The Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes (8 page)

Short of a belief in magic, which I do not have, the only possible conclusion to draw would be that one of the three witnesses, to wit: the driver of the cab; Jarvis the valet, or Montague Phillimore himself, was lying.

‘Since the assertions of Jarvis were the only ones that could not be corroborated by either of the others, my suspicions incline towards him.’

‘But why? What possible reason could there be for Jarvis to lie in such a fashion?’ I asked.

‘Do you remember my last words before going out this afternoon?’

‘Of course. You said something about James convincing his brother of his absence rather than of his presence and that you had made enquiries at the wrong kind of agencies. Yet those statements make as little sense to me now as they did then.’

‘Very likely so, yet consider this. If James had been the guilty party behind the theft of the company funds, surely his departure at that time would have led to suspicion falling squarely on his shoulders alone, thereby making it very difficult for him to escape unhindered. By convincing Montague and, no doubt, others of his continued presence after the theft, he confused the issue and delayed the pointing of an accusing finger in his direction until the time
of the annual general meeting. By that time, of course, he was already living in opulent exile, leaving his hapless brother to face the fury of the shareholders.’

‘But Montague says he saw his brother leave and then re-enter his home!’ I protested.

‘That is certainly what he was supposed to have seen. Remember, however, that the air that morning was thick with mist and drizzle and that James Phillimore was partly obscured by his own protective clothing. Even his own brother would assume that the illusion of his presence was, in fact, reality. A skilled actor, which Jarvis surely was, would have had no great difficulty in removing the disguise before Montague could gain entry to the house, and then being able to convince him of the subterfuge. You will no doubt recall from Montague’s statement that it took Jarvis two to three minutes to open the front door, this despite the urgency of Montague’s tugging at the bell pull. Of course the disappearance of Jarvis, or to use his theatrical name Terence Middleton, a short while afterwards was the final nail in Montague’s coffin.’

‘Now I understand,’ I said, ‘and when you referred to the wrong type of agency you meant that you should have enquired at theatrical agencies.’

‘My early enquiries caused me to doubt the validity of my theory, but then, at the offices of Casper and Engles, I discovered that this Middleton had been given a private assignment at Phillimore’s address, just two weeks before he was to give his most convincing performance. We know, of course, from Montague’s own testimony, that Jarvis had only been in the employ of James Phillimore but a short time and, therefore, I now had my case.’

‘Your reasoning and deduction are, as ever, impeccable.’

‘Though tragically belated, you might have added,’ Holmes responded ruefully. ‘Although I am certain that so singular an occurrence as James Phillimore’s disappearance will one day find its way into your published annals of my cases, I must confess that I shall derive no great pleasure from reading it. However, on reflection, the humbling experience of reading one’s own shortcomings might yet have a beneficial effect.’

With that, Holmes rose, and after selecting a cherrywood, his more meditative pipe, he moved towards the window. He then turned his silent and reflective gaze once more towards his beloved Baker Street.

T
HE
A
FFAIR OF THE
A
LUMINIUM
C
RUTCH

M
y more enduring and steadfast readers might recall, with some nostalgia, my first encounter with Sherlock Holmes in my narration of the tale entitled ‘A Study in Scarlet’. They might also recall that we only came to each other’s acquaintance by virtue of our mutual need for decent yet affordable lodgings. The intermediary in bringing these three elements together, was a colleague of mine, from my time at medical school, called Stamford.

I could not, in all honesty, regard him as a close friend, indeed it never even occurred to me to enquire as to his forename, nor him as to mine. However, I still think of him fondly as being the only familiar face that I had encountered during my lonely sojourn in London immediately following my return home from the Afghan campaign.

Throughout the long years that had passed since that first auspicious meeting, Stamford and I had met only sporadically, at our old haunt the Holborn for convivial
lunches over which we would reacquaint the other with the progress of our lives. At this time, although I am ashamed to admit as much, I could not even recall the last time that one of these lunches had taken place. Therefore my surprise at receiving an urgent summons out of the blue to meet him at said watering hole, might be well understood. However, my practice had been quiet of late and my enigmatic friend, Sherlock Holmes, had not been seen at his rooms for the best part of a week, so I decided to reply to this summons with my presence. I repeat the use of the word summons because his note was not worded in the tones of an idle invitation to lunch.

There was an air of urgency about it that left me feeling somewhat uneasy, a feeling that had by no means abated by the time that I found myself staring up at the austere portal that was the entrance to the Holborn. Nothing had changed about the place since our last meeting, nor, I am certain, since the place had first opened, close to a hundred years before, save, of course, for the laying on of gas. I arrived a few minutes later than the suggested time and a venerable old footman showed me through to a secluded private booth that Stamford had reserved for us, which was at the rear of the main dining area.

The aged servant left me at the closed door with the assurance that he would return shortly to take our orders for aperitifs. The whole place seemed somewhat darker than I remembered and the single lamp and small fire did little to illuminate our booth.

‘Good afternoon, Charles,’ was how I cheerily announced my arrival. Prior to leaving my rooms I had dived into my
Lancet
in an effort to discover Stamford’s forename and I was keen to surprise him with its use. His chair had been
turned away from the door and towards the fire, so therefore, when he failed to respond to this greeting, I reasonably assumed that its warmth had lulled him to sleep. I now repeated my greeting whilst raising my voice. To my consternation there was still no response from Stamford and so I raced around the table and there found his lifeless form slumped in his chair, softly lit by the glow of the flickering flames.

It was in vain that I called his name once more and I stood before him, demanding a display of life. There would be none. I remained still, as if frozen to the spot, in a state of utter incomprehension. Thankfully my years of professional training and experience then overcame my initial shock and I checked his pulse and searched for the cause of death. This was not hard to find, for the crown of his head had received a massive blow from a large blunt object which had cracked the skull, caused internal bleeding and, therefore, instantaneous death.

Before raising the alarm I decided to rationalize this calamitous event in my mind, perhaps employing Holmes’s method in my own inadequate fashion.

The blood that rimmed the gaping wound was still moist, so I deduced that the ghastly deed had occurred shortly before my arrival. Evidently all had been well when the footman had settled Stamford into the booth, so therefore I assumed that the murderer must have acted on impulse without having prior knowledge of when we were scheduled to meet. As to whether the murderer had intended to implicate me I could not tell, nor would I be able to until I had questioned the footman. I summoned him at once and noted that he was at least as shocked as I had been at this awful discovery. I asked him how long Stamford had been waiting
for me, and when he informed me that it had been for no more than ten minutes I realized just how bold the murderer had been.

I dispatched the aged servant to summon the police and then froze at the thought of how Lestrade or perhaps Bradstreet would view me in a situation so compromised. While I awaited the arrival of the authorities, I speculated that the murderer was undoubtedly a club member as I knew, only too well, how rigidly the Holborn managed their membership. The footman then returned to inform me that the arrival of the police was imminent and I thought it prudent to ensure that no one was allowed to leave the building before they came. My pulse quickened when he also informed me that there were no more than a dozen members taking lunch there that day and that none had departed since Stamford’s arrival. The culprit was still in the building!

A few moments later the detective who had been put in charge of the investigation strode into the room, flanked by two constables. My relief upon realizing that the investigation was to be undertaken by neither Lestrade nor Bradstreet was to be short-lived. Inspector Daley spoke with a broad Ulster accent and was evidently recently arrived from a rural constabulary, for his attire had not yet been urbanized.

Inspector Daley was a tall, broad-set man in his early forties whose ruddy pallor told of long days spent out of doors and long evenings spent within the confines of his local saloon. His suit and matching waistcoat were made of a colourful broad check tweed, his shoes were a full tan brogue, seldom seen in town nowadays. His hat, which he had promptly removed upon entering, was a green woollen
thing with an absurd feather adorning its rim. Before addressing me he eyed me long and quizzically, his raised eyebrows almost touching his red tousled fringe!

‘So, I understand that you are the inventive scribe for the infamous Sherlock Holmes,’ Daley began, somewhat sarcastically.

‘If you are suggesting that I am the chronicler of the world’s foremost amateur detective, then I can confirm that I do, indeed, have that honour!’ I responded indignantly. ‘If you had researched your facts thoroughly you would have discovered that during the last three months alone, Mr Holmes has successfully closed eighteen of the Yard’s open files and that he has received his due recognition on but one occasion. Even then, it was only the involvement of the press that brought Holmes’s name to the fore.’

Daley glanced towards his constables who gravely nodded their confirmation. ‘Right, so …’ Daley tried to cover his embarrassment by rubbing his face roughly with his broad fingers.

‘Right, so what have we here?’ Daley’s question was redundant, for he was already standing over the body. ‘Quite a blow, would you not say, Doctor?’

‘As you say, quite a blow, but more significantly delivered to the exact spot where it would do the most damage,’ I suggested.

‘Ah, so you are implying that the murderer might possess some medical knowledge?’ Daley asked, still rubbing his forehead.

‘Either that or incredible luck. As you can see the victim has only received a single blow. Quite often in these cases it requires multiple blows to bring about instantaneous death. However, I am certain that you do not require me to
tell you this!’ I added maliciously, for I had still not forgiven Daley for his slight on Holmes.

‘No, no of course not. Now, to business.’ Daley cleared his throat and whilst withdrawing his notebook and pencil from his inside pocket.

‘What was your exact purpose in meeting the victim here this afternoon?’ he asked. Despite his abrasive manner and the somewhat uncertain beginning to our interview, I began to realize that there was more to Daley than met the eye. Upon hearing of my friendship with Stamford and the nature of our proposed meeting, he immediately summoned the footman to confirm the time of my arrival and that of Stamford. He then dispatched him to obtain a list of those members still present within the building.

The footman’s evidence had surely convinced Daley of my innocence, and his manner visibly relaxed towards me. It was then, whilst we were awaiting the list that we both noticed the strange-looking crutch sitting unobtrusively in a corner of the room.

In a state of excitement Daley raced over to grab the unusual object and would surely have done so had I not cautioned him.

‘Inspector!’ I called. ‘It might be best to examine it before we obscure any possible clues with our bare hands.’

Daley glared at me quizzically for a moment, but then relented and stood away from the crutch. ‘Right you are, Doctor. See here now, there appear to be traces of blood down this side.’ As he pointed, I smiled at how deliberately he refrained from touching it.

I bent down to join Daley and observed that there was little in the way of indentation in evidence. I voiced my surprise at this. ‘It is most unusual when you consider the
crushing blow that poor Stamford’s head has received.’ Daley nodded gravely in agreement, but he appeared to be as puzzled as I was at this discovery.

Our perplexity was increased further when the list of a dozen names eventually arrived, for there was not one name upon it that I could associate with Stamford nor one that was prefixed with ‘Doctor.’

Daley laid the list down thoughtfully upon the diningtable and lit his gnarled old pipe whilst I lit a cigarette and we both stared down at the names, hoping for inspiration, but in vain. Slowly Daley turned his head towards me and then, somewhat sheepishly he suggested: ‘I suppose this is the kind of problem that might inspire your friend Mr Sherlock Holmes?’

‘Very likely it is; however nobody seems to know his precise whereabouts.’ I then decided to put Daley out of his misery.

‘I suppose,’ I continued slowly, ‘that should you decide to dispense with my services for now, I might discover more about Holmes’s whereabouts once I return to our rooms in Baker Street. I am certain that were he to be presented with the unusual set of facts now facing us, it would not be difficult to entice him to come here.’

‘Oh, but you are a fine fellow, Dr Watson. It would be grand if you could,’ Daley responded, his mood visibly lightening. ‘In your absence my men here and I will begin interviewing the remaining members. Who knows, I may have something to report upon your return!’

‘Who knows?’ I repeated quietly as I took my leave, although reserving my own private doubts.

I was much relieved at finding my friend’s coat and hat once again, adorning their customary hook in the entrance
hallway and I raced up the stairs in eager anticipation. However my excitement upon making this discovery, was soon quenched by the sight of Holmes’s exhausted form lying, dishevelled, across our settee! Obviously his recent exertions had left him spent and I was certain that it would be many hours before he might be disturbed.

It was not unusual to find Holmes so incommoded. Whenever he sensed the conclusion of a difficult case, or realized the urgency of tracking down an elusive clue, his energy and willingness to extend himself knew no bounds. On this occasion, however, his indisposition presented me with something of a dilemma, for I did not feel that I could rely on Daley to detain the witnesses long enough for Holmes to be able to examine them, I decided that to await Holmes’s return to consciousness would be to waste valuable time. So I instructed Mrs Hudson to direct Holmes to the Holborn with all urgency should he awaken before my return. Then I hailed a cab to the same destination.

Daley’s forlorn demeanour led me to deduce, correctly, that his interrogations had borne little or no fruit. Distraught would be an accurate description of his expression once he had realized that I had returned to the Holborn alone. I hurriedly explained the reason for Holmes’s absence, although this was of little consolation to the despondent Inspector.

‘Oh dear, upon my word this is a puzzle to be sure, Doctor. Nobody here seems to have heard of the late Stamford, much less to have borne a grudge against him.’ Daley shook his head slowly.

‘Well, they would hardly admit as much under the circumstances, now would they?’ I suggested, somewhat impatiently.

‘Now, now Watson, I am sure that the good Inspector is doing his best.’

With a sense of relief that I could hardly suppress I turned to find my friend standing in the doorway, looking as fresh and alert as if he had remained on that settee for a further ten hours.

‘Well, upon my word!’ I exclaimed.

‘Watson, if you had wished me to remain undisturbed, you might not have stomped around our rooms like a wild herd of water buffalo. A keenly trained mind, albeit an unconscious one, is always alert to the slightest disturbance of any significance. Mrs Hudson had me on the road here in next to no time!’