dramatically, holding aloft a silver-mounted tortoise-shell comb, “this is the instrument of death!”

So long as memory serves, I shall never forget his face at that supreme moment of triumph. The colour had mounted to his usually sallow cheeks and his eyes glowed with sheer joy at the homage we paid him with our words of praise, our cries of astonishment. For the moment, the cold analytical reasoner became a human being, eager for admiration and applause. Then the hidden Holmes vanished as swiftly as he had appeared, the incisive reasoning machine returned.

After having scanned the spot on which the comb had lain, he was now intent upon examining the poisoned article itself, studying the long thin teeth through his pocket lens, turning it over with the utmost care.

“A conception worthy of the Borgias!” he cried at last, ill-repressed admiration in his voice. “This innocent-looking comb is deadlier than a cobra reared to strike! The merest scratch is sufficient to cause death.”

Holding it out for us to see, but at a safe distance, he added: “Not only have the center teeth been filed to razor sharpness and smeared with poison, but the remaining teeth have been lowered a fraction of an inch. I could distinctly see the marks of the file through my lens!”

“What a devilish device!” I cried, horrified.

“Aye, Watson, devilish and cunning. Who would suspect so terrible a weapon masquerading under the guise of a common, everyday article such as this? With the possible exception of Culverton Smith's little ivory box, I cannot recall in all my experience of murder weapons another which filled me with such utter loathing.”

“What made you suspect a comb in the first place?” asked Patterson, who had hardly uttered a word since entering the room.

“Where the others looked for the obvious, I sought for the unusual. Once having found the scratches, on the head, I could scarcely fail to recognize the object that had made them.”

Patterson nodded. “Of course,” he agreed, his shrewd eyes looking down at the covered body. “Must be a slow-acting poison,” he observed as an afterthought. “She had time to replace the thing on the dressing table before collapsing.”

“Perhaps the murderer himself did so,” I interjected quickly, realizing with a sharp pang that Holmes had apparently failed to account for this most vital point.

But Sherlock Holmes merely shook his head. “No, no, gentlemen, I disagree with you. The poison acts too rapidly for the victim to do what you have implied, Patterson. The thought had already crossed my mind only to be discarded. I have a simpler explanation. You might ask the maidservant, Mrs. Grant, to step in here for a moment.”

Inspector Patterson gave the necessary order, and the policeman who had remained on duty left the room at once. A minute or two later he returned with a sturdy, dour-faced woman, faded of feature and with gray-streaked hair.

Holmes greeted her with an encouraging smile. “No need for alarm, Mrs. Grant,” he said, “I only wish to ask you a simple question.”

The comb, which he had retained in his hand at his side, was suddenly level with the woman's pale, unblinking eyes, the silver mounting twinkling and shining under the gaslight.

“This comb was lying near Mrs. Staunton's body when you entered this room earlier this afternoon. What made you replace it on the table?”

She remained staring at him silently for several seconds, calm and unperturbed. In the hush which followed, I could hear the harsh sounds of a “growler” lumbering by, and the far-off hum of voices from the street. I held my breath, waiting for her to speak. Then the stolid features relaxed, the tightly pressed lips moved.