by David Marcum
“Most singular,” he said. “Now, before Mr. Lamb joins us, let me tell you of my little outing this morning. I found Charlett’s tannery in Ray Street a very superior establishment. He is a tanner, leather-dresser, saddler, and felt-manufacturer. But he is a ruined man, quite broken by the loss of his daughter. He is certain that the stories she read of romance and elopement had a strong influence on her decision to defy his wishes with Mr. Smith, and blames these stories, their authors, publishers, and illustrators - he particularly derided the last for their depictions of pretty heroines in the arms of handsome soldiers and the like - for the loss of his daughter.
“But, although he knew well the story of the Dashing Carman from his daughter’s effusions on the subject, I could not persuade him to name Mr. Lamb as the architect of his misfortune. I asked him plainly if he had written Lamb a letter, and he denied it. I contrived too to glance at some specimens of his handwriting, which was clearly different from that we see here.” He indicated the two letters which still lay side by side upon the table. “Yet that may signify very little, for a man may write memoranda in a quite different temper and style from that he would use for a furious threat to a hated enemy. That he denied writing the letter is also far from conclusive. Our interview was interrupted, as I rather expected it would be, by the arrival of Lestrade and a constable who arrested Thomas Charlett on suspicion of the murder of his daughter and of Elias Smith. Charlett greeted this turn of events with horror, and I confess I felt considerable sympathy for him, for I had put the idea into Lestrade’s head.”
“I noticed your doing so,” I said.
“I regret having added to his woes,” Holmes replied. “But, since my return cab-ride and those seven cigarettes, I am all the more convinced that it was necessary.”
“You believe him guilty then?”
Before he could answer there was a ring on the bell, followed by footsteps and a knock at the door. It was a fresh-faced police constable bearing a large cardboard box containing the clothes and other property of Ellen Charlett. Holmes wrote the lad a receipt and, when he had departed, slit open the box with his pocket-knife. The contents were very much as Lestrade had described them. The book he had mentioned was an edition of Jane Eyre, and the magazines were copies of Blackwood’s, both including episodes written by Lamb. Holmes examined these objects and the girl’s clothes with minute care.
“Look here, Watson,” he said, pointing to the hem of a dark blue dress. I looked and saw, adhering to the fabric, a smear of white crystals.
“Salt?” I suggested.
“Possibly.” He carefully scraped the crystals into an envelope with his knife, then re-packed the box, which he took through to his bedroom. “Now perhaps you would call on Mrs Hudson for a cold luncheon,” he said.
After lunch, while we sat smoking, we heard again the doorbell and the now-familiar tread of Beresford Lamb in the passage. When the pleasantries were over, Holmes invited our guest to take a chair and asked him a somewhat surprising question.
“Why,” he said, “did you think you could deceive Sherlock Holmes?”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“The letter you brought Watson this morning was a forgery, was it not?”
Lamb sighed. “I should have known better,” he said. “But how did you know? I thought I had done it rather well.”
“There are six points in the handwriting alone which mark the two out as different. The style of the second is more literary. But the most obvious suggestion that the two were not written by the same hand is that the writer has apparently learned to spell correctly in the few days between.” Lamb looked crest-fallen. “Why did you do it, Mr. Lamb?”
“I confess I thought you were not taking the matter seriously enough. I detected some doubt, even levity, in your manner, and though I feigned as much indifference as I could, I have been very much afraid for my life, and felt that a second letter from Charlett would concentrate your mind and powers upon my problem. I am sorry, Mr. Holmes. I should not have done it.”
“No doubt you should not have done it. But it is done. Did you do as I advised and tell the police of the letter?”
“I did, and they promised to protect me. A police constable has been stationed in Endell Street each night, and another will make a special patrol of the area during the day.”
“That is good. But these precautions will now be withdrawn, for Thomas Charlett has been arrested for the suspected murder of Elias Smith and his own daughter.”
“Then the case is solved?” cried Lamb.
“Not quite. Watson and I must find Elias Smith, dead or alive, to bear witness to the killer’s guilt.”
“I wish you the very best of luck with your quest,” said Lamb. “But my own mind is quite at rest as a result of what you have told me. Thank you.”
“We still have a good deal of evidence to collect and analyse.”
“Indeed,” I said. “Barely an hour ago we received...” My words were interrupted by a low groan from Holmes, and I looked round in time to see him crumple sideways upon the table then crash to the floor taking with him a vase of flowers which Mrs Hudson had placed there that morning. I rushed to his side. He was dreadfully pale and my first thought was that the day’s heat and excitement had been too much for him after the huge stresses of his recent cases. It took me only a few seconds, however, to realize what he was about.
“Is Mr. Holmes ill?” asked Lamb.
“I am afraid so,” I said. “His health is still poor after his encounter with Baron Maupertuis, and I fear he has overstretched himself. He needs rest now. Perhaps you would leave us and I will help him to his bed.”
The instant Lamb had departed, Holmes sprang up from the floor.
“I perceive you wished to stop me telling Lamb about the box of Ellen’s things,” I said, nodding towards the bedroom. “But why? Surely you cannot suspect Lamb? Is not forging this second letter just what an innocent, but terrified, man would do?”
“For the moment I will say only that I wish to keep Mr. Lamb innocent about the details of my investigation. My next task is to identify the crystals found on that dress, and I would ask you to leave me alone with my apparatus for a few minutes to achieve that end. Thank you.”
I sat beside the fireplace while Holmes repaired to the stained table at which he conducted his chemical experiments and lit his burner. He took out the little envelope of crystals and began to work on them, first tasting a few on his finger tip, then placing a few more upon the handle of a spoon and passing it through the flame, which briefly turned purple. Then he mused for a minute or so, and finally ground up the last of the crystals and mixed them with two other chemicals drawn from his numerous bottles and jars.
“Come, Watson, and observe the final proof,” he said. I stood beside him as he scraped the tiny mound of black powder he had made into the bowl of a spoon, and then touched a lighted match to it. There was a flash and a hiss, and a tiny genie of smoke rose from the spoon. It had an unmistakable odour. “Et voilà tout. Potassium nitrate.”
“Gunpowder,” said I.
“Quite. I knew it was a Potassium salt by the taste and purple flame. Presuming it was a common compound, it could not have been the chloride because that is hygroscopic and would not have remained as crystals, so it had to be the sulphate or nitrate. The easiest way to tell which was to make gunpowder with the sample - if it fulminated it was the nitrate and if it was inert then it was the sulphate. Saltpetre was, in fact, what I expected to find. But the test is proof positive. And now I must again leave you to amuse yourself for a little time, while I make a further enquiries. We may bring the business to a conclusion this evening, when I hope you will accompany me in the adventure. I will either return to collect you, or send for you, if you are you willing to assist me.”
“I most certainly am.”
“U
ntil this evening, then.”
It was a long and weary wait. The heat of the afternoon was oppressive, and though I tried to bend my mind back to The Mystery of a Hansom Cab, I was constantly distracted by thoughts of Ellen Charlett and her sad fate. I ate a little supper. Soon night fell. It was past nine when I finally heard from Holmes. He sent a telegram which ran thus:
Meet 17 Buckler Street Woolwich. Ten. Bring Revolver.
I collected my pistol, drew on my coat, and went out into the street to find a cab. When I arrived at Buckler Street it was a little before ten. The sky was still not quite dark, but the streetlamps were lit and I could see Holmes on the street-corner, apparently lounging against a pillar-box while he smoked a cigarette.
“You see there,” he said when I had joined him. “That warehouse?” He indicated a brick-built building. I nodded. “I hope you will not mind breaking an entry in a good cause?” Again I nodded. “I have been watching, and there is no one there now, but we can expect our bird to return to the nest before too long, now that night has fallen.”
The door of No. 17 was heavy and locked both with a padlock and a mortice-lock. Holmes produced a set of burglar’s tools, and quickly picked the padlock and opened it. The mortice-lock proved more difficult, however, and he had to unscrew the plate of the mechanism before he could release it.
“It is important,” he whispered, “that our man does not suspect we are inside when he arrives, so we must leave no traces. I will slip in and open that window. Then I will close the door and while I lock it perhaps you would re-fasten the padlock, then climb in by the window?” Yet again I nodded, though I did not much fancy the window, which was narrow and nearly six feet from the ground. Nevertheless, once I had completed my task, I managed to scramble up and squeeze myself in, and close the window behind me. I found Holmes working by a narrow blade of light from a dark-lantern, relocking the door from within by reconstructing the lock.
We were in a small store-room which appeared to be empty, save for a few piles of rotting timber, perhaps once floorboards or ship’s timbers. At the far end was a blanket, nailed up as a curtain, and Holmes nodded towards this. Beyond was a doorway into a gloomy space which smelt damp and acrid. Once through Holmes said, “I think we might risk a light here, as there are no windows.” He lit a dark lantern and the place was flooded with light. Ahead of us lay a short brick-lined corridor with three chambers leading off each side. We walked slowly along and Holmes directed his lamp into each in turn. In one was a workshop, with a carpentry bench, tools strewn about and planks of timber leaning against the wall. In another was a bed, with a night-stand and dressing-table. In the third was a desk bearing books, papers, and a typewriter, with a bookcase and two chairs beside. In the fourth was a modest larder of tinned and preserved foods, a table and chair, and some plates and cutlery. In the fifth was a motley collection of objects - two bicycles, various trunks and boxes, several children’s toys, and a great stuffed bear. The last room contained, however, a truly astonishing sight. When Holmes swung the beam of his lantern into the space I could scarcely believe it.
“Good Lord,” I whispered. “It must be the Paradol Chamber!”
Before us stood a wooden cabinet, six feet tall and three feet wide, mounted upon wheels. It was painted deep red and decorated in blue and gold, just as the Chamber had been described in Blackwood’s Magazine. When we opened the door, we found the interior covered with black velvet. Holmes reached in and pushed at one side of the central panel, which began to revolve.
“Surely,” I said, “There cannot be someone in there?”
“I doubt it,” he replied, and was proved correct. The hidden compartment of the box was empty, but, when Holmes directed his lamp at the floor, we could clearly see the holes drilled there and I could detect still a faint odour of chloroform coming from below.
“What does it mean?” I asked.
“Little in itself,” he replied. “But I believe we will find something more conclusive.” We returned to the room which was equipped as an office and Holmes began to search through the papers, then the contents of the desk drawers. From the bottom drawer he drew forth a pair of black patent leather ladies’ shoes. They seemed ridiculously small, like a child’s.
“This, I think, will be enough to convict our man,” he said. “And now, we must wait for him. You have your revolver? Excellent.”
We took our places on the two chairs beside the desk, and Holmes shuttered his lantern. I feared we might be in for a long wait, but I was happily in error, for only fifteen minutes had passed before we heard the crunching of a key in the great lock and footsteps entering the outer room. Then a gas jet was lit in the corridor and a tall figure stood in the doorway before us. Holmes uncovered his lantern, and I drew my revolver. Beresford Lamb uttered a foul oath.
“I am afraid we have you, Mr. Lamb,” said Holmes. “My friend has a revolver and will not hesitate to use it, and I have these shoes, which I am sure Mr. Charlett will identify as having belonged to his late daughter.”
“May I light the gas?” said Lamb urbanely.
“I will do it,” said Holmes. He did so and then shuttered the lantern again.
“Now my good friend Watson will remain here, keeping you covered, while I fetch those forces of law and order which you so despise. Did you lock the outer door behind you?” Lamb thought for a moment, then nodded. “Then be so good as to throw me the key - Watson, watch him!” Holmes caught the key and slipped past our prisoner into the corridor. A moment later I heard the outer door open and the sharp note of a police whistle.
Lamb smiled, then moved very slightly towards me.
“Remain perfectly still,” I said. “Or I will shoot you.”
“I doubt that,” he said. “You are a man of feeling, unlike Holmes, who is a mere reasoning machine. You would not harm a fellow creature, especially one who is innocent.”
“You are quite right,” I replied. “I would not harm an innocent. But I do not believe you are any such thing.”
“Oh, I am,” he said. “I am the victim of a most unfortunate error on Mr. Holmes’s part. I beg you to believe me. Whatever evidence he has found he has misunderstood... You will admit that it is possible.”
I felt that it was, but was in no mood to argue the toss so said nothing more.
“Now let me show you something, something which will convince you of my good intentions.” He began to reach towards the left inside pocket of his jacket.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It is a letter from Ellen Charlett. The truth is that I did know her, as a friend. She wrote to me after one of my stories touched her, and we struck up a correspondence. Her letters told of how she feared the anger of her father and wanted to run away with Smith to a safe place. I helped her with money. But her father found her all the same. This letter proves it.”
“Move your hand no further,” I said, “or you will find yourself quite unable to move it.” He ceased the gentle creeping of his hand towards his pocket. “If you are innocent, how did you come by Ellen’s shoes?”
“I confess I took them from her room, but after she had been killed. I went to the hotel to give her money, and found that Charlett had been there before me and strangled her. I took her shoes for a base reason, I am afraid - I intended to plant them in the possession of her father, so that the evidence against him would be all the stronger. I wanted him brought to justice. Only let me show you the letter, and you will see it all.”
I thought this story convincing. He could see I was wavering in my resolve, and his hand moved slowly again towards his pocket, while he smiled. His face was a picture of honesty and candour. But at that moment I recalled the shoes, how small and pathetic they had seemed, and I squeezed the trigger and fired.
I am a good shot, and the bullet caught Lamb squarely in the right shoulder. With a terrible cry he was
thrown back onto the floor in the corridor. A moment later Holmes rushed in followed by a constable.
“I should not have left you alone, Watson” he said. “Are you hurt?”
“Not at all,” I said. “Lamb told me he had a letter that would prove his innocence in his left breast pocket...” Holmes reached gingerly into the pocket and drew out a small, pearl-handled revolver.
Lamb groaned. “Your friend tried to kill me,” he said.
“Nonsense,” said Holmes. “Had he tried to kill you he would have succeeded. Now stand up and let me search you while Watson keeps you covered. I do not think you will twice doubt his determination in the matter.” Lamb dragged himself to his feet, and Holmes went through his pockets, removing nothing else but a leather-bound notebook and gold-plated fountain-pen.
“Very well,” said Lamb. “You have captured and wounded me, and I will tell you all. But not before the police inspector arrives. I want my story properly recorded, and known across the world.”
“I doubt very much that there would be a word of truth in your story. Let me propose an alternative. When the inspector arrives, I will tell your story and you will kindly correct me if I go wrong in any particular. Now sit here - Yes, against the wall - and I will hold the pistol while the Doctor examines you. Do I hear the delicate footsteps of the excellent Lestrade approaching?”
Indeed, there was a thunder of footfalls in the outer room and Lestrade and two further constables burst into the corridor. Lamb sat down against the wall and I gave Holmes the revolver while I examined the wound that I had inflicted. The bullet had passed through the shoulder-blade, shattering it and the collar-bone, and out the other side. The wound was not life-threatening, but was no doubt very painful and would leave Lamb with a permanent weakness in his right arm. I did not have my bag with me, so that all I could do was apply a compress with a clean handkerchief. Holmes handed the revolver back to me.