by David Marcum
Holmes smiled. “You seemed reluctant to use the water method on a Milner.”
“Hammer to crack a nut, sir. I could open a Milner with a hat pin.” He smiled. “Were I still active in the profession.”
Holmes turned to me. “Cigar?”
“Thank you, no.”
“That was a request, old man.”
Holmes took the last cigar from my case and I lit it with a match.
“Would you use the water method on a safe full of jewellery and watches?” Holmes asked Towers between puffs.
“Of course not. It’s good for banknotes or printed documents, anything uncompressible. Helps there’s no flame. But the pressure wave would pulverise most gems, smash up the settings, and crush watches flat. Is that what he did?”
“Who did?” Holmes asked.
Towers frowned. “The burglar at Barratt’s.”
“The thief followed your water scheme, with one error and a small detail omitted.”
“Serious now, gentlemen,” Towers said. “I did not crack that safe. I swear on the grave of my beloved wife that I am innocent in this matter. If he used nitro and water on a Milner, the thief’s no Yeggman.”
“Your granddaughter is a bonny child, Mr. Towers,” Holmes said as he examined the burning end of his cigar. “Her blonde curls are particularly fetching. And she has her father’s blue eyes.”
Towers was silent for a long moment. “He’s no loving father to her, sir, and no husband neither. He was a bad ‘un with my Alice. He put her in the family way, so I threw him out on his ear.”
“You set a booby trap to deal with him when he returned for the explosives, but you thought better of it.”
Mr. Towers hung his head. “I did consider a trap. I was furious for a time, but I am no killer. I insisted that he remove the dynamite, but I never set the trap. I left it empty as a warning.”
“I strongly advise you to convince your ex-apprentice to go to the police and admit his part in the safe blowing,” Holmes said.
“Then Inspector Jones would have both of us, Mr. Holmes. He and Jones can rot in Hell for all I care. He was a poor apprentice, too full of himself and not wanting to hear of skeleton keys and finesse. He just wanted to blow things up. And he betrayed my hospitality. I shall rely on you, Mr. Holmes, to see me right.”
“Very well.” Holmes stood, and Towers and I stood with him.
“Bees?” Holmes asked.
“I am partial to honey, Mr. Holmes.” Towers smiled. “And the bees are a useful deterrent to your official colleagues.” He flicked a glance at the police guard outside and lowered his voice to a murmur. “I leave a pile of junk in a leather bag for the coppers to snout out, but my working tools are distributed among the hives.”
Towers frowned. “You mentioned an error and that a detail was omitted, sir?” he asked Holmes.
“I believe the burglar followed your method to the letter, Towers, with the exception that he used far too much explosive.”
“And the detail he omitted?”
“The safe was empty when it was blown. There was nothing to steal.”
A telegraph boy on his bicycle waited outside the police station, breathing hard. “Which, I was told at Barratt’s the Jeweller that Mr. Holmes was at the police station, so I followed-”
Holmes snatched the envelope from the boy’s hand. “Thruppence for the messenger, Watson.”
He scanned the telegram flimsy. “No, a tanner or even a bob.”
I passed the boy a shilling and he beamed a thank you. “Any answer, gents?”
Holmes waved him away. “Ha! Inspector Jones did not check Reece’s wardrobe, nor the contents of his shed. But I did.”
“And?”
“In the first, the wardrobe contains suits of the very finest Saville Row cut, dress shirts and ties, a moleskin lapelled coat, silk drawers, and a top hat.”
“And in the shed?” I asked.
“All the obvious things to maintain a weed-free garden.”
Holmes called a hansom from the stand outside the police station.
“Mrs. Barratt appreciates the finer things in life,” he said as we set off. “Her dresses, shoes, and perfume all evince that. Reece told you that he and his mistress travelled to Brighton to buy horses and a carriage. Mrs. Barratt stayed at the Grand, the best hotel in Brighton.”
Holmes passed me the telegram. “According to this report from the manager, Reece did not stay in the servants’ quarters but in the hotel proper as Mrs. Barratt’s nephew. Their rooms were on the same floor. He ate with her in the dining room, they danced to the hotel string quintet, and no doubt promenaded arm-in-arm along the sea front.” Holmes smiled. “Thus the dress clothes and topper.”
“It was only a few months after the boy’s entry into the household that Mr. Barratt decamped,” I said. “Did he know of the relationship between his wife and Reece? Is that why he left her?”
“I think not.” Holmes smiled. “I believe Mrs. Barratt realised that things could not go on the way they were. Inevitably, her amorous relations with her servant would be discovered by her husband or one of their staff. She had to make a fresh start. Reece’s appetites were doubtless becoming as expensive as hers, and I would wager from his manner that he was no longer willing to act the part of a menial.”
I frowned. “I say, Holmes, you do not mean that Mr. Barratt-”
“I think it perfectly likely. The shed was well-stocked with arsenical weed killer bought from a local shop where the boy is, I am sure, a regular customer. If the husband was done away with, Reece is either a guilty accessory to the crime of murder, or an innocent dupe. In either case, he is in danger. I think it’s high time we met Mrs. Barratt.”
“The lady has recovered to a degree, Mr. Holmes, and she is in the garden taking tea,” Inspector Jones informed us as we stepped down from our cab at the shop.
“I must impress on you, Inspector, Holmes answered in a stern tone, “that although Towers is an infamous cracksman, in this isolated and particular case, he is innocent.”
Holmes bore down the inspector’s expressions of disbelief. “I believe Mr. Barratt may have been murdered, poisoned through the agency of arsenical weed killer. Mrs. Barratt’s barrister, who I have no doubt will be of the greatest eminence, will inevitably point the finger of blame at Reece, who as gardener has free access to the poison. I have just discovered that he and Mrs. Barratt had a potent motive.”
Holmes handed Inspector Jones the telegram.
“May I suggest that your people investigate the rose beds, and a patch of raw earth by the back door, and that you retain an open mind on the question of Mrs. Barratt’s involvement in the robbery? Long Tom Towers is innocent, and I will wager you my reputation that the contents of the safe were never stolen. They never left the premises.”
Inspector Jones gaped at Holmes for a moment before he called his sergeant.
Holmes and I introduced ourselves to Mrs. Barratt. A tea table had been set up on the lawn under a large parasol and she sat in one of four rattan chairs.
She was an elegant woman, perhaps in her early forties, wearing a frilly afternoon gown and a veiled and ornamented hat slanted, Duchess of Devonshire-style, at a sharp angle. Her hair was black, framing a pale, oval face, lightly made-up. Her eyes were a deep, deep green, bright with intelligence and humour.
“I must have my cup of tea, gentlemen,” she said after she invited us to sit. “My nerves are in shatters. My sweet little bedroom is wrecked, and just look at the shop. How could anyone do such a thing. It is barbaric.”
“I believe I know how you discovered Reece’s experience as a cracksman’s assistant.” Holmes said.
“What are you suggesting Mr. Holmes? Reece, a criminal? He is but a child. I do not believe a word of it.” Mrs. Barratt pouted. “
What an unkind remark to make at the tea table.”
“Mrs. Towers visited you and informed you of Reece’s background. She aimed to convince you that the boy had designs not on you, Madam, but on the jewels in your safe. She wanted you to throw the boy out, so he would make his peace with Mr. Towers and return to her and her child.”
“I recall no such conversation, Mr. Holmes. This is all so silly.”
“The police may be stupid, Madam,” I said. “but you cannot pull the wool over the eyes of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
“Can I not, Doctor?” Mrs. Barratt pursed her lips. “Can I not?”
She rang a small silver hand bell, and a maid appeared from the house.
“Two more teacups, and bring more hot water.”
Mrs. Barratt smiled. “Reece? You tell me he is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I had no idea. Do you think he was the perpetrator of the robbery? Surely not! What suspicious minds you gentlemen have!”
She sipped her tea. “Now I come to think of it, there have been one or two little items missing from the shop recently. It would be so very sad if they were discovered among his things and, what with the burglary and so on, he was sentenced to a long term of penal servitude. He is a willing boy who keeps the lawn just so.”
The maid returned with a tray, and we waited while she lay cups, saucers, and plates in front of Holmes and me and filled the teapot.
The maid left us, and Mrs. Barratt poured tea. “You intrigue me, Mr. Holmes,” she said with a smile. “I will make you a bargain. You tell me your theories, and if you are off kilter, I will endeavour to correct you. But not a word to that bumbling fool of an inspector nor anyone else, on your word of honour as gentlemen. No hint, nor jot nor tittle, and I am yours to question as you will. If not, my lips are sealed.”
“I do so promise.” Holmes turned to me. “Watson?”
I stood. “I prefer to leave, Holmes.”
Holmes leapt up and stood before me. “We owe it to Mrs. Towers to confirm the truth.”
“But if we cannot speak-”
“Trust, my dear fellow.”
I subsided into my chair and nodded reluctant agreement.
“One lump or two, Doctor?” Mrs. Barratt asked with an insolent flutter of her eyelashes.
I refused sugar, and I regarded my tea cup with not unwarranted suspicion.
“Mrs. Towers visited you?” Holmes asked, settling into his chair and sipping his tea.
“The girl came here with her whelp,” Mrs. Towers answered. “She attempted to convince me that Reece had inveigled his way into my house in order to steal my jewels. I knew better, of course. I had taken him to my bed within a week of his employment.”
“You gave Mrs. Towers the gold necklace found at the house.”
“Of course. If necessary, it would prove an attempt to blackmail me over my interest in Reece.” Mrs. Barratt chuckled. “In fact, according to the fat policeman, it neatly convicts her father.”
She turned to me. “You haven’t touched your tea, Doctor. Is it too strong? Perhaps more milk?”
“Thank you, I am not thirsty.”
“Oh, look at you, gentlemen, with your sour expressions,” Mrs. Barratt exclaimed. “How prudish you are. The girl is no Mrs. Towers - she is little Miss Alice Towers, daughter of a known criminal, delivered of an illegitimate brat, and no better than she should be.”
She sipped her tea. “And I see how you regard me, Doctor. Mine is an ardent nature that my husband could not satisfy. He ran off with his floosy and good riddance.” Mrs. Barratt chuckled. “She’ll have her work cut out.”
I stood. “Holmes!”
“And if Mr. Towers evades the stout arm of the Law in the person of Inspector Jones,” Holmes said, “you will throw Reece to him by revealing his connection with Mr. Towers and his daughter.” Holmes put down his cup and leaned forward. “The boy’s fingernails are crusted with soil, yet he said he had done no recent gardening. He hid the jewellery last evening, after the shop closed.”
Mrs. Barratt shaded her eyes and looked across the garden. “Why are the police grubbing in the rose bushes? I do hope they mind the lawn. I like to keep things just so.” She turned to Holmes. “If Reece did take the jewellery, he deserves a heavy punishment. Imagine what other crimes he may have committed while under my roof. It does not bear thinking about.”
Inspector Jones halloed from the rose beds. “Doctor Watson!”
I jogged across the lawn and looked down into a newly opened shallow grave in which a man’s body wearing only a pair of drawers lay face-down. I knelt and examined the corpse. “Remarkably well-preserved for, what is it, a year-and-a-bit? The lack of external decomposition and bright-red skin are potent indicators for arsenic poisoning.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Inspector Jones said, rubbing his hands together. “The boy has identified the body as that of Mr. Barratt.”
Reece stood between two policemen, his face blanched.
“He led us to the loot in the unplanted bed by the back door.” Inspector Jones sniffed a consequential sniff. “I told you, Doctor, that cold hard facts would bring a solution to the case.”
I followed the inspector’s broad-shouldered back to the tea table.
“Tea, Inspector?”
“Thank you, no. I must inform you, Mrs. Barratt, that we have found the stolen jewellery.”
“How clever of you, Inspector Jones. All’s well that ends well, then, apart from the mess in the shop.” She rang the bell and summoned the maid.
“You may tell Cook to serve the scones.”
“I must also inform you that we have found your husband.”
“After all this time? I do hope he is well. In Harrogate, I presume?”
Holmes stood. “I would imagine that Mr. Barratt is remarkably well, or at least well-preserved. Arsenic in heroic quantities has that effect.”
Mrs. Barratt lifted an eyebrow. “I do not understand your reference, sir.”
“Mr. Holmes refers to the murder by arsenical poisoning of your husband, Madam,” Inspector Jones intoned.
“Arsenic? I know nothing of arsenic. Is it used to combat weeds? The boy does all that sort of thing.”
“I must arrest you, Mrs. Barratt, in the name of the Queen,” Inspector Jones continued. “I take you in charge for conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. Further charges may follow as our investigation proceeds.”
“Good day to you,” Holmes said.
I bowed a stiff farewell to Mrs. Barratt.
Sometime later, after Holmes had lectured the police on causes and inferences, Inspector Jones shook our hands, then leaned back on his heels, beaming. “I had my suspicions of young Reece from the start, gentlemen.”
I followed Holmes out through the house and onto the pavement outside.
“The masterful inspector is pleased with himself,” I suggested.
Holmes shrugged. “Let him have whatever meagre glory may attach to this sordid little affair.”
We climbed into a hansom. “Young Reece had been turned out of the Towers household for his attentions to his master’s daughter,” Holmes said as we settled on the bench. “He applied for the job vacancy at Barratt’s. Perhaps he had designs on the jewels. Possibly he wished to start a new life. He was seduced, raised out of his sphere, taken to Brighton, and given a high time there. He was in the thrall of Mrs. Barratt, with expectations far above his station. He, and in both senses his mistress, concocted the burglary.”
He tapped his stick on the roof of the cab. “Baker Street.”
We set off with a jerk. “His seductress plays a long game,” Holmes continued. “She ensures that while those around her may be in danger, she remains inviolate.”
“What of the farewell letter, and the Christmas card?” I asked.
; “The only person who saw them was Mr. Spinelli, who did not know Mr. Barratt’s handwriting. Both were forged.”
“Amor vincit omnia. Love conquers all, Holmes. What a depth of depravity.”
“And greed. In five more years, Mrs. Barratt could have had her husband declared legally missing and intestate, sold the stock, and closed the business. She could not wait, and she desired both stock and insurance.”
“And Reece?”
“My feeling is that she would have shed the boy on her way to Biarritz.” Holmes replied.
I shook my head.
“Our work is done,” Holmes continued. “The Law, in its Athelney-Jonesian solemnity, must run its course. There is no firm evidence against Towers once the explosives are connected to Reece except the necklace, which his daughter will attest was given her by Mrs. Barratt to buy her silence on Reece’s background. We know it was part of her longer-term plan to implicate Towers in the burglary.
“Reece is guilty of complicity in the botched, faked robbery, but whether of the death of Mr. Barratt, I cannot say for sure. What do you think?”
“Mrs. Barratt is obviously perfectly capable of killing her husband, planting him amid her prize-winning roses, and faking the note and card,” I said. “She is a Gorgon.”
Holmes leaned back on the cab bench. “We will see in a month or two whether a British jury shares your opinion.”
“Why, of course I do!” he wheezed. “It’s Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the theorist. Remember you! I’ll never forget how you lectured us all on causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case. It’s true you set us on the right track; but you’ll own now that it was more by good luck than good guidance.”
Inspector Athelney Jones - The Sign of Four
The Singular Tragedy of the Atkinson Brothers at Trincomalee
by Craig Stephen Copland
What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft o’er Ceylon’s isle;
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile?