The Tangled Skein, page 6
Climbing the familiar seventeen steps up to our rooms, I could not help smiling at the thought of seeing my friend’s face when I told him what I knew. My smile vanished when I opened the door, for there, seated by the fire in the wicker chair, was a well-dressed, grey-haired man of some sixty years. He wore a heavy walrus moustache, and his monocle twinkled in the firelight.
Chapter Nine – A Bizarre Crime
As I entered, the man looked up. On seeing me, his face creased into a smile, causing the monocle to drop from his eye. ‘Good morning, Doctor Watson,’ the fellow said, in a friendly and effusive fashion. He raised an arm and beckoned me forward. ‘Come and take a seat by the fire and warm yourself, my dear fellow; it is still bitterly cold out.
The voice was unmistakably that of Sherlock Holmes, but the appearance betrayed not one hint of this fact.
I had seen my friend adopt a clever disguise many times, but none, I think, so totally deceiving as the one he now wore. Although the voice was amiable and familiar, the face from which it emerged bore none of the identifying characteristics of the lean and ascetic Sherlock Holmes of my acquaintance. Luxuriant grey hair fell casually over the forehead, while a large drooping moustache and full cheeks had changed the shape of his face completely, shortening the head and broadening the gaunt features. His fine, aquiline nose had been altered in such a way that it now appeared to be quite short, with a bulbous tip. This effect was accompanied by a series of deep-set lines about the eyes, and a ruddy complexion successfully completed the ageing process. It was a transformation of which even the great Irving (*) himself would have been proud.
It was only when I recovered from my amazement at this brilliant disguise, that it dawned on me that the mystery man in whose wake I had followed all morning was Holmes himself. My surprise was replaced by anger.
‘Sorry to shock you like this, Watson, but as you are no doubt aware, I have been busy making enquiries.’
‘What happened to the good night’s sleep?’ I snapped.
‘I obtained sufficient sleep for my needs,’ he replied somewhat lamely.
‘You led me to believe that you had no intention of making any further moves in this case until the morning.’
‘It is already morning.’
‘I feel cheated, Holmes. You might have let me in on your plans. You treat me as though you do not trust me.’
‘My dear Watson, I assure you that I have every faith in you. I beg that you will forgive me if I seemed to play a trick on you, but in truth I did it for your own sake, as well as that of the case.’ While he spoke he sat before a mirror at his desk and began to remove the disguise. ‘I knew that if I made enquiries in the persona of Sherlock Holmes, Stapleton would soon get wind of it, thus placing the girl in even greater danger. Hence the old family friend.’ He threw up his arms in a dramatic gesture. ‘You needed the rest and I needed to act alone.’
‘If only you had told me. I may have spoilt it all now because I have been following the same trail of investigation.’
Carefully removing the grey wig from his head, he said easily, ‘I know of your enquiries, Watson. I observed you in McCauley Street.’
‘I never saw you.’
‘Of course not. However, Watson, you are to be congratulated on your train of reasoning, and in the light of the information I gleaned this morning it is safe to say that your investigations have been harmless. Stapleton had already fled well before we set out on his trail. No doubt after leaving me to be consumed by fire, he made his way to another hideout. He is a cunning and cautious man who leaves nothing to chance.’
‘What about Miss Lydgate?’
‘It is my belief that she will turn up at her old lodgings once she has realized that Stapleton has gone for good. I have already arranged for the place to be watched.’
‘By the police?’
Holmes laughed. ‘Great heavens, no. By a much more reliable force than the police: the Baker Street Irregulars (**). I’ve got young Watkins to organize it. I shall be informed immediately the lady returns to McCauley Street.’
‘What if she does not?’
‘Then further enquiries will be necessary; but it is certain that her usefulness to Stapleton is at an end, and consequently she has little to fear from him.’
‘And what of you? Do you think that he will make further attempts on your life?’
‘Without a doubt. His mind is a cruel, calculating instrument and his decline into madness has only increased his fanaticism. His twin obsessions are my destruction and his installation as Master of Baskerville Hall. By some process of his twisted logic, he believes that the latter will result from the former. Stapleton will not rest until I am dead.’
Holmes, his disguise now fully removed, walked over to the mantelpiece, retrieved an envelope, and handed it to me.
‘I found this on our doormat on my return this morning,’ he said, taking up his pipe.
I opened the envelope, which was addressed to Holmes. It was empty. ‘There doesn’t appear to be anything inside.’
‘Tap the contents out onto your palm.’
I did as my friend suggested and a small black object fell into my hand. It was a dead fly. ‘What does this mean?’ I gasped.
Holmes lit his pipe and threw the spent match into the fire before responding to my question.
‘It means that Stapleton knows I am alive,’ he remarked casually. ‘This communication is a warning that the game is still afoot — the game of spider and fly.’
‘This man is a devil...’
‘And a devil with great persistence. But we shall have him, Watson. It is only a matter of time before our spider becomes enmeshed in his own web. Now, I think we both deserve some nourishment. We have had an exhausting and challenging night and I see from the fresh dressings that your burns are still causing you some discomfort. May I suggest that one of Mrs. Hudson’s fine breakfasts will reduce most of your ills, and set us both up to face the labors of the day?’ He lay back in his chair, smiling, puffing contentedly on his pipe.
Within half an hour, Holmes and I were tucking into a sumptuous breakfast spread. Holmes had an ambivalent attitude to food. Often, in the middle of a complex and challenging case, he would abandon regular meals and treat food merely as a fuel to keep the body functioning. At times like that, it seemed, his sense of taste disappeared, for I have seen him, when deeply involved in an investigation, smother his meat or fish with honey to help increase its energy value. On this morning, however, it was plain ham and eggs that my friend devoured hungrily.
‘Mrs. Hudson can always be relied upon to provide an invigorating feast,’ said he, drawing away from the table and seating himself by the fire. ‘Ah, Watson, I fear we are to be denied our quiet postprandial smoke. There is a visitor on the stair.’
I believe that I have excellent hearing, but I had heard no noise to indicate that we were to receive a caller. However, moments later there was a discreet knock at our door.
‘Come in, Lestrade,’ cried Holmes.
Our sitting-room door opened and there on the threshold was the rat-faced Scotland Yard man, with his bowler hat in his hand and a bewildered expression on his face.
‘Now, how the devil did you know it was me, Mr. Holmes?’
‘Elementary, Lestrade. Who else do I know who wears size twelve police boots, knocks in that peculiar staccato fashion, and is likely to call on me so early in the day?’
Lestrade looked disconsolately at his feet.
‘Come in, Lestrade,’ said Holmes. ‘Take off your coat and sit by the fire. There is still some coffee in the pot. I see you have had little opportunity for breakfast this morning.’
‘Yes, you look as though you have been up all night,’ I remarked as I took Lestrade’s coat and hung it on the rack
‘Hardly that, Watson. The smooth chin and, the fresh spots of blood round the collar bear witness to a hurried shave, while the evidence of the reasonably uncreased suit and clean boots suggests they have been donned recently. I would say that our friend was called from his bed early this morning by some urgent matter at the Yard.’
‘You’re right, Mr. Holmes,’ said Lestrade with some surprise.
Holmes gave an appreciative laugh and rubbed his hands together.
‘Four this morning when I was summoned,’ continued the policeman after taking a sip of his coffee. ‘There’s been a horrible crime. A bizarre murder. The sort of thing that appeals to you.’
‘Not only bizarre, Lestrade, but also baffling. It is really only crimes in the latter category which bring Scotland Yard officials running to my door.’
Lestrade nodded humbly. ‘Bizarre and baffling,’ he agreed.
Holmes sat back in his chair with a beatific smile on his face. ‘Let me have the facts,’ he said.
‘Have you read the recent newspaper reports about the “Phantom lady” on Hampstead Heath?’
‘I remember reading something of the matter, A mysterious woman has been luring children onto the heath and then wounding them.’
‘That’s it, Mr. Holmes.’ Lestrade took a crumpled newspaper cutting from his jacket pocket and handed it to my friend.
‘The Westminster Gazette?’ observed Holmes, scrutinizing the type.
‘Yes. That report appeared two nights ago,’ said Lestrade.
Holmes flapped the cutting in my direction. ‘Be so good, Watson, as to read it out to us.’
I took the cutting and read the following:
THE HAMPSTEAD HORROR
ANOTHER CHILD INJURED
THE PHANTOM LADY
We have just received intelligence that another child, missed last night, was only discovered late in the morning under a furze bush at the Shooter’s Hill side of Hampstead Heath, which is perhaps less frequented than the other parts. The child has the same tiny wound in the throat as has been noticed in other cases. It was terribly weak and looked quite emaciated. It too, when partially revived, had the common story to tell of being lured away by the lady in white, ‘the phantom lady’.
‘Presumably,’ said Holmes, ‘there have been further, more serious developments since this report. Last night in fact.’
‘Indeed there have,’ affirmed the Scotland Yarder. ‘Quite near to where the child was found, at about three o’clock this morning, a local constable discovered the body of a young woman.’
‘Dead?’ I asked.
‘I’ll say, doctor. Dead as a doornail, with terrible wounds at her throat. According to the police surgeon nearly all the woman’s blood had been drained away.’
(*) Watson refers here to Henry Irving, one of the foremost actors of the period, who was later knighted for his services to the theatre. At the time of this case, Irving was in charge of the Lyceum Theatre, where Watson may have seen him in his production of The Bells playing a part which required him to transform his natural appearance greatly.
(**) The Baker Street Irregulars were a gang of street urchins whom Holmes organized into a kind of unofficial police force. In A Study in Scarlet he said of them: ‘There’s more work to be got out of one of those little beggars than out of a dozen of the force. The mere sight of an official-looking person seals men’s lips. These youngsters, however, go everywhere and hear everything.’
Chapter Ten – The Body in the Morgue
I must confess that I gave a deep involuntary shudder at Lestrade’s chilling statement. The policeman paused dramatically to observe my friend’s reaction. Holmes’s face remained motionless, but I, who knew him well, could detect the bright glint of excitement in his eyes.
‘Were there any other marks on the body apart from the wounds at the throat?’ he asked at length.
‘None,’ came the reply, ‘and there were no signs of a struggle either.’ Holmes raised an eyebrow but remained silent.
‘Which probably means,’ Lestrade continued, with an air of self-satisfaction, ‘that the murdered girl knew her killer and was caught unawares by the attack.’
‘Possibly,’ said Holmes, ‘or that the murderer possessed great strength.’
‘Then you don’t think this crime was committed by a woman -”the phantom lady”?’ I asked.
‘It is difficult to say, Watson. Before we wander into the realms of surmise, let us deal with what evidence we have. Now, Lestrade, has the victim been identified?’
‘Not as yet, Mr. Holmes. There were no signs of identification about her person.’
‘What about her clothes? You checked the makers’ labels?’
‘Well, no, I’m afraid I did not.’
Holmes gave a derisory snort. ‘And the body? I trust you left it exactly where it was?’
Lestrade hesitated a moment and then shook his head.
‘What!’ cried Holmes in disbelief.
‘We have had the area cordoned off, but the body has been taken to the police morgue at the Yard.’
Holmes, his face ablaze with anger, hit the arm of the chair with the flat of his hand. ‘Lestrade! Lestrade! How many times have I told you to leave things exactly as they are at the scene of a crime until I have had an opportunity to make a thorough examination? It is the most elementary of procedures.’
‘You can still examine the spot where the body was found.’
‘My dear Inspector, the possibility of finding any significant clue after dozens of large boots have been tramping over the ground is infinitesimal.,
Lestrade looked suitably deflated and at a loss for words. I remember Holmes telling me on a previous occasion that, although he regarded Lestrade as the ‘pick of a bad bunch’ at Scotland Yard, he nevertheless considered him to lack initiative and the capacity for original thought.
On seeing Lestrade’s dejection, Holmes’s stern features softened. Jumping from his chair, he threw off his dressing gown and retrieved his frock coat from the rack. ‘Watson and I have a busy morning ahead of us, Lestrade. We have pressing detective work of our own, but this singular murder interests me. I think we can spare the time to view the corpse, eh Watson?’
I nodded grimly. I could not help feeling there was a danger that my friend would be sidetracked into fresh investigations when the Stapleton-Lydgate case still needed his urgent attention.
Holmes, who could read my mind, said, ‘Not to worry, old fellow, all will be well. Now, Lestrade, let us waste no more time.’
A beaming smile filled the police inspector’s face. ‘Very good, Mr. Holmes,’ he said.
The police mortuary which adjoined the main headquarters of the Metropolitan Police in Great Scotland Yard was a forbidding structure. If there is such a thing as the smell of death this place possessed it. It had settled there like an invisible dust, dulling the edge of all sound in the dark and gloomy building. On entering by a stout, studded door one was immediately conscious of being in another realm, one in which the living were outnumbered by the dead.
First of all, Lestrade ushered us into a small office where the desk sergeant entered our names in a large visitors’ book, and then we were led off down a long, echoing corridor into a chill, windowless, dimly-lit room, the stone floor of which was splattered with dried bloodstains; indelibly mementoes of numerous gory crimes.
At the far end of the room, thrown into murky shadow by the flickering gas jets, stood an old porcelain sink which bore the chips and cracks of time. The battered tap dripped with a regular, insistent rhythm, breaking the oppressive silence. On the wall to the left of the sink was a tall, glass-fronted cabinet containing a wide range of surgical instruments, and a short bench containing specimen jars. In one such jar, suspended in fluid, was a large solitary eyeball. Illuminated by the greenish glow of the gas, the thing seemed to be staring directly at me.
The only other item in the room, placed below the central gas fitting, was a long, narrow table on which the corpse lay covered by a blood-spotted sheet. Attached by rough twine to one of the toes of the body was a label giving what details were known about the deceased. As the three of us gathered round the table, our huge shadows spread up the rough walls and spilled onto the ceiling.
‘I have never seen anything like this before. The loss of blood was tremendous.’ Lestrade spoke softly, as if subdued by the grisly atmosphere that pervaded the room.
He pulled back the sheet, revealing the face of the dead woman. I gave a gasp of horror. My reaction came not solely because of the ghastliness of the wound, which indeed was a dreadful sight, but because I recognized the face which, now sunken, leathery, and white with the pallor of death, stared up at me with cold unblinking eyes.
‘Holmes,’ I cried, ‘this is Celia Lydgate!’
‘What! Are you sure?’
‘There is no doubt.’
Holmes’s eyes narrowed, and for some moments he stared into the middle distance, deep in thought.
‘You know this woman then, Dr Watson?’ Lestrade asked.
‘Yes’, I said and, receiving a reluctant nod of approval from Holmes, gave the policeman a brief account of our adventures over the previous twenty-four hours.
‘Blimey,’ he exclaimed when I had finished. ‘So Stapleton is still alive and free.’
‘I am afraid so,’ I replied, ‘and now he has added another foul murder to his list of crimes, eh Holmes?’
My friend, who for some time had been in a brown study, his chin sunk upon his chest, now turned abruptly to face me, his features gaunt and serious. He shook his head. ‘I doubt it, Watson. I doubt it very much. This method of murder is not Stapleton’s style at all.’
‘Perhaps this killing may be a kind of bait to lure you into another trap.’
‘That remains a possibility, I grant you — but a remote one. This girl’s murder followed so closely on the heels of his last attempt to destroy me, and before he could have learned of my escape, that I believe we can eliminate him as a suspect in this case. You do not look convinced, Watson. Then answer me this: how would Stapleton have known that Miss Lydgate was crossing Hampstead Heath in the early hours of this morning?’
