by Jack Tunney
It came as no surprise Holmes was correct in his assumption concerning the man in question. I unwrapped the runner twisted about the injured man, who clearly suffered achondroplasia . However, at the moment, the dwarf had more pressing concerns.
How Holmes had known the man was to be found in the mess was another matter. I had to abandon those ruminations for the moment as the blood and bruises on the prone form at my feet demanded immediate attention.
Despite his having been knocked about, I determined the dwarf's features were strongly hewed with square chin, a hard gash of a mouth, and sharp eyes. The man was gaunt, however, and pale beneath his thinning yellow hair.
The light where we were would not do. I first ascertained by rapid examination that no bones were broken, then scooped up the pitiful form and carried him to the heat of the sole gas jet still flickering behind the bar.
It was here the police found us ten minutes later.
THIRD SCRATCH
The following morning, I awoke late at Baker Street. Holmes had already breakfasted by the time I stumbled from my bedchamber, and he could not conceal his impatience while I took refreshment.
At last I was finished and, lingering over a third cup of strong tea, I declared myself ready to tell Holmes my tale. At this news, he flung himself into his chair by the fire and resumed treating his swollen, reddened hands with a noxious concoction consisting mostly of corned beef brine which toughened and healed the skin after fist-fighting about as well as it stunk up the room.
I had assured Holmes surgical or mentholated spirits would both work easily as well and without the offensive odour, but his was a unique recipe which also included alum crystals, pickle brine, rosin and gunpowder, by which he swore and would not be dissuaded. Had it not been for the coating of frost on the windows, which hinted at greater iciness without, I might have opened them to change the air.
"You would do just as well to go outside and plunge your hands into a snow bank."
"Don't be crude. There is a certain degree of science to every aspect of the Fancy."
"The science behind the cumulative effects of the punishment you seek to subject yourself to is not hard to grasp. Soon it won't be your hands that need saving. It will be your head." I indicated the discolorations about his lower jaw and neck.
A bowl of water with a sodden washcloth draped over the side revealed Holmes had harvested the icicles decorating the window sills outside, applying the ice to the marks McMurdo had left in the hope of reducing swelling. This procedure had been somewhat effective, but the bruises remained. "Look at you. Why do you subject yourself to this?"
"The fight ring is my laboratory and my classroom," Holmes replied. "It is in the seeking of reducing exposure to physical harm that I must enter it from time to time. In my trade as a consulting detective, knowing how to defend oneself is of paramount importance. I am not telling you anything you do not already know."
"The battlefield taught me all I need to know about inflicting harm and avoiding same," I replied with some heat.
"It is rare in life that we can choose our battlefields and the rules of combat. You chose yours when you enlisted, I have chosen mine. By the very nature of the sport, my education in the noble science of defense will be short-lived, I assure you."
"For your sake. I hope so."
"Time is against us. In all things," said Holmes. "For the moment, I judge the pending arrival of a visitor or two before the morning is out. Shall we put aside this discussion and concentrate on the matter at hand?"
"With pleasure. If you will permit me to begin with a question," said I. "How the devil did you know the pub contained a dwarf?"
His impatience over my query was obvious, but as his hands were soaking up the wrists, he could not wave it away.
"There was a step, like a church kneeler, running behind the bar," he replied, peevishly, his tone taking on the rhythm of a telegraph. "Step stools about the place, a short-handled broom in the corner near the overturned piano, a shovel of the same height near by, an apron better fitted for a child up against the kitchen door. A bent stair rod with blood upon it. I could go on, but I believe my explanation to be satisfactory. Pray, continue. Does this man have a name?"
"Peter Hayden."
"Progress at last. Now, let us have the rest before our visitors interrupt us."
"He'd taken a beating," said I. "His nose was broken and there was a gash above his left ear requiring suture, which I lacked the equipment to provide. The rest was bruises and scratches."
"Yet, he was coherent," prompted Holmes.
"That he was. How did you know? He haltingly told me four men wearing flour sacks on their heads to conceal their features had barged into the tavern and instigated the destruction we observed."
"What is Mr. Hayden's position in the concern?"
"He serves drinks and tidies up after hours in exchange for board and wages. But you had already guessed the situation, judging from your explanation as to how you determined a dwarf was on the premises."
"It is always important to seek confirmation of everything a case brings to light. Who is the proprietor?"
"Do you recall the hulking figure taking bets at your match?" asked I.
"I do."
"There is the owner. He's a former boxer who used his winnings to start the place. Ezekiel Tanner by name."
"Yes, he did as many of them do when they leave the Fancy," said Holmes. "Pity. Hayden could have used the pugilistic abilities of his employer in these circumstances. Mr. Hayden saw nothing to help identify the vandals?"
"They had a sack for him, as he tells it, only his lacked eye holes. Surprised and overpowered, Hayden was beaten and left for dead while the place was ransacked."
"And the police have this sack?"
"They do. It was unmarked, however," said I. "Plain burlap. No company markings or name imprinted on it."
"Ah, Watson, you grasp my line of reasoning. I'm certain there would be something to be learned from the sack. Sadly, leaving these discoveries to the Yard will undoubtedly be an exercise in frustration. Is there more to your recounting?"
"It's all been said. The men did their vile work and made good their escape while Hayden was incapacitated. Of course, there was nothing he could have done to alter the outcome."
"Nor could any man in such a situation as he described. Not without a brace of pistols at any rate. Anything at all of pertinence to add?"
"Hayden told the police an unsavoury group had been in the pub earlier in the evening, but he cannot swear these men were the same as those who attacked him. He did not recognize any of them. He says they came upon him as he was bolting the street door shortly after Tanner had departed for Allison's and McMurdo's farewell. Tanner was to be gone only a short while."
Holmes paused to consider. "This could be the product of an overactive imagination spurred on by the attack. Or not. Either way, it does bear consideration. Speaking of the police, did they give you a hard time of it?"
"I was not recognized until I presented my credentials," I replied. "After that, they relaxed with regards to my possible culpability in the matter. However, they were still slightly hostile as my association with you is well known to them and some resent, what they term, your amateurish meddling in police matters."
"If there was a brain among them, my services would not be required," said Holmes.
"Do you see a connection between the murder of Mathews and the assault on Hayden?"
"Other than both having occurred on the same night, it is too early in the game to speculate on such things."
"Will you lend a hand should Lestrade seek your help in either case?"
"I will not."
Holmes did not immediately elaborate. Finishing the treatment to his hands, he returned the emulsion to a stoppered bottle for which my nose was most grateful. He proceeded to the next step in the regimen which featured the application of a liniment containing three ounces of laudanum, four ounces of spirits of hartshorn,
one quart alcohol, two ounces of iodine and three of eucalyptus mixed with a penny's worth of horseradish and alum. He worked the salve into his hands.
"Can you imagine the result?" said he, at last. "Were we to go down to Camden Town in an official police capacity, every door would be instantly barred and every hand raised against us. I have gotten word out and suspect we'll have a second visitor before lunchtime."
"We've not had a first."
"Patience. Inspector Lestrade is a busy man."
With that, Holmes completed his regimen, disposed of the liniment and wiped his hands. He sniffed the air questioningly and a shake of my head confirmed to him that removing the various balms employed had not completely eradicated the smell.
Out of respect for our impending guest, Holmes sprayed Florida water about the room as a masking agent, which worked passably well. He then lit a cigarette while I fired a cigar, adding concealing smoke to further obliterate the olfactory evidence of his involvement in boxing.
Holmes took to staring into the fire, his eyes glinting with inward speculation. I knew better than to disturb him. I took up the morning paper with the intent to read the account of the murder. In this manner, we awaited the arrival of our guests.
The paper held no shortage of horrors. A Jonathan Latimer Midge had been found bludgeoned to death in his home off Grosvenor Square. I wished the Yard good luck as the dead man had been everything from a sideshow carnival operator to running a fleet of cabs. The list of potential suspects was legion.
Mrs. Margaret O'Brien, aged 66, widowed, had had her throat slit when her cat had gotten away from her and she had dashed out into the snowy alleyway. The suspect had been her lodger, the paper’s story had concluded, as Scotland Yard had their man, the fool committing the heinous act in front of a dozen witnesses.
At last I found what I was looking for. The article detailing the demise of Mathews revealed the official verdict that Nigel Mathews had been strangled by a man of considerable strength given the severe bruising around the throat. Mathews's wallet had been taken, but not all of his personal effects. There was no sign of resistance or struggle on the body.
His presence in Camden Town was not accounted for in the piece. Detectives were said to be canvassing the neighbourhood in search of persons willing to come forward with information concerning the murder.
I had closed the paper and was setting it aside when the tramp of boots upon the door sill announced our first guest. This was followed by a rapid stamp up the stairs before Inspector Lestrade strode into the room.
"Bare-knuckle fighting, is it, Mr. Holmes?" asked Lestrade before he had his coat off. His lean, ferret-like features were red with cold. "Never fancied you to go for a rawsman. What is that smell?"
"Mrs. Hudson's Christmas pudding," replied Holmes. "What can we do for you, Inspector?"
"I could run you in for a start."
"To what end, sir?" asked Holmes. "Mr. McMurdo and myself were wearing gloves. Such bouts are legal in the Empire, are they not? If you desire my aid in the matter of the murder or Nigel Mathews, please say so and we can dispense with the cajoling."
"You've worn gloves for all your fights, then?" Lestrade put his hat on the side table and unbuttoned his coat before pacing about the room. "Seems you are already investigating this case."
"Actually, no, I am not. My having been in the proximity of the scene was pure chance."
"You were not there for any other reason than the benefit?"
"None."
This seemed to settle Lestrade to some degree. "We are beset on every side in the daily enforcement of the laws of the land. It's a held belief amongst my brothers that civilians should not stick their snouts into police business for fear of mucking things up. Especially not without being asked first. It is a belief with which I confess some agreement with. However, I have been grateful for your assistance in the past. You say simple fate placed you at the most recent scene, which is a comfort to me."
"I am delighted," said Holmes. "I assume fate has placed you here for some purpose?"
Lestrade shrugged his narrow shoulders. "Professional courtesy, Mr. Holmes. By being in the vandalized pub, you and the doctor have inadvertently walked into a nest of vipers."
"How so?" asked I.
Lestrade hesitated, then with a snort of resignation through his pinched, red nose, he began. "Ezekiel Tanner is a man of low character deep in illicit activity – gambling, racketeering, kidnapping for a start. We have pruned his organization back, but have not turned up specific solid evidence against him. Not from want of trying, mind. Which brings me to your involvement, sir. The Yard's investigation is on-going and our noose is tightening. So, you can understand the reluctance of those in the thick of it to have you go blundering about – as they put it."
"Do they?" asked Holmes rhetorically. "I suppose they are experts at that sort of thing. The vandalizing of the pub does not concern me at present," said Holmes. "The murder of Nigel Mathews does. Is your mind put at ease?"
"It is."
"I am delighted to hear it."
"If you will permit me," said Lestrade. "I shall now set your mind at ease, as I know you have sunk your teeth into the Bald-faced Stag even if you won't admit it. The crime looks to be one of opportunity. Your dance with Angus McMurdo leeched the Stag's usual trade last night. Women and gentlemen are unlikely to bring their custom to the likes of the place. What was Tanner to do, but close the place after popping out for some wagering? Although, that's not how he accounts for his presence at the benefit. Greed got the better of him and a quartet of louts with an enterprising bent of mind saw a chance to profit by his absence and took it or, perhaps, they were intoxicating and merely wanted a lark. If they have any idea of who they have put themselves up against, they'll be at the docks booking passage. Otherwise, they will rue the day they were born if we cannot find them first."
"Of course you have determined no connection exists between the crimes – the vandalism and the murder?"
"Mathews was strangled and robbed," said Lestrade, offhandedly. "Happens with disturbing regularity in these streets I am sorry to say. The safe assumption would be to pin it on the vandals. The lack of tracks around the corpse, except for yours and the Doctor's, says otherwise."
Holmes threw up his hands. "If that is the official word, then there is nothing more to be said on the matter."
"There are no shortage of murders in this city."
"Yes, I've been reading the paper," said I. "Dreadful. Especially at this time of the year."
Lestrade buttoned his coat and picked up his hat.
"I often hear how Christmas time is when we're supposed to be at our best," he began with some heat. "Only it's said by them what don't know of those so blackened by hate that the days of the calendar are mere steps towards damnation, one indistinguishable from the next, and all serving no other function."
He banged the door shut with finality, leaving us to consider his parting words.
FOURTH SCATCH
Three-quarters of an hour later, word was brought in that a gentleman had come to see us. Holmes gave his assent and a heavy tread was heard upon the stairs.
The man who entered the sitting room was instantly imposing. Although of average height, his broad shoulders and large frame made him appear much taller. The fine cashmere coat he wore, buttoned close against the cold, resembled a theater curtain as he strode towards us. He gave his name as Arthur Mathews.
Being of middle-age with grey about his temples and shot through his thinning black hair, his wide, flat head with its high, wrinkled forehead left no doubt as to the identity of the man. Here was the father of the murdered boy, Nigel Mathews.
Holmes poured the man a brandy, and Mathews came directly to the point.
"Mr. Holmes," said he in a voice slightly higher in pitch than one would expect from so large a man. "My son has been struck down. I would see the guilty party punished for it."
Holmes and I expressed our condolences fo
r his loss, which he accepted gravely. Then my friend responded.
"We may be of some assistance in this matter. Will you submit to some questions first?"
"If doing so will speed the proceedings along, then my answer is, yes."
"Excellent. First, when did you retire from the prize ring?"
"I am a businessman, sir," Mathews replied haughtily.
"Yes, at the docks," replied Holmes. "A shipping concern, which does reasonably well."
This leeched some of the man's decorum. "What? How?"
"How did I know you are a former boxer? Or how do I know the current state of your business?"
Stunned, Mathews could only repeat, "I am a businessman."
"Yes, we have established that fact." Holmes paused before continuing with a somewhat satisfied air. "To return the meeting to solid footing, I will explain my deductive steps in the hope such explanation will demonstrate my abilities satisfactorily to you. However, if I am forced to do so for every fact passing my lips, then we shall be seated here until the last trump. Do you take my meaning, sir?"
Mathews had recovered some measure of his self-control. He nodded in the affirmative, his eyes widely fixed on Holmes.
"Very well," said Holmes. "The light way you carry yourself gave away your past profession straight off. Your face, though not disfigured, reveals the effects of blows received. Your red, flattened knuckles speak of blows delivered. All of this aside, your reaction to the odours of salve and liniment we have tried fruitlessly to conceal produced a reaction of familiarity in you as you crossed the threshold. The flare of the nostrils as they encountered a familiar, though remembered, scent. Your eyes widening slightly in reaction and the nostalgic tug at the corners of your mouth. All as easy to read as the text on a newspaper."