by David Marcum
“I’m afraid not.”
“Ah, no matter, Mrs. McGinty,” Holmes said. “Now then, seeing as this is a matter of murder, I cannot in good conscience keep this away from the police, bumbling as they may be. However, if you feel that your unfamiliarity with the city will color the impressions of the Metropolitan Police’s finest, than I shall bring the matter to them myself. However, I shall need your son’s address in Piccadilly Circus, should they need to contact you.”
Mrs. McGinty provided it and, scribbling it on his shirt cuff, Holmes thanked her and opened the door wide.
“Perhaps Watson,” he said, “you could procure for Mrs. McGinty a cab so she needn’t search the city aimlessly for another.”
I ventured down into the street with our client, and after seeing her off in a hansom, returned to our sitting room, where Holmes was pouring us both drinks from the sideboard.
“Thoughts, Doctor?” he asked as he pressed a glass into my hand. I slid into my chair before the fire and reached for my cigarette case.
“It’s quite an extraordinary case,” I said. “To think that the murderers would be brazen enough to dispose of the corpse on a city street... in a hansom! It’s fantastic!”
“Indeed,” my friend murmured. “The case is a unique one and, I fear, it may prove to be quite challenging. Unfortunately for us - and the police - Mrs. McGinty is unable to name the street where the whole thing happened.”
“Then how shall you go about looking into the matter?”
“We may be in for a challenge, my dear Watson,” Holmes said, “but I very much doubt that the case is hopeless. I shall begin with a very detailed perusal of the newspapers tomorrow morning.”
“Looking for what?”
“Anything. Anything at all. If something strikes my fancy, then I very much think it ought to be scrutinized and examined in depth. I wager that you shall want a hand in the investigation, my friend?”
“Certainly,” I said. “That is if I can be of any assistance.”
“My dear Watson,” Holmes said, “you do yourself a disservice, and I daresay you habitually underrate your own abilities. Tomorrow morning shall be spent in full pursuit of facts from the printed word.”
I quit Baker Street not long afterward. Heading home, I drifted off to sleep easily and, waking myself early, I ate a simple breakfast before hurrying back to 221b, despite the heavy rain which came with the warm weather. Inside the familiar brick building once more, I hadn’t even started up the stairs when I knew that my friend had already begun the hunt. His galoshes - saturated with mud and rain - were standing in the foyer. Ascending the steps to the sitting room, I eased open the door and found Holmes seated upon the hearthrug, one leg crossed over the other, as he perused at least half-a-dozen newspapers which were spread out before him, analyzing each one over the stem of his cherry-wood pipe.
“Ah, Watson,” he said as I entered, “good of you to come ’round early. I have already begun the search.”
“I can see,” I said smugly, “though I knew that before I had ever set foot in this room.”
“Oh? And how did you know that?”
“Simple,” I said. “I observed your galoshes drenched in mud and water in the foyer downstairs.”
Sherlock Holmes laughed heartily. “A simple observation, but accurate all the same. Come. I have laid aside a few papers for you to read. Do not overlook anything which may seem of interest to us.”
We spent the remainder of the morning in virtual silence. I scanned columns and columns of text while Holmes did the same. After nearly an hour, however, he stood and rummaged through his bookshelf until he found a large map of London, which he spread out on the breakfast table and scrutinized with the same intensive glare which he had given to the periodicals.
With the clock about to chime noon, I stood and poured myself a drink. “Anything?” I asked Holmes at length.
“I rather think so,” he replied. He pointed with the stem of his pipe at a point on the map. “These streets here seem to me to be the most likely upon which Mrs. Louisa McGinty found herself last evening. Though I cannot at present narrow them down from the current six or seven, I would be thoroughly surprised to learn that she had made it any further than Taviton Street.”
“That is in the right direction towards Piccadilly Circus,” I said.
“Indeed,” Holmes said. “As to any articles of interest in the news, I have a very strong candidate for further investigation, but I should like to hear if you have anything worthy of mentioning.”
“I fear not,” I said. “I do not think that my perusal has been very fruitful. But what did you find?”
Holmes scooped up The Times from the floor. “Only a few lines mind you,” he said, “but allow me to read from it.”
He cleared his throat. “The headline reads ‘Military Man Vanishes.’ The article itself runs thus, ‘According to the family of Colonel Walter Cunningham, the patriarch of the Cunningham family has vanished without trace. Last seen at his club on Thursday evening, the Colonel seemed to be in high spirits before he headed homeward. It is reported by the Colonel’s wife, Mrs. Sophie Cunningham, that her husband was heard returning home late Thursday evening. However, after going to his study, it is believed that he went out again and did not return. A police investigation has been launched.’”
“Extraordinary,” I murmured. “You think that the dead man was this Colonel Cunningham?”
“It is, at present, the most likely possibility. I should very much like to speak with the man in charge of the case.”
So saying, Holmes scribbled a note upon a sheet of paper and, rushing it downstairs, delivered it into the hands of Mrs. Hudson. Returning a moment later, he bemoaned not being to do much until his cable was answered, and suggested that we confine ourselves to luncheon and take refuge from the tumultuous storm outside.
The answer to Holmes’s wire came an hour later. Mrs. Hudson delivered it to my friend, who tore it open zealously, chuckling as he read it over.
“Well?” I asked.
“The man in charge of the Cunningham investigation is none other than our good friend Inspector Lestrade. Ha! And to think that only this morning, while I out getting these papers, I wired Lestrade the details of Mrs. McGinty’s case. I shouldn’t be very surprised if the good inspector is rather cross with me now, as I’m sure he had enough with which to contend, being knee-deep in his current investigation.
“All-the-same, this is good news for us, my friend. With Lestrade heading the investigation, I rather imagine that he will be more willing to divulge some further details about the Cunningham case. Would you be adverse to braving this weather and taking a ride to Scotland Yard?”
Telling Holmes in all seriousness that I would like nothing more, we gathered up our hats and coats and made our way outside. Hailing a cab, we climbed inside. As we rode together, I could see my friend brimming with anticipation. Acting as he did as an independent consulting detective, he was able to work outside of the law. In this way, Holmes could maintain his low opinion of the official police force, though I have perhaps given readers the wrong impression about them, as they truly weren’t all that bad. Surely no one would be able to compete with Holmes’s mental prowess, and I rather thought that they did a competent job in their own way. Though their methods were slipshod at times, I couldn’t fault the Scotland Yarders in the slightest when acting on more routine matters.
And, I think that Holmes knew this, and grew to look down on them as something of a minor jest. Inspectors Lestrade, Gregson, and Jones may have grated upon him, but he knew that they were not a bad lot.
Disembarking from our carriage, Holmes pressed a coin into the cabbie’s hand and we made our way to Inspector Lestrade’s small office, located on the third floor.
“Well, well, Mr. Holmes,” he said as we entered his offi
ce, “come to offer me another case?”
“No,” my friend replied. “I would very much like some information.”
“Information? What about?”
“The Cunningham case,” Holmes said. “You are the man in charge of the investigation and, though I hesitate to say anything definite, I would be surprised in the extreme to learn that the Colonel’s disappearance is not linked to Mrs. Louisa McGinty’s testimony.”
“You mean to say that the two mysterious men seen stowing a body into a hansom cab were disposing of the Colonel?”
“As I said Lestrade, I would be surprised in the extreme if that were otherwise.”
Seeming to finally register what an impact this would have on his own case, Lestrade took a seat behind his desk, ready to lay out all of the facts to us. “Well, it’s like this Mr. Holmes: Colonel Walter Cunningham is something of a notable figure in Her Majesty’s Military. Have you ever heard of him?”
“I defer all military knowledge to Watson,” Holmes replied.
“Doctor?”
“Thinking on it now,” I said, “I think I’ve heard the name connected with the Boer War.”
“Indeed, Dr. Watson,” Lestrade said. “Colonel Cunningham gained notoriety for his service to Queen and country in that war, and in that time since his return from the front, he has amassed something of a family... and wealth. The woman to whom he is now married, Sophie Cunningham, is in fact his second wife, and she is some fifteen years his junior. I am no expert in societal news, Mr. Holmes, but I do believe that there are some who think that she had married him merely for the notoriety and the money which came with his estate. She is also an actress, which has colored many people’s opinion of her.
“All the same, the Colonel, a frequenter of a club in Pall Mall, was in good spirits when he left on Thursday night. According to the other members, Cunningham did not drink or smoke, and he seemed to be in full possession of his faculties when he left. He was seen off by the doorman of the club, and he turned up at home sometime before eleven, according to both Mrs. Cunningham (I’ll get back to her in a moment,) and the Colonel’s military batman - and his butler - a man called Mathews.
“According to Mathews, the Colonel arrived home and insisted that he had some work to tend to before he retired to bed. The Colonel then went off to his study and locked himself in. This story is verified by Mrs. Cunningham, who said that she went to bed with a slight headache earlier in the evening. However, with the door to her bedroom ajar, she could hear her husband enter the house and exchange words with Mathews.
“Only fifteen minutes or so elapsed before the Colonel remerged from his study, and said that he had to go back out. Mathews said that he saw the Colonel out, where he hailed another cab, climbed inside, and drove away. He has not been seen since.”
“If Cunningham was the dead man,” Holmes said, “that leaves nearly an entire day unaccounted for. In that time, the Colonel had to disappear, be killed, and end up on the other side of the city in order to be loaded into a cab.”
“Are you starting to doubt your theory, Mr. Holmes?”
“No,” the detective replied. “I am merely trying to put things into a sequence. I find that putting things into a proper order is beneficial in the extreme. Now, Inspector: What do you think of Mrs. Cunningham? Do you take her to be the conniving social-climber that she is made out to be?”
“I really couldn’t say, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said. “She seemed to be quite a genuine, concerned young woman when I spoke to her.”
“The Colonel’s family,” I interjected. “What of them?”
“They’re quite estranged,” Lestrade replied. “When the Colonel’s first wife died some four years ago and he married his second wife, I believe that did divide the family. As it stands, however, the Colonel has two sons. They, as I discovered, were both out of the city at the time of their father’s disappearance. Indeed, until I did some digging, I doubt that they had even heard about it.”
Holmes seemed to be staring into space, absorbing all of the information. “Inspector,” he said at length, “do you think it would be possible for Watson and me to examine the Cunningham’s house?”
“I don’t see why not,” Lestrade said.
“Excellent,” Holmes said standing. “Then I think that no time would suit that endeavor better than the present.” He started to go when he swirled about on his heel. “And one other matter, Lestrade: Have you spoken to Cunningham’s solicitor?”
“I have. Why?”
“In the event of the Colonel’s death, what happens to that wealth which he has accumulated?”
“According to the solicitor, Cunningham’s home is passed onto his wife. The residue of his estate would then be divided amongst his two sons and, rather strangely, Mathews the butler.”
Holmes tapped a long finger on his lips. “Curious,” I heard him murmur. “Very well, Lestrade. Watson and I shall be downstairs.”
While we waited for the inspector, Holmes lit a cigarette and continued to stare into space, lost in thought.
“Do you suppose that Mrs. Cunningham and Mathews knew about their share of the Colonel’s wealth?” I asked.
“Possibly,” Holmes replied. “In my experience, men like Colonel Cunningham are not tight-lipped when it comes to their affairs. What’s more, you must consider the character of the people with whom he was dividing his monetary gains. One is his wife, the woman he dotes upon without doubt. She is, after all, the only woman in his life after the death of his first wife. Then there is Mathews, the butler. Serving as he did with Mathews during the Boer War, the two men are quite close. You ought to understand that, my dear fellow.”
“You’re correct Holmes,” I said. “I’m still inclined to write to my orderly, Murray.”
“Precisely,” Holmes said. “I would be more surprised than anything else if I learned that Mrs. Cunningham and Mathews were in the dark concerning the amount of money they had coming to them in the event of the Colonel’s death. And, with the Colonel’s estate being worth what it was, I’m certain that any man or woman would play quite a bold game in order to get his or her hands on what they think they deserve.”
“But tell me, Holmes: If Cunningham is the victim in all of this, then why go to all of the trouble of carting his body all the way across the city, only to load it up into a cab and drive off with it again?”
“It is a fair question, Watson, and first thing tomorrow, I shall begin a line of enquiry regarding that cab. I think that this is a job for the Baker Street Irregulars.”
I rolled my eyes. I did not look forward to Holmes’s band of ragamuffins invading our sitting room, as they so often did whenever he employed them on a case.
Inspector Lestrade joined us a moment later, and together we set off towards Colonel’s Cunningham’s house.
Our cab ride culminated in our drawing up before a large stone edifice done over in ivy. The place looked romantic and Gothic. Ringing the bell, Lestrade’s call was answered almost at once by the butler. Drawing us into the foyer, the man - presumably Mathews - relieved us of our hats and coats.
“Do you have any questions to pose to Mathews, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade asked.
“Not at present,” my friend replied. “I should very much like to examine the Colonel’s study.”
We proceeded down the corridor to the back of the house. Mathews opened the door for us and we drew into the room. At once, Holmes was snooping around like a bloodhound trying to pick up the scent. He rushed to the Colonel’s desk and rummaged through drawers with incredible tenacity. His search seemed as if it were at an end when he stopped suddenly, a look of surprise entering his grey eyes.
“According to the members of the Colonel’s club, he had no vices, for he did not drink or smoke?”
“That is correct, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade replied. “Wh
y?”
From the bowels of the large oaken desk, Holmes withdrew a small, neat case. I looked it over from a distance and did not at first register what it could possibly be, until Holmes undid a clasp on the case. Opening it, I stared at a hypodermic syringe and a small bottle, which undoubtedly contained a liquid solution of cocaine. I was taken aback at once.
“Good God,” Lestrade said. “The Colonel was a drug addict.”
“It very much looks that way,” Holmes said. “And, unless I am very much mistaken, the seal which is embossed on this case, as well as the bottle, belongs to a den in the East End which is habituated by the lowest and vilest cutthroats in this city. My work has taken me to such a place in the past, and I number the proprietor amongst my connections in that part of London.”
“Perhaps it was this den to which the Colonel flew on the night of his disappearance?” Lestrade suggested.
“It is very possible,” Holmes replied. He closed the case and handed it off to Lestrade. He dug around in the drawer for a moment more before he took up a sheet of paper, copied it into a small notebook, and then returned the original to the drawer.
“I think that it would be best if we kept this development away from Mrs. Cunningham,” Holmes said. “I also rather think that I have finished my investigation for the time being.”
As we made our way out of the study and back towards the foyer, I noticed Holmes stop and cast a glance at a framed portrait on the wall. “I completely failed to notice this,” he said. “I assume the man is the Colonel?”
“Of course,” Lestrade replied.
Holmes tapped at his lips again. “Most interesting. Ah - Mrs. Cunningham I presume.”
Turning we were all greeted by a youngish, dark-haired woman advancing towards us. I confess that she had a very pretty countenance but I seemed to detect a hint of mischief in her dark, green eyes.
“Inspector Lestrade,” she said, “have you made any progress?”