The Secret Notebooks of Sherlock Holmes (15 page)

At this point, Corbett broke off his account and stared fixedly down at his huge hands, which he was kneading together as if trying to squeeze the life out of them. Then just as suddenly, he lifted his head and looked directly at Holmes.

‘He was still alive, sir!’

‘Are you sure?’ Holmes asked sharply.

‘As sure as I’m sitting here. I felt his chest rise and fall under my hand. I looked across at Chafer, who was standing by the rail ready to give the order to throw
Billy overboard. He looked back at me, Mr Holmes, and he knew, sir! Oh, yes, he
knew
all right! He stared me straight in the eyes and then he drew one finger across his throat, meaning “I’ll kill you if you don’t keep your mouth shut.”’

‘About Wheeler still being alive?’

Without speaking, Corbett nodded his head in agreement. Then, swallowing hard, he continued, ‘The next second, Chafer looked away to give the order and Billy had gone overboard. It all happened so quickly, Mr Holmes, I didn’t get a chance to stop them.’

A terrible silence fell over the three of us as we pictured the scene, Holmes and I in our imaginations, Thomas Corbett all too vividly in his memory.

Then Corbett continued in a husky voice, ‘I’ve thought of what we did that day thousands of times since and gone over and over in my mind what I could or should have done. I’ve tried telling myself that, if we’d kept him aboard, he wouldn’t have lived. The injuries to his head were too severe. He’d’ve died sooner or later. But thinking that don’t make it any better. The truth is, sir, we committed murder and it’s been lying on my conscience ever since like a stone. That’s why I’ve come to you, Mr Holmes. I can’t bear the burden no longer and I want you to ease my soul by reporting what happened to whoever needs to be told. I’m willing to make a full confession and take whatever punishment the law thinks fit for me.’

‘That is highly commendable of you but it is easier
said than done, Mr Corbett.’ Holmes said in a brisk, matter-of-fact manner which I thought a little brusque under the circumstances, although Corbett seemed to accept my old friend’s comment, for he lowered his grizzled head in a humble, compliant manner.

‘I’m in your hands, sir,’ he said in a low voice.

Holmes took a turn or two up and down the room, deep in thought, eyes lowered and arms folded tightly across his chest. Then, spinning round, he confronted Corbett, his mind clearly made up.

‘Before I go any further with this matter,’ said he, ‘first let me establish the facts of the case and, in order to do that, I need to learn from you what happened after Billy Wheeler was put overboard. You continued on your way, I assume?’

‘Yes, we did, Mr Holmes. Once we were clear of Duncraig, we threw some debris into the sea – bits of wood, some rope, a lifebelt with the name
Sophy Anderson
painted on it – so that anyone finding it would think the vessel had gone down with all hands. Then we set course for Rotterdam. We had all the necessary papers to show the officials there, for the McNeil brothers had already registered the ship as the
Lucy Belle
with a shipping company based in Panama. No one questioned the papers. The McNeils had already set up a buyer in Rotterdam for the nitrate we were carrying, so we unloaded it and took on a cargo of coal which they’d also arranged in advance. We then set sail for Bergen where we sold the coal and
took on another cargo. And so it went on for the next three years, going to and fro between the Baltic and the Dutch ports where we’d never traded before and where the crew was not known, as well as the Far East where we were likewise strangers.

‘In the meantime, a passenger ship had picked up the debris we had thrown overboard and the
Sophy Anderson
was duly posted missing by Lloyds, presumably lost at sea with all hands. Later, the insurance money was paid out and all seemed sealed and settled but I couldn’t put it out of my mind. In fact, Mr Holmes, as the years have gone by, it’s got worse, not better.’

‘And where is the
Lucy Belle
now?’

‘In the Port of London. We were on our way from Bremen to Shanghai when one of the crew fell down a companionway and broke his leg and we had to put in there to get him to a doctor. Chafer went off to find a replacement for him and I took him by cab to the London hospital in the Mile End Road. While I was there, I got talking to one of the porters and, without telling him what it was all about, I asked him if he knew of a detective, not a policeman, who could look into a private matter for me. It was him who mentioned your name. “Go and see Mr Holmes,” said he “at 221B Baker Street. He’s the best in the business.”

‘Indeed!’ murmured Holmes, raising his eyebrows. ‘A hospital porter, your said? Was his name Reynolds, by any chance?’

Corbett looked abashed.

‘I didn’t ask his name, I’m afraid, Mr Holmes, but he was a little man with as much hair on his head as a billiard ball.’

Holmes threw back his head and laughed heartily at this description.

‘Excellent, Mr Corbett! You have caught Reynolds exactly!’ Seeing my baffled expression, he turned briefly to me in explanation. ‘I met Reynolds two years ago. A lady, a Mrs Dawlish, wanted me to find her husband who was missing. To cut a very long story short, I found him in the London hospital, thanks to Reynolds’ co-operation. The man had been knocked down by a hansom and had lost his memory temporarily as a result of head injuries.’

Turning back to his client, he added, ‘Pray continue, Mr Corbett.’

‘There is not much more to tell, sir,’ he replied. ‘I took a cab straight here from the hospital to ask for your help. There may not be much time to spare, Mr Holmes. At this very minute, Chafer is looking about for a new crewman to replace the one who’s broken his leg. It’s his intention to sail early tomorrow morning with the high tide. If it’s possible, I’d like to have this business settled before we leave. God knows when we’ll be back in London. Perhaps never.’

‘I take your point, Mr Corbett,’ Holmes said gravely. ‘But before I agree to act in this matter, I must explain the serious nature of the situation. We are dealing here with murder on the part of Chafer, the ship’s captain,
for, if your account is correct, and I assume it is, then he gave the order for Billy Wheeler to be thrown overboard knowing he was still alive. Then there is the part played by those members of the crew who attacked the young man, against whom charges of grievous bodily harm could be brought. In addition, there is the question of your own responsibility in the affair. Supposing the case came to court with you as witness against Chafer? A clever counsel could argue that you, too, knew Wheeler was alive and yet did nothing to prevent his death by drowning.’

‘I had no chance, Mr Holmes!’ Corbett broke in, the sweat standing out on his brow. ‘On my oath, he was thrown over the rail before I could stop it from happening!’

‘On your oath!’ Holmes repeated. ‘That is another important point to consider, Mr Corbett, before you decide to take action. It is your word against Chafer’s that Wheeler was still alive. There are no other witnesses to that fact. Chafer, who is obviously no fool, will swear to the contrary – should a trial be held – that when he felt for the carotid artery in Wheeler’s neck, there was no pulse. The man was undoubtedly dead. Who is a jury most likely to believe, you or Chafer? Are you prepared to take that risk? For whatever way the decision goes, you are certain to suffer. If the vote goes against Chafer, then it is murder in which you are implicated. And if the verdict goes the other way, then you could be charged with perjury and, even if it does
not come to that, your reputation will be ruined. What shipping company would be willing to take you on as mate when the imputation is you lied on oath against a senior officer? Apart from all that, there is matter of the insurance fraud in which every one of you is involved. Have you thought of that?’

As Holmes put the question, I saw Corbett’s right hand make a small, involuntary movement towards his chest as if, by physically reaching for the region of his heart, he wanted to reassure himself that the decision he was about to make was the right one, despite the strain it would cause him, an action which confirmed my earlier supposition that the man was suffering from some chronic, and possibly life-threatening, cardiac condition. His reply was a further ratification, if any were needed.

‘Mr Holmes,’ said he in the tone of a man who has come to a decision, ‘I’ve carried this burden for nigh on four years and I have no wish to go to my grave with it still on my conscience. Whatever the outcome, I want the truth known at last.’

‘Very well, Mr Corbett!’ Holmes replied, his voice as resolute and vigorous as his client’s. ‘Then there is only one problem left to be solved.’

‘And what is that?’ Corbett asked.

‘The matter of proving Chafer’s guilt. As I have already pointed out, it is a question of your word against Chafer’s as to whether or not Wheeler was still alive when he was thrown overboard. From what you have told me about
the captain, I doubt very much if he would ever confess the truth of his own volition. What is needed therefore is a witness who is prepared to support your account of the events on board the
Sophy Anderson
the day Wheeler was murdered. Is there any among the crew who was present on deck and saw what happened?’

Corbett was silent for a moment, rubbing his chin.

‘Well, there’s Harry Deakin, the ship’s cook,’ he said at last. ‘He was there at the time.’

‘He saw the attack on Wheeler?’ Holmes asked sharply.

‘He did, sir. In fact, he tried to stop it but he was outnumbered.’

‘And he was there when Wheeler’s body was wrapped in the canvas?’

‘He was, sir.’

‘And saw you put the St Christopher on Wheeler’s chest?’

‘Aye. He helped me fold the canvas back so that I could get my hand in. And I’m pretty sure he saw Chafer make that cutting motion across his throat because, after he made it, Deakin looked hard at me as if to ask what was going on. But nothing was said either then or later.’

‘No matter. If Deakin would be willing to make a statement, that would be enough corroboration to persuade a jury you are telling the truth. Is Deakin still on board the ship?’

‘Aye, he is, Mr Holmes.’

‘Could he be persuaded to speak up for you in court if need be?’

Corbett looked doubtful.

‘I wouldn’t like to swear to that, Mr Holmes. Deakin likes a quiet life and he’s afraid of anyone in authority. If it came to choosing between me and Chafer, he’d be more inclined to pick the captain or, at best, refuse to say anything.’

‘Then he must be forced to speak up on your behalf,’ Holmes replied.

‘But how?’ Corbett asked with a hopeless air.

Without replying, Holmes got to his feet and strode up and down the room several times, before swinging back to face Corbett.

‘Who has left the crew since Wheeler’s murder, preferably someone who is himself dead?’ he demanded.

Corbett seemed bewildered by the question.

‘Well, there’s Tommy Brewster, a deck-hand. He was killed when he fell from the rigging last February on a voyage to …’

‘Never mind the details. Was the man literate?’

‘Literate?’ Corbett stammered, his bewilderment increasing.

‘Could he read and write?’

‘Aye, sir. He could.’

‘Splendid!’ Holmes exclaimed, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. ‘Now only one problem remains. Can you arrange for Dr Watson and myself to come aboard the
Lucy Belle
without arousing any suspicion?’

‘Yes, I could, sir, provided it’s after dark. If you could get yourselves up to look like seamen and make
your way to Picott’s Wharf in St Katherine’s dock by ten o’clock tonight, I’ll be on deck with a lantern. I’ll wave it three times when the coast is clear for you to come up the gang-plank. Is there anything else I can do?’

‘Yes. Make sure Deakin is on board. Perhaps you could also arrange for a cabin to be available for Dr Watson and myself, equipped with paper, pen and ink. And now, Mr Corbett, I wish you good morning. We shall meet again at ten o’clock.’

‘But your plan …?’ Corbett began as he rose to his feet. However, his protest was to no avail. Shaking hands firmly with him, Holmes conducted him to the door.

‘Yes, what
is
your plan, Holmes?’ I asked when he had returned to his chair.

But I fared no better than his client.

‘You will find out tonight, my dear fellow,’ he replied with a smile. ‘All I will tell you for the moment is that what I propose using is one of the oldest tricks in the world and, if Harry Deakin is deceived by it, as I have every reason to suppose he will be, then we will have a witness to testify to all that Corbett has told us. I suggest you call here again at nine o’clock tonight. And, by the way, make sure you bring your revolver.’

And with that, he picked up the
Morning Post
and, giving it a shake, retired behind its open pages.

Feeling dismissed, I, too, left the house to return to Paddington, where I was kept busy for the rest of the day with my medical duties. Although the practice was not yet a large one, having been neglected by the previous
owner,
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I was determined by sheer diligence and hard work to make a success of it.

However, despite my professional preoccupations, whenever I had a spare moment my thoughts turned to Holmes’ parting remarks. What was this trick he had mentioned, I wondered. And why was he so sure it would deceive Harry Deakin, whom he had never met?

I also had certain arrangements of my own to make with regard to the coming appointment with Holmes later that evening. Without wishing to alarm my wife unnecessarily, I did not speak of his advice to bring my revolver with me but mentioned only an inquiry in which he had asked me to take part. My dear Mary, the most generous and understanding of women, raised no objections. In fact, she urged me to go.

‘You deserve a change,’ she said. ‘You have been working far too hard recently and are looking quite pale. An evening spent with your old friend will do you the world of good.’

The only other person who had to be consulted was my neighbour Jackson,
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a fellow doctor, with whom
I had a reciprocal arrangement to act as locum should the need arise. Having gained his agreement to be on call that evening, I set off by cab for Baker Street, my heart beating high at the prospect of the adventure to come. For, although I was happily married and would not have changed my life for all the money in the world, I must confess that there were times when I missed that tingle of excitement which taking part in any of Holmes’ investigations always roused in me. Part of it was the intellectual stimulation of such occasions but mostly it was the thrill of the physical challenge which stirred the blood, and I could not help smiling as I felt the comfortable weight in my pocket of my army revolver, a relic of my days in Afghanistan serving with the 66th Berkshire Regiment of Foot.
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