The Speculative Short Stories of Barbara Paul, page 31
"Ah." He said no more but led the way upstairs.
Our visitor was very young... not more than eighteen, I would venture. And she had indeed been crying, normally a fact to make Holmes impatient rather than sympathetic. But the holiday season was still upon him; he spoke to her gently and offered refreshment, which she declined.
"I don't know whether you can help me or not, Mr. Holmes," she said in an anguished voice. "But I am in desperate need of advice and I have no one to turn to."
"No father or mother? No other relative?"
"None. My mother died when I was a child, and my poor father met with an unfortunate accident not two months hence. There are no others, except my fiancé, and he... he is part of the problem for which I seek advice."
I said, "Perhaps you would tell us your name."
"Oh! Forgive me. My name is Amy Stoddard. I still live in my father's house in Bayswater Road."
"Your father was an importer of spices?" Holmes asked. "And you assisted in the business—perhaps in keeping the accounts? Or in sending out the bills?"
Her eyes grew large with astonishment. "How ever did you know that, Mr. Holmes?"
"I detected a slight scent of cinnamon when I first entered the room," he answered in an offhand manner. "And the middle finger of your right hand has a callus at the point where one normally grips a pen—a more pronounced callus than can be accounted for by the writing out of school exercises."
"I copied all my father's correspondence for him, as well as sending out the bills." She smiled sadly. "I was the only one who could read his handwriting."
"Well, now. Suppose you tell us the problem for which you seek advice and the part your fiancé plays in it. First, what is his name?"
"Thomas Wickham. He is the youngest son of a viscount who incurred his family's displeasure by going into trade. My father met him through the Paddington Merchants Association. They were to work together on the Christmas Charities Fund until. . . until my father..."
"So it was your father who introduced you," Holmes interjected quickly, not revealing by so much as a twitch of the eyelid that this was the second mention of the Christmas Charities Fund we'd heard that day.
"Yes. As my husband, Thomas will oversee the operation of my father's business, as soon as certain legal matters are attended to. But it is not about the importing of spices that I consult you, Mr. Holmes. It concerns a totally unrelated matter."
"Proceed."
Miss Stoddard paused a moment to gather her thoughts. "Last week Mr. John Fulham, a friend of my father's, took me to see Sir Henry Irving's new play at the Lyceum Theatre. As we were leaving at the end of the performance, we encountered purely by chance Thomas's business partner, Etienne Piaget. I introduced him to Mr. Fulham, and then Monsieur Piaget said a most remarkable thing. He expressed regrets that I would not be able to spend Christmas with my fiancé.
"I asked him whatever did he mean? I was planning a Christmas Eve dinner for Thomas and some friends, and Thomas had been helping me with the arrangements. Mr. Fulham spoke up and said that was quite true, that he had received his invitation two days earlier." She paused. "Then an expression came over Monsieur Piaget's face that I can describe only as the look a Frenchman gets when he realizes he's committed an inexcusable faux pas."
"Aha!" Holmes exclaimed. "I know that look."
"He was quite embarrassed," the young woman said. "He murmured something about being mistaken, that he only thought he saw a ticket for passage on the Mary Small for the twenty-third of the month. It had to be something else he'd seen lying on Thomas's desk. He started bowing and backing away—the poor man practically fled."
"Tell me, Miss Stoddard," Holmes asked, "what business do Mr. Wickham and Monsieur Piaget pursue?"
"They are wine merchants. Monsieur Piaget buys the wines in France, and Thomas administers the London side of the business."
"I see. Pray continue. You asked your affianced about the ticket for passage on the Mary Small?"
"I did. He was astonished. Thomas said he could not imagine what was on his desk that his partner should mistake for a steamship ticket."
"A simple error, surely," I offered. "Not a cause for concern."
"Ah, but, Watson," Holmes said, "Miss Stoddard has not finished her story—am I correct?"
"You are." She paused. "Earlier today Thomas called at my house. At my request, he has been looking through my father's papers, searching for any unfinished business that should be seen to. He'd come across the draft of a letter that he could not read— I believe I mentioned my father's penmanship did not measure up to normal standards. The letter simply requested a change of shipping dates for a consignment of ginger and other spices, an ordinary commercial transaction.
"Thomas laughed when I finished reading him the letter, amused that I could decipher what no one else could. Then he said, 'You can read a dreadful scrawl that's fully illegible to the rest of us, but can you write it? Have you ever tried imitating such an idiosyncratic hand?'
"I had, in fact, done just that upon several occasions. Once I left a note for my father in 'his' handwriting, to tease him... and he later complained he couldn't read a word! When Thomas heard that, he wanted to see a demonstration. He took a paper out of his pocket and asked me to copy it in my father's handwriting. I did, and Thomas was so pleased with the result that he took the copy with him to show to Monsieur Piaget. He left the original behind."
Our visitor took out a folded piece of foolscap. "It was only later that I began to wonder about the nature of what I had copied." She handed the paper to Holmes. "Please tell me what you think."
I joined Holmes at the window and we both read the passage Wickham had given his fiancée to copy. It was brief, only two sentences:
It is my intent that the governance of my affairs be placed in the hands of one who is most qualified to oversee them. Determining who that person is has occupied much of my attention during the past year.
"Your father left a will?" Holmes asked sharply.
"Yes, and I am to inherit all."
Holmes flicked the paper with a long forefinger. "Is this Thomas Wickham's handwriting?"
"No, that writing is unfamiliar to me."
"Quite possibly because a deliberate attempt has been made to disguise it. Look here, Watson." He pointed to the word my. "See the large loop beneath the line of writing for the letter^? And here in the g and the p? Yet twice—here, and here—there is only a straight descending line instead of the large loop. There's a similar inconsistency in the way the letter r is written... wide and square in most places, but narrow and ill formed in the words during and year. This letter was written by an inexperienced forger, I daresay."
"But... but why?" I asked. "This is no legal document." I looked to Amy Stoddard. "Did you sign your father's name to the copy?" She said no. "Then how can this be a threat to her inheritance, Holmes?"
"Yes, how? That is the question we must endeavor to answer. Miss Stoddard, have you told anyone of your suspicions?"
"No, no one."
"Not even Mr. John Fulham?"
"Mr. Fulham was my father's friend. I felt I needed the advice of an impartial listener."
"A wise conclusion. Continue to maintain your silence until I speak to you again." Holmes walked across the room to pick up a small leather writing desk to be held on the lap; he handed it to our visitor. "Beneath the hinged lid you will find pen and paper," he said as he removed the cap of the inkwell. "I want you to write the addresses of yourself, your fiancé, Monsieur Piaget, and Mr. John Fulham. Business addresses as well as residential, if you please."
"I believe Monsieur Piaget stops at a hotel when he is in London," she said, "but I fear I don't know which one."
"Very well, only the business address for him."
I moved over to stand behind Amy Stoddard as she bent to her task. Her handwriting was a graceful, well-formed calligraphy, attaining a level of elegance without resorting to curlicues or other forms of gaudy ornamentation. It was not difficult to understand why her father had wanted her to copy his correspondence.
I could see that Holmes too appreciated the beauty of her penmanship when she handed him her list of addresses. "What should I do, Mr. Holmes?" she asked. "I pray that my suspicions of Thomas are without valid foundation, but the two circumstances of the steamship ticket and the wording of that passage have been some cause of alarm to me. Am I being unjust to Thomas?"
"I hope to have the answer to that before too many more days have passed. Miss Stoddard. For now, I advise you to remain at home with the doors locked. Invent some pretext for not seeing Mr. Wickham until next we speak. And make certain the servants are instructed not to admit him to the house."
Her mouth trembled. "Do you think I am in danger?"
"I think that is quite likely. Return home immediately, and do not leave until I call on you." He noticed how shaken she was and added, "Miss Stoddard, we will get to the bottom of this matter. That I promise you."
Slightly reassured, she bid us a faint-voiced farewell. I accompanied her to the street and secured a cab for her; when I returned, Holmes was standing by the fireplace lighting his pipe. "Well, Holmes, what do you make of that?"
"Tell me your impression," he countered.
I shrugged. "A young, vulnerable heiress, alone in the world... easy prey for an unscrupulous suitor."
"And yet her father approved the marriage."
"Fathers have made mistakes before." I warmed my hands at the fire. "This Wickham sounds like a rascal of the first order."
"He does indeed. But what a curious course of action he has chosen to pursue." Holmes sat down in one of the armchairs by the fireplace. "The penniless youngest son of a viscount so desirous of obtaining money that he is willing to alienate his family over the issue. He goes into a respectable trade. He courts and wins the hand of an attractive young heiress." Holmes pointed his pipe at me. "Why not stop there? He has what he wants. Why proceed with this deception of the disguised handwriting? And why book passage on the Mary Small? Unless Piaget truly was mistaken."
I took the other armchair. "Perhaps something happened that forced him to change his plans."
"Quite possibly. But let us proceed with caution, Watson. We know none of these people—a circumstance we set out to rectify early tomorrow morning. We will begin, I think, by inspecting the business premises of Wickham and Piaget, Wine Merchants."
As it turned out, we did not begin with Wickham and Piaget after all. My earache had returned in a most raging intensity; and after a near-sleepless night I arose early and dressed. I had carelessly failed to replace my special mixture of oils and medicinal herbs that I have found to be the most efficacious treatment of otalgia.
"You are going out before we have breakfasted?" Holmes asked in surprise.
"Just to Crawford Street," I replied. "I need to pay our Mr. Curtis a visit."
Holmes understood immediately. "Oh, my dear fellow! The walk to Chatterby's brought back your earache! And I insisted... I am responsible for your discomfort!"
"Nonsense, Holmes. I could have refused to walk. I did not."
"Sit down, Watson. No, no argument! I will go to Mr. Curtis's establishment and procure your medication myself. Do not protest so, Watson. I am going, and that's the end of the matter." He hurried off to his room to dress.
I sank down gratefully into my chair by the fire. Damned decent of Holmes, when it was my own fault for not refilling my prescription. Physician, heal thyself indeed.
Holmes was gone in a trice, and soon after there came a knock at the door. It was Mrs. Hudson, with a tray.
"Mr. Holmes said he would eat shortly, but I was to bring you your breakfast straightaway," she informed me.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I said as she put down the tray. "Bananas and cream? Wherever did you find ripe bananas this time of year?"
"Oh, they ripen on the boat, Dr. Watson. We should be having bananas all year round now, the greengrocer tells me. Some new trade agreement with one of those places in South America."
What excellent news. When she'd gone I poured my first cup of tea of the day and immediately began to feel better. The bananas and cream were a delicious accompaniment to the porridge, the only proper meal with which to begin a cold winter day. Kippers and kidneys are all very well, but they don't coat the stomach lining the way a good bowl of porridge does.
I was just finishing my third cup of tea when Mrs. Hudson once again appeared at the door. "It's one of them," she said with disapproval. "Urgent, he says."
I knew whom she meant. "Send him in."
In came one of the street urchins Holmes frequently employed as errand runners and observers. This one was unfamiliar to me. "Mr. Holmes is not here," I said.
"It was Mr. Holmes wot sent me," the lad replied. "He says you're to come quick like, 'cause Mr. Curtis, the chemist—somebody's done murdered him."
"Good heavens!" I cried, rising hastily. Mr. Curtis, murdered? I found a tuppence piece in my pocket and gave it to the boy. "Run along, now."
"Thankee, gov'nor," he said with a big grin. He started to leave but stopped. "Ow, I'm forgetting." He pulled a small package out from under his jacket. "Mr. Holmes says give you this."
It was my earache medicine. I shooed the boy out and warmed the oil at the fireplace before doctoring myself. I stuffed my ear with a piece of cotton batting, wrapped my muffler over my head, and set out for Mr. Curtis's shop. I was halfway to Crawford Street before it occurred to me to wonder how Holmes was able to have my prescription made up when the chemist lay dead.
The entrance to the shop was barred by a burly peeler until Inspector Lestrade appeared and instructed him to let me in. "How did it happen, Lestrade?" I asked. "Could it have been self-inflicted?"
"He was shot, Doctor. And it can't have been suicide, because there's no gun to be found."
Conclusive. "Who found his body?"
"His clerk, who summoned us. We arrived only a few moments before Mr. Holmes came strolling in."
"Watson," Holmes called from where he was standing by the body, "come take a look, will you?"
Curtis lay on the floor not behind his counter, but sprawled in front of a display of dental hygiene appliances. I knelt beside his body and examined the two bullet wounds, one in his chest and one in his head. "Small-bore pistol," I said. "Someone wanted to make sure he was dead. Either shot was enough to kill him."
"The chest shot?" Holmes asked.
"Without a post-mortem dissection, I can't be positive. But it looks to me as if the bullet penetrated the heart."
Holmes nodded, satisfied. "You've questioned the clerk, Lestrade?"
"As well as I could," the policeman said. "He's too shocked to make much sense. Look at him."
We all looked over to where the clerk stood huddled in the corner, guarded by another peeler. He was shaking, and his mouth was moving soundlessly. His eyes travelled everywhere except to the body on the floor.
"Nevertheless, we must try," Holmes said. The three of us approached the cowering clerk, who shrank even farther into his corner. "What's his name?"
"Grimes," said Lestrade.
"Come, Grimes, you must pull yourself together," Holmes said briskly. 'Tour employer has been murdered this dark day, and we need to ask you questions."
"I didn't kill him!" the clerk blurted out.
"Of course you didn't," Holmes replied in a matter-of-fact tone. "Has anyone accused you?"
"Not yet." Grimes glared at Lestrade. "But they will."
Lestrade scowled. "Why do you say that?"
"Because you will find out... I am telling you now, so you can't say I tried to keep it from you."
"Keep what from us?"
The clerk swallowed hard and muttered, "Four years in Newgate Prison. For thieving. Mr. Curtis was the only one who was willing to give me a chance at an honest job. He said I was quick to learn and I kept myself clean, and if the till ever came up short he'd box my ears for me! But it never did. I never stole from Mr. Curtis, not in all the six years I've been working here. And I didn't kill him! Why would I kill the only man who's ever been decent to me?"
"Why indeed," Holmes murmured. "Now, my good man, no one is going to haul you back to Newgate Prison. But perhaps you can help us find the killer."
Grimes looked puzzled. "How?"
"Tell us first of all if Curtis had any personal enemies."
The clerk shook his head vigorously. "Not Mr. Curtis, no, sir. He was one of them people that everybody likes."
"The very impression I had of him," Holmes remarked. "What about business rivals?"
"None that I know of. We're the only chemist's shop hereabouts."
"And the business itself? Prospering?"
"Oh, yes, sir, doing very well. Mr. Curtis, he gave me a rise just last month."
"And was your employer worried about anything these past few weeks?"
Grimes squinted his eyes and stuck his tongue in the corner of his mouth, thinking back. "If he was, he kept it to hisself. He seemed the same as usual to me."
"No more than I expected," Holmes said with something like a sigh. "Thank you, Grimes... you've been most helpful."
The three of us left him and stepped outside into the cold sunshine. Lestrade jerked his head back toward the shop. "What about that Grimes, Mr. Holmes? What do you think?"
"Oh, the man is clearly innocent," Holmes replied indifferently. "You would be much better advised to direct your investigations toward the Paddington Merchants Association and, more specifically, to their Christmas Charities Fund."
"I gave to that Fund," Lestrade commented, surprised. "What about it?"
"Curtis suspected that someone was stealing from the Fund, or perhaps was planning to abscond with the entire account. I have no details to give you, but perhaps Curtis confided his suspicions to someone else. Was he married?"
"Eh? Er, yes, he was married."
"Then Mrs. Curtis would seem the logical person to ask first, would she not? Once she has had sufficient opportunity to absorb the shock of her husband's untimely death."
