A Study in Crimson, page 10
We were escorted out into the hall, and the doctor extended a hand in the direction of the front door.
To my embarrassment, Gail was not to be so easily ejected. She spotted a back stairway and drifted towards it. ‘I don’t suppose Mrs Carvel is at home?’
The doctor immediately blocked her way. ‘My wife died some years ago in a boating accident,’ he informed her brusquely.
‘I sympathise,’ I told him. ‘I am a widower myself.’
‘Then you will appreciate the impropriety of treading on so painful a subject,’ said Carvel.
He escorted us to the front door, where Gail paused and treated him to a kittenish smile. ‘So may I consult you from time to time upon medical matters?’
‘I very much hope that you will not,’ Carvel stated flatly. ‘And now I bid you a good day.’
The door was closed behind us with some force.
Once we were beyond the view of the doctor’s windows, I gave vent to my feelings.
‘That was the most absurd imposture I have ever witnessed. And I do not appreciate being referred to as Johnny.’
‘You don’t think he might have recognised the name Dr John Watson,’ Gail pointed out, ‘and cottoned on to your connection with Sherlock Holmes? That would have spooked him worse than a visit from Scotland Yard. As far as he’s concerned now you’re just the sidekick of a screwy lady writer.’
‘Lady writer!’ I scoffed. ‘What a lot of nonsense – and in that overblown accent.’
Gail chortled. ‘I suppose your approach was going to be something like this.’ She adopted the ridiculous manner of a dithering fogey and spoke in a waffling voice that was intended to be comic. ‘I say, old chap, speaking as one medical man to another, were you aware that your poor old uncle was Jack the Ripper? And while we’re on the subject, maybe you’d like to confess to being a murderer yourself.’
I regarded her with a cold stare. ‘I’m quite sure I sound nothing like that.’
She slapped me playfully on the shoulder. ‘Come on, doc, can’t you take a little ribbing?’
She delved in her handbag for a cigarette, lit one and sucked in the smoke with obvious pleasure.
‘I’m surprised you were able to restrain yourself from smoking during the entire charade,’ I commented.
Gail shrugged. ‘There were no ashtrays anywhere in that mausoleum, so I figured he wouldn’t appreciate my lighting up a Chesterfield.’
I decided to return our focus to the purpose of our visit. ‘So what have we learned as a result of your impersonation?’
‘Well,’ Gail responded thoughtfully, ‘he got real touchy at any mention of Jack the Ripper or his uncle. Also, it might be worth poking into exactly what happened to the late Mrs Carvel. There’s a skeleton somewhere at the back of his closet that’s rattling so loud it must be doing the Lindy Hop.’
‘You’re right about that,’ I agreed. ‘And when he thought neither of us was looking his gaze drifted briefly to the naval painting over the mantelpiece.’
Gail grinned. ‘Say, that’s pretty sharp. Sounds like you could give Millicent DuMornay a run for her money.’
‘I am struggling to take that as a compliment.’
Gail patted the paperback in her bag. ‘You know, whoever Sylvia Swift is, she spins a pretty good yarn. You should give them a try. So should your pal Sherlock. He might pick up a few tips from old Millicent.’
‘I beg you never to suggest any such thing in his presence,’ I cautioned her. I could only imagine the violence of Holmes’s reaction to such a notion.
‘I’ll leave you to report back to Sherlock,’ Gail said, flagging down a taxi. ‘I’ve got other fish to fry.’
‘Not red herrings, I hope?’
‘I’m interviewing some lady munitions workers for my next broadcast, getting their stories to share with the folks back in the USA. You know, good human interest stuff.’
She gave me a parting wave as she ducked into the cab. ‘I’ll catch up with you later, Johnny – at the fête.’
When I arrived back at Baker Street, Mrs Hudson was handing Holmes a newly delivered note. When he had perused it, he settled into his chair and invited me to be seated while I related all that I had learned from our visit to Dr Carvel.
He listened in concentrated silence, interrupting only rarely to clarify a particular point. As a skilled actor himself, he was amused by my disapproving account of Gail Preston’s performance.
‘Really, Watson, I believe you are taking more of a liking to that lady than you care to admit.’
‘That note you have there, Holmes,’ I said, pointedly changing the subject, ‘does it have a bearing on the case?’
‘It may, old fellow, it may.’ He picked it up and glanced over it once more. ‘This is a summons to Whitehall. It appears we are to have a meeting with the government.’
I at once understood that by the government he was referring to his brother, Mycroft Holmes.
14 A TALE OF TWO BROTHERS
The following morning we presented ourselves outside Admiralty House at the appointed time. The building was bolstered with a wall of sandbags and surrounded by barbed wire, while the windows were taped over to secure them against the concussion of any nearby explosions. There was a visible police presence, and from the uppermost floor security officers at the windows kept a close watch on the street below.
We identified ourselves and were escorted upstairs to a waiting area littered with magazines and newspapers. I sat down and absently fingered this week’s copy of the Radio Times while Holmes paced impatiently between the door and the bay window.
‘This can only be in connection with our current investigation,’ he surmised, ‘though it is not like Mycroft to involve himself in the affairs of Scotland Yard. I can only assume that these crimes have prompted unsettling questions in government circles.’
When preparing me for my first meeting with his august brother many years ago, Holmes had explained that Mycroft possessed a finely honed intelligence and deductive acumen the equal of his own, but lacked the inclination to pursue matters actively in his own person. Instead he preferred to surround himself with the warmth and comforts of a well-appointed club while others came to him with reports and information on which to exercise his unsurpassed powers of reasoning.
His Majesty’s Government had decided to make use of his gifts by appointing him to a post which was only vaguely defined but consisted in being passed all information relating to matters financial, industrial, economic, and military. Mycroft would ponder these diverse data and draw conclusions upon which government policy would be based as unshakably as on a foundation of solid marble.
‘In effect,’ Holmes had told me then, ‘Mycroft is the government.’
After a short wait we were escorted to a large office looking out upon St James’s Park. Shelves of reference books and filing cases filled with civil service reports surrounded us. A large photograph of King George and Queen Elizabeth hung on the wall opposite the door. I noticed that it had been personally signed by both of Their Majesties.
The imposingly corpulent figure of Mycroft Holmes rose laboriously to greet us from behind the well-ordered expanse of his desk. The capacious, velvet-covered chair with its silk cushions was the one that had for years occupied the place of honour directly in front of the fireplace in the rigidly enforced silence of the Diogenes Club members’ lounge.
There still hung about him an air of heavy melancholy over the fate of the Diogenes Club, that refuge of privileged and prominent misanthropes, which was the only place where he had felt entirely comfortable. During the Blitz, the building had been so badly damaged by German bombing that the reclusive members were flushed out into the sunlight and forced to commingle with their fellow man.
Mycroft emerged from behind his desk like a galleon leaving harbour, and, steering his way past an oakwood table spread with an array of daily newspapers, advanced towards us.
‘Dr Watson.’ He acknowledged me with a small bow, which for him required considerable effort, and then turned to his brother. ‘Sherlock, you are keeping busy, I hear.’
‘Not so busy as you, I’m sure,’ Holmes responded.
Mycroft inclined his massive head. ‘Yes, the war. But of course, there is never a ceasefire from crime. I assume you have been following the Appleby case.’
‘Yes. It was murder, of course.’
‘And the identity of the murderer quite obvious.’
‘Gentlemen,’ I interrupted, ‘I too have been following that case with some interest, and the police have concluded that it was suicide. It says so in today’s Times, which covers the affair in some detail.’
I pointed to the day’s edition, which was prominent among the newspapers on display.
‘Really, doctor?’ Mycroft raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘Perhaps you would care to reacquaint us with the facts as recorded there so that we may reassess our verdict.’
I fetched The Times and, opening it to the Appleby story, summarised the details out loud.
‘According to this article, Sir Arthur Appleby had for many years lived at Harrower’s Lodge in Strood, Kent, with his younger brother Hugh, both of them bachelors. The only other resident was the butler, a former military man named Poole. For some weeks, according to his testimony, Hugh Appleby had noted that his elder brother was increasingly depressed, apparently troubled by some unspecified financial difficulty.
‘On the afternoon of the seventeenth, the Thursday of this past week, matters came to a head. While Poole the butler was out purchasing groceries for the weekend, Sir Arthur uttered an exclamation along the lines of “It’s all up! I’m done with it!” With those words he shut himself in the upstairs study. Hugh knocked repeatedly on the door, encouraging Sir Arthur to unburden himself, but there was no response. When he tried the door he found it was locked with a key from the inside.’
I paused to gauge the reaction of my listeners. Both of them appeared quite impassive, as if this evidence in no way dented their murder theory.
‘Knowing that the reliable Poole had in his possession a spare set of keys for every lock in the house,’ I continued, ‘Hugh awaited the butler’s return with some anxiety. He prowled about, taking a drink to calm his nerves, and when Poole entered the house he found the younger brother in a state of extreme agitation, so much so that he was actually spilling his drink.’
This detail prompted an amused snort from Holmes. Ignoring this, I pressed on.
‘Doing his best to calm the younger man, the stalwart Poole attempted to unlock the study door but was frustrated by the key still in the lock on the other side. Putting his broad shoulders to good use, the butler broke down the door to be greeted by a shocking sight. Sir Arthur lay dead on the floor, blood flowing from a stab wound to the chest. A quick search of the room turned up a bloodied letter opener lying under a nearby chair. On later examination the dead man’s fingerprints were found on the hilt and no other prints. Have I got it right so far?’ I challenged the brothers Holmes.
‘I can find no fault in your summation,’ Sherlock Holmes commented drily.
‘Please go on, doctor,’ Mycroft encouraged.
‘The window, like the door, had been secured from the inside and there was no other means of entry or exit,’ I continued, with growing confidence in the official verdict. ‘It was concluded that, while in an unbalanced state of mind, Sir Arthur committed suicide by stabbing himself in the chest. In a last moment of lucidity he pulled the fateful weapon from his chest and flung it aside in horror. He then fell dead, insensible to the noise of his brother beating on the door.’
I became aware that both Holmes brothers were gazing at me with an expression that bordered on condescension.
‘You see,’ I declared with conviction, ‘there was no way for anyone else to have entered and left the room and there was no one else present there. It simply must be suicide.’
‘And yet it is not,’ said Mycroft.
‘It is murder,’ said Holmes.
With a supreme effort of will, I did my best to remain civil. ‘I suppose, Holmes, you’re going to tell me the murderer was hiding behind the door disguised as a soldier.’
Mycroft eyed me with concern. ‘What an extraordinary suggestion! I fear, doctor, that Sherlock has been overtaxing you of late.’
‘Watson alludes to a matter we recently investigated in Scotland,’ Holmes explained, ‘but really this is quite different.’
‘Or perhaps you will say that the butler did it,’ I said. ‘That he somehow used his spare key to lock the door after murdering his master, in spite of the fact that there was a key inserted from the inside.’
Mycroft tutted like a disapproving schoolmaster. ‘Really, doctor, we must deal in facts not fancies.’
‘What motive could the estimable Poole have for murdering his master?’ Holmes queried. ‘Let alone then to contrive to lock him in his study before calmly setting out for a spot of grocery shopping.’
‘As a medical man,’ said Mycroft, ‘would you not consider stabbing oneself in the chest to be an unlikely means of self-immolation? Sir Arthur had been in the military, after all, and must certainly have possessed a pistol.’
‘And, as an active participant in the annual grouse shoot, he would also have a shotgun in his possession,’ added Holmes. ‘Either one of those would have served his purpose better if he seriously proposed to do away with himself. And bear in mind that we only have Hugh Appleby’s word for it that his brother was in any way melancholic. There is no medical testimony to that effect.’
‘Are you saying then that the younger brother is the killer?’
‘Of course,’ said Mycroft. ‘Why else do you think that Poole found him in such an agitated state that he was spilling his drink?’
‘What on earth has spilling his drink got to do with it?’ I demanded.
‘I think we can safely assume that his drink of choice was red wine,’ said Holmes, ‘or a dark sherry, and that he spilled it on the carpet outside the study door.’
‘In order to cover the blood stains,’ Mycroft concluded.
‘You mean that Sir Arthur was stabbed outside the study rather than inside?’ I was beginning to see where Holmes’s logic was leading.
‘Let us suppose,’ said Mycroft, ‘that while Poole was absent, Sir Arthur fetched the mail from downstairs and was opening it on the way to his study. He encountered his younger brother and an argument ensued.’
‘Over money, most likely, or perhaps a woman,’ Holmes speculated. ‘The dispute became violent and whether deliberately or no, Hugh Appleby stabbed his brother in the chest with his own letter opener. Sir Arthur pulled himself free of the blade and staggered into the study, locking himself inside to escape further assault.’
‘But it was already too late,’ said Mycroft. ‘The wound was fatal and he expired within seconds. When there was no response to his hammering on the door, Hugh guessed that his brother was dead, but circumstances had offered him a trick card. If his brother Sir Arthur was found dead and alone in the locked room, the verdict would probably be suicide, but only if the instrument of his death was found there too. That instrument, unfortunately, he still gripped in his own hand.’
‘He might have broken in himself and dropped the letter opener beside the body,’ I suggested.
‘Bear in mind, Watson, that he stood to inherit the house and the family fortune,’ Holmes pointed out. ‘Under the circumstances you describe suspicion would inevitably fall upon him. No, it was vital that the door remain locked until a witness should arrive in the shape of Poole. Poole it was who broke open the door and rushed at once to his stricken master.’
‘He paid no attention to Hugh Appleby,’ said Mycroft, ‘who came in behind him. It was child’s play for Hugh to drop the bloodied letter opener under a chair then draw Poole’s attention to it, knowing the butler would assume it had been lying there the whole time.’
‘But the fingerprints,’ I objected.
‘When Poole left to call the police,’ said Holmes, ‘Hugh took the opportunity to press the hilt into the hand of his dead brother to leave a clear set of prints before returning it to its place under the chair.’
I gazed back and forth between the two of them, exasperated to hear them treating this as some sort of game, a continuation of the competitions of their childhood.
‘I don’t suppose either one of you has seen fit to inform the Kentish constabulary of your conclusions?’ I inquired.
‘I seek no plaudits from the police,’ Mycroft sniffed.
‘I also see no advantage to having my name entangled in so simple a matter,’ said Holmes.
‘I suppose then that it is incumbent upon me to see that justice is served,’ I concluded testily.
‘Yes, once we are done here, doctor, do inform the police of the true state of affairs,’ said Mycroft.
‘If they examine the area of the carpet where Hugh Appleby quite deliberately spilled his drink,’ said Holmes, ‘they will still be able to detect a blood residue. We can assume that he had the letter opener in his pocket, but even if it was wrapped in a kerchief or rag, enough blood would have seeped through to his clothing to be detected by chemical analysis.’
‘I shall be sure to so direct the police.’ I tossed the newspaper on to a nearby chair in a gesture of disgust. It seemed that when both brothers were in a room together, everything else paled into insignificance beside their lifelong rivalry.
Recovering my composure, I turned to Mycroft. ‘Perhaps, now that the pair of you have disposed of the Appleby case, we can proceed to the business for which you summoned us here.’
‘You are quite correct, doctor,’ he responded, not in the least chastened. ‘Sherlock, it is time we had a serious talk about your mysterious friend Crimson Jack.’
15 MATTERS OF LIGHT AND DARKNESS
‘I have just come from a meeting of the Intelligence Inner Council,’ Mycroft Holmes continued.
