by David Marcum
HOLMES:Such as a statuette of the goddess Athena and her owl?
WATSON:What?
LESTRADE:You mean that great ugly cigar lighter?
HOLMES:It is two feet long, weighted at the bottom, and edged with a sharp ring around the base.
WATSON:I don’t recall seeing anything like that in the shop.
HOLMES:No, because it wasn’t there when Lestrade brought us here this morning. But that explains something I noticed after he turned up the lamp. In good illumination, I saw an irregular oval stain on the countertop. The varnish had been eaten away by some kind of solvent, probably benzene leaking out of the statuette over time. But it was back on the counter a few minutes ago, sitting exactly over the mark it had made.
WATSON:But if that was the weapon, where was it when we were first here?
HOLMES:An excellent question, Watson! And who would have removed it, and why? Obviously not the mysterious attacker who looked like me.
LESTRADE:Oh, I don’t agree! He could have struck the fatal blow with the statuette, and then thrown it down behind the counter and ran away. And the daughter could have picked it up and replaced it on the counter. That’s the most natural explanation.
WATSON:Then why did she claim that she saw the man hitting her father over the head with a gun?
LESTRADE:Hmm. Another excellent question. I think it’s time I asked if of Constance Bowers. Gentlemen, it’s back to the scene of the crime!
MUSIC - MOTION BRIDGE
CONSTANCE:I suppose I should apologize to you, Mr. Holmes.
HOLMES:Apology accepted.
LESTRADE:Now, Miss Bowers, it’s time for you to tell us exactly what really happened here.
CONSTNACE:But I did tell you!
LESTRADE:No, you did not. You said the man who killed your father had struck him repeatedly with a gun. But that wasn’t true, was it?
CONSTANCE:Yes, it was!
LESTRADE:The coroner reported that the blow to his head came from a single, large object.
CONSTANCE:Well, he’s wrong! He wasn’t here, was he?
LESTRADE:We know what the weapon was. It was this statue.
CONSTANCE:You’re daft!
HOLMES:Then kindly explain why it was gone from its usual place on the counter and then returned.
CONSTANCE:I don’t know what you’re talking about!
HOLMES:I’ll tell you what happened. The person who murdered your father struck him with that statuette, but the blow didn’t kill him. The coup de grace was strangulation, administered as he fought desperately with his executioner! Then the killer needed to dispose of the weapon, because it was spattered with blood, so it was removed to another room where the blood could be wiped off. That done, the killer returned the statuette to its normal position.
LESTRADE:And if you had witnessed what you say, you would have seen the murderer go behind the counter to choke the life out of his victim, but you didn’t mention that. Where were you when your father was being murdered?
CONSTANCE:I was on the stairs!
LESTRADE:That won’t do, Miss Bowers. I know you’re lying. You’ve admitted you hated your father. You told me so yourself!
CONSTANCE:Yes, but-
LESTRADE:The way I read it, you argued with him, you took the statue and hit him with it. Then you strangled him. You’re not a small person like your father, and we know he was weakened by the drugs he was taking. You’re coming with me to Scotland Yard for interrogation.
CONSTANCE:No! I didn’t do it! I swear!
HOLMES:One moment, Inspector. Miss Bowers, please escort Dr. Watson, Inspector Lestrade, and me into your mother’s room.
CONSTANCE:I told you she’s sick!
HOLMES:She need not say a word
CONSTANCE:She’s probably asleep.
HOLMES:She needn’t be awakened.
WATSON:Miss Bowers, what is the nature of her illness?
CONSTANCE:A heavy cold... in her chest... I think she has a fever.
WATSON:Has she been seen by a doctor?
CONSTANCE:Uh... no. What with poor father’s terrible death and all-
WATSON:Of course. Perhaps, if I may see her, I might be able to help.
HOLMES:Show us the way, Miss Bowers.
SOUND EFFECT - THREE PEOPLE CLIMB STAIRS SOFTLY
LESTRADE:(UNDER HIS BREATH) What do you hope to accomplish, Holmes?
HOLMES:(UNDER HIS BREATH) I hope to get an eyewitness account of a murder.
SOUND EFFECT - THEY REACH THE TOP OF THE STAIRS
CONSTANCE:This is her room.
HOLMES:Very well.
SOUND EFFECT - SHE KNOCKS SOFTLY ON THE DOOR
CONSTANCE:Mother? Mother, are you awake? She must be asleep.
HOLMES:Please go in ahead of us to be sure she is properly dressed.
SOUND EFFECT - DOOR OPENS. SHE TIPTOES IN
CONSTANCE:(OFF MICROPHONE) Are you awake, mum? Mother?
SOUND EFFECT - SHE TIPTOES BACK ON MICROPHONE
CONSTANCE:I told you she’d be asleep. She’s not a well woman. Must you disturb her?
HOLMES:We may not have to. Lestrade? Watson? Let’s go in.
SOUND EFFECT - THREE MEN BEING VERY QUIET
LESTRADE:She’s swathed in mufflers. I can barely see her face.
WATSON:If I may, let me feel her forehead. (PAUSE) She has no fever.
HOLMES:What else can you detect about her?
WATSON:What do you mean?
LESTRADE:I know what he means. I’ve smelled that scent before. You’ve made your point, Holmes. Miss Bowers, wake her up!
HOLMES:You may not need to do that. Just pull that scarf away from her face.
LESTRADE:(PAUSE) Do it, Miss Bowers.
HOLMES:(PAUSE) Ah. A heavy coating of face powder, and raw scratches of recent origin.
MRS. BOWERS:Who are these men? Constance? Why are these men in my room?
CONSTANCE:They made me do it!
LESTRADE:I am Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard. These men are Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson.
MRS. BOWERS:Let me alone! I’ve just been made a widow!
HOLMES:By your own hand, Mrs. Bowers. You were arguing with your husband. You became enraged and struck him with a piece of statuary, but when you found he was still breathing, you strangled him as he raked your face trying to make you stop. You are wearing the marks of your guilt!
MRS. BOWERS:It’s not true!
HOLMES:I’m afraid it is. And the evidence was provided by your husband, beneath his fingernails, as he fought for his life by scratching through the scented powder caked on your face.
MUSIC - STING
SOUND EFFECT - 221b SOUNDS
WATSON:(READING) “... But that wasn’t all that we learned. The late Avery Bowers was not Constance Bowers’ father, but her stepfather, whom her mother had married only four years earlier. A prosperous chemist with a thriving business, he soon began exhibiting the extremes of wild enthusiasm changing to dark anger, which mark the symptoms of a drug addict.” How does that sound, Holmes?
HOLMES:Accurate, so far as it goes. But you didn’t mention the terrible rows that Bowers had concerning his miserly ways and his increasing cruelty, culminating with his death at the hands of his wife, abetted by her daughter, who tried to conceal the truth about the murder by incriminating the one man she feared would find her out.
WATSON:Namely, you.
HOLMES:But you must bear some of the blame, for putting on paper not only some of my most gruesome cases, but also my former weakness for drugs. Without that knowledge, who knows? When Constance Bowers was searching around for someone to blame, she might have even chosen you!
M
USIC - THEME, UP AND UNDER
ANNOUNCER:You have been listening to The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.
WATSON:And this is Doctor John H. Watson. I’ve had many more adventures with Sherlock Holmes, and I’ll tell you another one... when next we meet!
The Case of the Plummeting Painter
by Carla Coupe
The early November morning dawned cold and blustery, and from the frosty earth a damp chill rose that settled in one’s bones. Grey clouds gave the world the monochromatic cast typical for the season. We breakfasted late and moved to the fire as Mrs. Hudson cleared the table. She bustled out with the laden tray, closing the door firmly behind her.
After a quarter hour, Holmes flung The Times and stretched his long legs to the hearth. I looked up from my medical journal.
“Nothing of interest?” I asked.
His reply was a grunt.
I was not surprised, for he had been in a dark mood several days now. Bereft of a case to capture his interest and occupy his mind, Holmes was prone to these periods of depression. I was just grateful that he had not succumbed to the dubious charms of the needle that rested, seemingly innocuous, in its morocco case in his bedroom.
I returned to the journal, and Holmes continued to stare into the dancing flames.
Half an hour later, I finished a fascinating article regarding new surgical techniques and was lighting a cigarette when the sound of rapid footsteps alerted me to the advent of a visitor.
A quick knock on the door, and the boy in buttons entered and held out a note to Holmes.
“From Inspector Hopkins, Mr. Holmes,” he said.
Holmes blinked twice and, as if galvanized by the flutter of paper, leapt to his feet and snatched the note from the boy’s hand.
I sat upright and dismissed the boy with a nod as Holmes tore open the message and scanned the brief missive.
“Well? What does Hopkins want?”
Holmes turned to me, eyes alight, delight etched on his austere features. “He requests our assistance with a case.” He shed his dressing gown, threw it over the back of a chair, snatched up his jacket, and with a bound headed toward the stair. “Come, Watson!”
Stumbling in my haste, I flew down the staircase and caught up to Holmes at the front door. He tossed me my coat and we quickly donned coats, gloves, and hats while the boy flagged a cab.
Once inside the vehicle, Holmes gave the direction and we settled back.
“Is it theft?” I asked.
He shook his head, his thin lips pressed together, as if he was suppressing a smile of excitement.
“Murder?”
“Death, certainly. As to whether it is murder...” He tapped his forefinger to his chin thoughtfully. “At least the good inspector called me in from the first. Perhaps he has learned the benefit of prompt action. But we must pause now, and wait to speak with him before making any further assumptions.”
So I curtailed my impatience and gazed at the passing buildings as we traveled to a narrow street near Notting Hill Gate, where we alighted at one of a long row of nearly identical brick homes, all suffering from benign neglect. A constable stood outside the door, nodded brusquely at our approach, and allowed us inside. In the dim foyer, polished but shabby woodwork and worn cocoa-nut matting greeted us. To the left, a small parlor maintained a brave pretense of gentility, while the room to the right sported a dining table and chairs, as well as a sideboard. Atop the sideboard stood a tantalus, with an empty space where one of its decanters would usually be placed.
Inspector Hopkins, looking rather more rumpled than usual, hurried toward us from the rear of the house.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Holmes, Doctor.”
“Have you moved the body?” enquired Holmes after shaking the inspector’s hand.
“Not yet. I knew you would want to see it.”
He escorted us down the narrow passage and through a baize door into a compact, surprisingly modern kitchen. In the distance I heard soft weeping: A housekeeper or maid, no doubt. A door led directly to the back garden, most of which was taken up by a large outbuilding. Mossy slate pavers covered the ground between the kitchen and outbuilding. A covered form lay about halfway between the two. Hopkins removed the covering to reveal the supine body of a heavy-set man of early middle years. The cause of death was obvious, for the pavers beneath his head were stained with blood and brains.
“This, gentlemen, was Edgar Tice, artist and homeowner,” said Hopkins. “He was discovered around six this morning by Annie Cusak, his maid, who stepped into the yard to dispose of the ashes from the kitchen grate. Neither she nor the housekeeper-cum-cook heard anything out of the ordinary during the night, and the last time either set foot out here was around eight in the evening. The coroner puts the time of his death at sometime before midnight.”
The inspector and I stood to one side as Holmes contemplated the scene. The outbuilding appeared to be reasonably maintained and well-used, and I wondered if it housed Tice’s studio. After a few moments Holmes knelt and bent over, his face a bare inch from the man’s jaw. He studied Tice’s waxen face for a long minute before straightening, his gaze sweeping over the rest of the body. Pausing at Tice’s upper chest, he examined the lapels of his dressing gown and the rumpled shirt beneath. Narrowing his eyes, Holmes stood and moved to the man’s feet. He contemplated the toes of Tice’s boots, then gently grasped his left ankle and lifted his leg enough to view his boot back. After lowering Tice’s leg, Holmes repeated his actions on the right.
Stepping from the body, Holmes lifted his gaze to the upper stories of the house. “I take it that the question is whether he was pushed from that open window or jumped of his own volition.”
A fleeting look of chagrin crossed the inspector’s face before he huffed a laugh. “Well done, Mr. Holmes. That’s exactly the case.”
“I have seen all I need to see here; you may remove his body now,” said Holmes as he strode toward the house. “Let us examine the room from which he descended.”
We mounted the stairs and reached the first landing when a door was flung open and a muscular, fair-haired young man stood on the threshold. I wondered if his untucked shirt and unkempt hair was typical for him, or if it indicated his current emotional state.
He clutched the door jamb with whitened knuckles and narrowed his red-rimmed eyes. “You must be Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. I told the inspector and now I tell you: Edgar did not kill himself!”
“So you’ve said, Mr. Elliott,” Hopkins replied with more patience than I expected. “Once we have finished upstairs we will speak with you.”
Elliott’s jaw assumed a pugnacious angle. “I will await you.” With a brisk nod, he stepped back and pointedly left the door open.
Holmes lifted one brow, but remained silent as Hopkins led us up two additional flights.
“This was Mr. Tice’s studio,” Hopkins said as we walked into the surprisingly cheerful chamber. A row of tall north-facing French windows were set into the back wall and, despite the dreary weather, brightly illuminated the space. One window stood open, the frame warped and split, several panes of glass cracked or missing. A chill wind invaded the room.
Obviously arranged as an artist’s studio, the majority of the room was devoted to the tools of his trade, including a large easel with a canvas upon it, stacks of finished paintings, and a small platform upon which sat a ladder-back chair and lengths of fustian and silk. An ash-filled fireplace was located in the far wall, with a settee, several armchairs, and a cloth-covered work table residing between it and a small aperture that faced the street. The breeze from the open window ruffled the tablecloth and sent a small blizzard of paper chasing around the legs of the settee.
Holmes began a quick inspection of the chamber, striding around the chairs and settee, his nimble fingers sliding along the staine
d upholstery. Several used tumblers stood upon the table. One armchair had been drawn apart, near the open window. At its feet a tumbler lay overturned beside a decanter that matched the ones in the tantalus from the dining room. The stopper rested to one side and a scarce quarter-inch of liquid was left.
Hopkins continued. “Mr. Tice was, as you can see, a painter. He shared his quarters with Mr. Thomas Elliott, a sculptor who occupies the first floor rooms. His studio is located in the outbuilding.”
“Despite Mr. Elliott’s protestation, do you think it suicide?” I asked.
“Perhaps.” Hopkins shrugged. “He did not leave a note, however, and as you heard, at least one other person believes it to be otherwise. I hope Mr. Holmes can uncover evidence for one possibility or the other.”
Holmes grunted as he squatted on the hearth, sifting through the ashes with the poker.
Hopkins opened his mouth to speak, thought the better of it, and rubbed his chin. His gaze never left the form of my friend as Holmes moved on to the open window. Minutely studying the low sill, less than a foot above the floor, he then leaned out so far I gasped and took an involuntary step toward him. After examining the exterior wall, he knelt and turned his attention to the battered plaster and wainscoting beneath the window.
“Well, Mr. Holmes?” Inspector Hopkins followed his movements with a wary eye.
Holmes glanced at him. “You know my methods, Inspector. I will not venture an explanation until I have all the facts.”
With a sigh, Hopkins turned to me. “What do you think, Doctor?”
I gestured toward the decanter and glasses. “If he was the worse for drink, it would not be an unusual tragedy.”
“So you believe it to be an accident, rather than murder or suicide?” asked Hopkins.
“It is certainly a strong possibility.”
Hopkins frowned. “I would rather have a more definitive answer.”
“Come, Inspector,” I laughed. “I have learned caution. If Sherlock Holmes will not venture an answer, neither will I.”
Holmes rose and dusted off his hands, then paused, his gaze traveling around the room. With two long strides he reached the stack of finished canvases propped against the wall and bent to look through them.