I studied Grace Klimpton, spinster—and busybody—of the parish. As I examined the slight injuries, something rang a bell. I unobtrusively ran a hand along the back of her head and bit back an exclamation. How had they missed this? Yet it would not do to make the discovery myself. I made a closer, more obvious examination of the bruise and graze.
“Look at them. They remind me of a patient of mine who fell.” I snorted. “Silly woman! She hit her head and did not tell me, since she did not wish to appear clumsy. She had headaches for a week.”
The elder doctor gasped, and his hands went to the back of her head, feeling through the hair. “Yes, look!” He angled her head and parted her hair, and there was a large bruise. “The skin is unbroken, so there would be no blood. From the size and darkness of that bruise, she may have been rendered unconscious immediately.”
He surveyed his son and me triumphantly. “Don’t you see? That’s how he got her to the beach! He pushed her, and she struck her head. He carried her to the beach, dragged her into the water and held her down, so it would appear she drowned.”
“Yes,” I exclaimed. “The cold water brought her back to consciousness and she fought. He had not expected that and momentarily lost his grip. When he seized her again, her jacket had been pulled aside, and without that to cushion his hands…”
“They left the bruises we found,” the father finished. “Well, we can say one thing: the man who murdered her was not a doctor. Else he would have known she was coming around, and that the cold water would further revive her.”
“Yes,” his son mused. “In his place I’d hit her again on the same spot. We wouldn’t know the difference, and with her unconscious, he could drown her and leave no trace.”
I did not mention that if I had been the doctor I would most certainly have found traces. I had only to see her bruised head to guess at the train of events. However, I remained silent, having no wish to antagonize my colleagues.
“Now,” I said after a mutually congratulatory pause. “We can most probably say she died around nine or ten p.m.”
The senior Dr. Farrell nodded ponderously. “In my opinion, that would be so. She ate her supper around eight and finished around a quarter past the hour. We cannot know events after that, but I would agree that the time you say is likely.”
And with that we parted, they to place the body back in its icy coffin in case further examination was required, and I to find Holmes. We met in the street and my friend, seeing I was big with news, promptly led me to a small, mostly empty café. We sat in a private corner, ordered food, and while we waited I asked of his own enquiries.
“Mr. Wright had nothing to say,” was his mordant response. “He said it in several ways, but always that was the burden of his comments. He had done nothing, knew nothing, and could tell me nothing. He would conjecture if I pressed him, but he could inform me in advance that any such speculation would come to nothing, since he knew nothing. And you, Watson, what have you found out?”
I eagerly began my tale, in the midst of which our lunch arrived, and I tucked into my bacon and scrambled eggs on toast with enthusiasm. I poured us cups of tea, and once we finished I completed my story. Holmes considered the information.
“I think we can gauge the time of her death more closely,” he commented after a brief silence. “Well done on that bruised head, by the way, my dear fellow. A good example of the failing of some peoples’ imagination. She drowned, therefore they looked no further. They saw the bruise on her hip, the graze on her knee, and guessed she had fallen, but it never occurred to them she might also have struck her head and that led to her death.”
“In all fairness, Holmes, they were asked for cause of death and that they provided: she did drown.”
“Yes. The question is, was that head injury intentional? Did the killer plan to drown her, or did he take advantage of what occurred? We must return to her house, Watson.”
I consumed the last of my toast and another cup of tea, paid the bill, and found myself in a taxicab. Shortly after, we entered the small, neat home Miss Grace Klimpton inhabited before her sad demise. Holmes began casting about like a terrier.
“What are you searching for?”
“A murder weapon,” I was informed, and I shook my head.
“Why would he leave it here, even should that blow to her head have been intentional rather than an accident?” A sensible question, I thought. “It is clear he had most of the night to act. Why would he leave anything at all?”
“Because he may have gone directly from her body to establish an alibi.”
“So,” I said, thinking it out, “if he felt safe in leaving a weapon behind, it can only be that it is commonplace.”
“Bravo, Watson. Yes, look for something heavy or awkward to carry when one is also carrying a person.”
I obeyed, finding a number of such items but nothing likely to be the item sought. At last we met again in the kitchen, where I dropped into a chair and surveyed my friend.
“I can find no weapon that matches your idea. Does this mean he did come back for it, or that the weapon was smaller and less cumbersome?”
Holmes nodded. “It confirms a theory: he brought a weapon, her fall was initially not intended, but he seized the opportunity. If I am correct, the weapon he brought was immediately deadly.”
“A knife?” I hazarded.
“Perhaps. Something easily hidden about his person, something that made little or no noise when used.”
“Something like that would make murder plain,” I protested.
“He may have had a strategy for that. I think the killer is a person who makes plans. When they fall out as he plans, he leaves no evidence. It is when he improvises that things fall apart. Listen, Watson. He finds that Grace Klimpton knows something dangerous to him. He calls on her, intending her death. As your colleague suggested, I think he knew her well, and she knew him. He knew that even after dark she would open the door to him, and she would not fear to do so. He was then able to stand so close that he could push her hard enough to fall—if her fall was indeed not utterly fortuitous. It is then he makes his mistake. He decides to drown her and make it appear an accidental death.”
“But you think he planned some other method?”
“I think he intended her to disappear,” Holmes said quietly. “Do you remember when first we came to the Isle and you sought out Dr. Farrell?” I nodded. “You reported his and his son’s conversation on that occasion. Amongst other topics, Dr. James Farrell mentioned that someone had vanished, and later added that a second person was gone, too, but probably on business.”
“I remember.” My breath caught. “You think that they, too, were murdered?”
“I have no proof.” Holmes’s tone was austere. “However, I made inquiries. A Jason Sommerville and a Jason Hunter disappeared. Sommerville was known to the police, not as a criminal, but as a thorough-going pest. He made it his business to complain of anything he conceived as illegal, immoral, unethical, or that merely annoyed him.
“One day he left his house—his departure unnoticed by any—and did not return. He owned no money to anyone, his personal effects had been removed, including all his papers, his best clothing, his gentleman’s jewelry, and a trunk. He was never seen again. As his lease of the house expired in ten days, everyone assumed he chose to leave at his pleasure and disregarding any inconvenience to others. Something, I was told, that surprised no one.”
“And Hunter?”
“A businessman of the type who regularly sails rather close to the wind. He was tolerated, since when he made money all debts were paid, and he was generous. He was on and off the Isle at irregular intervals, dividing his time between here and London. And when, one day, he did not return from the city, he was not greatly missed. His rent fell due, the owner of the house sold everything left. I am reliably informed his effects contained no personal papers, nothing of great value. Only clothing, and some furniture. The monies raised by the sale paid for the r
ent due, but little more, and the police were never called in.”
“But in either case, there was no suspicion that anything was amiss?”
“No. The interesting thing is that both men did not merely disappear, they vanished completely. From the day they were last seen until now, they have not been recognized by anyone. Nothing is known of their whereabouts, and those who knew them have not seen nor heard from them.”
“Oh, well. Men of that sort, they have acquaintances, not friends or family,” I said.
Holmes shook his head. “That was true of Sommerville, who was in his late fifties. His parents were dead, he was an only child and, so far as I could initially ascertain, while he had several cousins they had nothing to do with him. One said to me that the less they saw of the man the better, since he caused unpleasantness and dissent wherever he went.”
“What of Hunter?”
“A different story. As I said, when in funds he was generous. At such times it was not uncommon for him to visit his nephews and nieces in London, bringing gifts, and staying the night. All are busy people so that, as his visits were irregular, it was not immediately noticed they had not seen him for some time. When they realized they had not heard from him, there was little they could do. On their inquiring, the police here said they believed he had returned to London, leaving several debts, and as he was not of a particularly good character, it was likely he had reason to depart surreptitiously.”
“And the family accepted that,” I said resignedly. “If they’re respectable, they wouldn’t want to ask after an uncle who wasn’t and thereby call their own reputations into question.”
“Quite so. Do you see an interesting correspondence in this, Watson?”
I didn’t.
“Ah, then sum up each man for me,” was his request.
“One was a nasty little trouble-maker, respectable enough, but disliked even by his own family. The other was a man who was quite liked by those who knew him, but his reputation was poor.”
Holmes nodded. “Precisely. Both were men unlikely to have people asking about them, or if they did ask, they would not do so more than briefly. Now describe the two women.”
I frowned. “They were different from the men. Lily Klimpton had a devoted family who have not ceased demanding that the police do something, nor do they believe her death was what it appeared. And while Grace Klimpton is missed, I would say, by no one save perhaps Mrs. Rogers, her death is definitely accepted as murder, and the police are investigating. But Holmes, the deaths are quite different. Both men simply disappeared, while we know the women died, for their bodies were found.”
“Yes,” my friend said slowly. “Think of this, Watson. Could it be the women died because of what they knew, while the men died for another reason? Was what the women knew connected with the deaths of the men, and was that why they died?”
I stared at him, my mind whirling. Another question occurred to me. “Holmes, those disappearances were some time ago. The Farrells suggested it was as much as ten or more years since both men disappeared. Correct?” He nodded. “Then what vital information could the women have known for so long that they yet neither realized nor spoke of? Now Alistair Johnson’s death was only a few weeks ago. Could they have known something about that? I know he died naturally, but what of the circumstances? Was there anything suspicious that the women noticed?”
Holmes looked at me and nodded. “That was in my mind,” was all he said.
10
I returned to London and saw my patients, while Holmes remained on Sheppey and saw the police—as he told me via a brief letter. They, like Wright—to my friend’s exasperation—had nothing for him. Holmes arrived back at Baker Street a day after his note. We sat down to dinner while he recounted another discovery.
“The police do not think my inquiry has any value. Their opinion is that I am wasting my time pursuing people who had good and sufficient reasons for vanishing from their usual haunts.”
“And you do not agree?”
“I do not. Listen, Watson. There seems to be a pattern. I have pinned down the approximate times from which Sommerville and Hunter were no longer seen. Sommerville left the Isle, so far as is known, sometime in March of 18--, while Hunter disappeared between May and July of 18--, about three years later. Hunter’s disappearance was nine years ago now. Have there been any other such disappearances between that of Hunter, and now?” His look was significant. “There were.”
I sat up. “Who?”
“Another man. Mr. Guy Moore.”
I indicated he should continue immediately and with a look of amusement he acceded to my impatience.
“Moore was another of those who are either not much noticed, or not generally popular. He was sharp-tongued, assumed everyone else was a fool, and lived in isolation in a small but sturdily built and isolated cottage. He retired to Sheppey eight years ago, combining his savings with an inheritance from a bachelor uncle to buy himself the cottage. He had an annuity and passed his time as a beachcomber, when he felt the inclination.”
“How?” I asked with genuine interest. I have heard the term before but did not know exactly how one went about it.
“He rose every morning just before first light and walked the beach. He would be the first to do so, and the beach where he lived is lonely and mostly uninhabited. Tides wash light items ashore there, so that while he most often brought home a load of driftwood to burn, he could and did happen upon other, more valuable, items over the years.”
I looked the question, and Holmes nodded.
“As you know, Sheppey is the site of a number of shipwrecks. Sometimes flotsam may wash ashore during a storm, but a ship that sinks some distance off-shore may break up over subsequent years, with items coming ashore during that period. Then, too, cargo or loose gear may wash overboard in a storm and land on shore here.
“During his beachcombing, Moore found a number of bits and pieces that were of value, including, so I am told, a bag filled with dental instruments, which he sold here on the Isle, a parcel of furs, which sold in London for a considerable amount, a case of a dozen pairs of gentleman’s new leather boots—thought to be a sample case,” Holmes added as an aside. “The boots were all of one size but in a variety of styles. The trouble was that the law of flotsam applied to many of his endeavors.”
“In what way, Holmes?”
“The law defines flotsam as goods floating on the water as the result of a wreck or an accident. If there is no clear way of defining ownership, the one who discovers such an item is allowed to claim it, unless someone else claims rights and can prove such ownership. That later portion of the law is what those who find such items often forget.
“In Moore’s case, he recovered a lady’s trunk containing jewelry and high-priced clothing. An expensive trunk, when closed and locked it was airtight, hence it floated ashore when lost in a storm. When he attempted to sell it, the owner arrived and reclaimed it. She identified many of the clothes and valuables, and she could show receipts for some. As the trunk had also her name clearly inscribed within the lid, the police deemed the container and everything within must be returned to her.”
“I doubt Moore appreciated that,” I commented, and Holmes nodded.
“He did not, and those who knew him say he became very secretive about what he found.” He digressed briefly. “I think he may have had a valid claim, however. The trunk was lost overboard, and he recovered it from below the high-tide-mark. Under the law of salvage, he could ask for a percentage of the value. However, he was told that should he attempt to retain the trunk and its contents, or to demand a portion of the value, the lady intended to charge him with theft. He, perforce, returned it, receiving, as I was told, not a penny-piece by way of reward for his trouble.”
I expressed my disgust. “She could well have afforded to give him a sovereign or two,” I protested. “If there was expensive clothing and jewelry within, surely a reward for its recovery would have been fair? If not for his
rescue, the trunk would have been entirely lost.”
“Indeed. I am told he greatly resented her parsimony and became furtive as to his discoveries. An acquaintance said that for two or three days before his disappearance, Moore went about looking as if he had a secret. The acquaintance wondered whether he had found some other valuables and was considering best how to dispose of them without having the owners or police interfere again.”
I nodded. “You think he may have been killed for what he found—whatever it was?”
“That is my belief.”
“How did his disappearance come about?” I asked.
“In much the same way as those others. It was not uncommon for him to take the ferry to the city for a day or two and, as I have said, his cottage was isolated. No one noticed when, precisely, he vanished, they only realized he had not been seen for as much as a week. The police eventually checked his home. There was no sign of him and no disarray within. The cottage was securely locked, and they did not wish to break in when they could not be sure anything was wrong. Moore was not on good terms with the police and would, no doubt, have laid a complaint.”
“When, then, did they do something?”
“Almost a month later. They decided that after so long they could reasonably act, broke down the door, and entered. Everything was neat and tidy, and nothing seemed to be missing save, perhaps, a suit and a set of older clothing. There was no food in the cupboards, and no papers or valuables.”
“Neither papers nor valuables,” I repeated. “Sommerville and Hunter left neither of those, as well.”
“No, they did not. However, both lived in rented houses or cottages. Moore owned his cottage. The police were at a loss to decide what to do. In the end, they decided that as there was no evidence of foul play, it would be best to secure the door again and leave things be. That they have done for the past three years. And from that day to this, Moore has been seen by no one.”
I leaned back in my chair. “Do you think searching the cottage would be of use? You say it has not been touched since Moore’s disappearance?”
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