The constable scratched his head. Fifteen years on the force and he’d never encountered anything like this before. She was either very distressed or possibly a lunatic. As the girl writhed and moaned at his feet, he went decisively with the latter diagnosis. Certainly, she was a lunatic.
Chapter Fifteen
From the journal of Dr. John H. Watson
After our conversation following the interview between Inspector Lestrade and Lord Damury, my friend made no further reference to the case apart from observing that more evidence must arise before any meaningful investigation could be carried out. Despite this, I know that Holmes had studied back issues of the press to ascertain whether any similar crimes had occurred in the recent past, as well as interviewing members of the Damury household. But none of these enquiries had borne fruit. And so, there it seemed the matter would rest permanently unless there was some miraculous breakthrough – or, as Holmes suspected, another murder in a similar vein occurred. Certainly there was no news from Lestrade in the few weeks following the death of Lady Damury, apart from the fact that he now had come round to Holmes’s opinion and accepted that Godfrey Forbes was not the perpetrator of the crime. It very much appeared that the Damury murder would be filed away in the drawer marked “unsolved”.
Indeed, we did not suspect that the case would return to us in such a remarkable and roundabout manner as it did. Neither Holmes nor I realised the connection that would eventually reveal itself between the Damury murder and the arrival of a new client in Baker Street.
This was a young man by the name of Alan Firbank. He appeared on the threshold of our rooms one evening a few weeks later, his appearance dishevelled and distracted. He was, I estimated, not yet thirty, but the emotional strain etched on his features made him look much older.
“You must help me, Mr. Holmes,” he cried passionately, taking a few uncertain steps into the room. “I think I am going out of my mind.”
“Take a seat, sir, and try and compose yourself,” said Holmes in an easy manner. He knew that it was always best to adopt a relaxed demeanour when confronted by a distressed client. His serenity helped calm the distraught individual. “We shall see what we can do, but in order that I have the full, precise details of your dilemma, you must lay the facts before us in a clear and coherent fashion.”
The man gave a twisted smile and ran his hand through his hair. “I am sorry. These last few days it seems that I have been asleep and then wakened into a nightmare.” He shook his head in despair. “Even that does not make sense. I am… so confused.”
“A little brandy may help to calm your nerves. Watson, if you would be so kind.”
I furnished our visitor with a glass of brandy, which he devoured in one gulp.
“Now, sir,” said Holmes in a firm and business-like manner, “tell us who you are and the nature of your problem. Start at the beginning and pray be precise as to the details.”
“My name is Alan Firbank. I am a journalist with the Science News. I live in Chiswick, in the house which I inherited from my parents, neither of whom is any longer with us. Some three months ago I became acquainted with a young actress and singer, Miss Ruth Marshall. To be brief, a romance blossomed very quickly between us and we formed an attachment to one another. Shortly after we met, Ruth – Miss Marshall – was offered a leading role in the operetta The Magic Rose at the Savoy.”
“I have heard that it is most charming,” I interjected.
Holmes cast me a censorious glance and gave a little sigh of impatience. “Pray continue,” he addressed our client pointedly.
“Miss Marshall would visit me a few nights of the week after the performance and we would dine together. She would never eat before a performance, you understand. Our intimacy grew and everything seemed wonderful, and then…” He paused for a moment to steady his nerves. “It was two nights ago when things fell apart. I was expecting her as usual when the doorbell rang somewhat earlier than I had expected. On answering it I discovered an elderly-looking fellow on my doorstep who claimed that he had a message from Ruth – Miss Marshall. Apparently something was amiss and she required me to go to her home address immediately. There was a hansom waiting in the street ready to take me there.”
“Had you seen this man before?”
Firbank shook his head.
“Describe him to me.”
The question seemed to give our visitor pause. He narrowed his eyes as though in an attempt to bring an image to his mind. “He was tall, well built, smartly dressed… A black coat with a fur collar and a large black fedora.”
“His features?” prompted Holmes.
“Long grey hair which fell across his forehead. A large walrus moustache.”
Holmes nodded. “And spectacles, no doubt.”
“Why, yes. A very heavy black pair.”
“Did he bring with him a note penned by Miss Marshall, or any item that would verify his tale?”
“No, nothing. I realise now that I should have asked for such evidence, but I was so shocked by what he told me, all I could think of was to go to her. I grabbed my coat and set forth in the cab.”
“It was, I deduce, a fool’s errand.”
“Indeed it was, Mr. Holmes. When I reached the house in Paddington where Ruth lodges with another young actress – Miss Blanche Andrews – I discovered that she was not there. Miss Andrews knew nothing about the desperate message that had been delivered to me.”
“The disguised man had tricked you,” observed Holmes tartly.
“The disguised man?”
“The fellow with all that hair and the dark spectacles designed to conceal his real features. So, what happened next?”
“In my absence, Miss Marshall had arrived at my house and on entering she was attacked. Someone attempted to strangle her.” Firbank’s voice began to break at this juncture and he struggled to keep his emotions in check. My heart went out to the young man.
“You say ‘attempted’. Am I to assume that the assailant failed?”
“Yes. Ruth managed to escape from the fiend’s clutches and ran from the house, into the arms of a police constable. By then she was in a highly distressed state, bordering on hysteria.”
“Quite understandable, after experiencing such a traumatic attack,” I said.
“She was quite unable to explain what had happened or where she had come from. The details I have laid before you were pieced together later with my help. My darling Ruth remains sedated in the sanatorium, the whole incident apparently erased from her mind. The police are baffled…”
“Of course,” said Holmes.
“They have nothing to go on. They have no notion who came to my door with the spurious message and who, one must assume, later attempted to strangle Ruth…”
Holmes gave a brief intake of breath. “It would be a mistake to make such assumptions until one has more data.”
“And why? Why would anyone wish to harm her? She is just a kind, innocent girl…”
“There is a darkness in the hearts of some men, Mr. Firbank, which defies logic.”
“The police are wandering round in a fog, Mr. Holmes. I believe they are losing heart and impetus in their investigations. Miss Marshall is an orphan. She has no living relative and so I have taken it upon myself to be the guardian of her welfare.”
“That is very noble of you,” I said.
Firbank shook his head. “I do not see it in that light, Dr. Watson. I have strong feelings for Miss Marshall. I care about her deeply and am desperate to see that she is safe.” He turned to my friend, his tone even more emotional. “This case must be solved, Mr. Holmes. The villain must be caught and brought to justice. Until that happens, Miss Marshall will live under a dark shadow. That devil could easily strike again in some unguarded moment… and next time he could be successful in his murderous attempt. I come to you, sir, in the hope that you can help throw some light upon the matter.”
“The circumstances concerning the case are indeed unique. Yes, yes, I am
happy to throw my hat into the ring. But I must warn you, Mr. Firbank, to keep your expectations in check. I am not a magician. I do not work wonders. I solve crimes only when there are signs that help me guide the way to the truth.”
“Bless you, sir. I do have great confidence in your abilities.”
“We shall see. The first step is to visit your house: the scene of the crime, as it were. Give me your address and Watson and I will be there tomorrow morning at ten.”
Firbank did as he was requested and Holmes scribbled down the address on his shirt cuff.
“Very well,” said my friend, rising from his chair. “We shall see you in the morning. Until then I bid you a good night.”
After our visitor had departed, Holmes lit his pipe and rubbed his bony hands together with great enthusiasm. “Well, Watson,” he announced with a bright gleam in his eyes, “I believe we have a real corker here.”
* * *
The following morning, Holmes and I travelled to Chiswick and visited Alan Firbank’s neat little suburban villa. Having greeted us with an anxious smile, no doubt relieved that Holmes had been true to his word, he led us into the hallway.
“This is where the attack occurred. I’ve tried to leave things more or less as they were as I kept feeling that the disarray would present some clue, but of course the police have been here and looked around,” said Firbank.
“Sadly, that is all too obvious,” observed Holmes, dryly picking up a few fragments of an oriental vase from the floor.
“The police assumed that the vase was knocked off the cabinet in the fray.”
Holmes whipped out his magnifying glass and examined the fragments closely. “Not knocked off,” he said at length, “but taken and used as a weapon. There are a few human hairs adhering to this piece. What colour is Miss Marshall’s hair?”
“She is blonde.”
“These are black hairs and therefore belong to her assailant. It would seem that she grabbed the vase to fend off her attacker. The hairs also tell us that he was not the man who came to your door with the false message, for you said that he was grey-haired and if, as I believe, he was wearing a wig, he would have shed artificial fibres.”
“Is it possible that he disposed of his disguise before entering the house?” said I.
“For what purpose? It would be a cumbersome and pointless exercise. No, no, I believe that there are two men involved in this affair. A fact which, of course, gives a very different slant on matters.”
“Why is that, Mr. Holmes?”
“A random assault, a random attempted murder, may well be the work of a mentally disturbed individual, but for two malefactors to be implicated involves planning and, more importantly, some kind of motive.”
Firbank’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What kind of motive?”
Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “I could not say at the moment; there is too little data. I presume you have no notion of anyone who might have a grudge against Miss Marshall?”
“None whatsoever. She was the sweetest, kindest –”
“Quite,” said Holmes, dropping to his knees and examining the carpet with the aid of his magnifying glass. He muttered to himself and groaned deeply. “Nothing here but the disfiguring bootmarks of the police tramping over anything of significance. I recognise their imprints of old.”
Holmes made a further examination at the rear of the house. “Look here, Watson,” he exclaimed, pointing at a broken pane in the French window. “This is where the fellow got in.”
“That broken pane is hidden by the curtain inside. I hadn’t noticed it,” said Firbank. “And I don’t think the police did either.”
Holmes dropped to his knees and examined the muddy ground for a few minutes.
“Anything?” I asked.
“Simply confirmation.”
“Confirmation of what?” asked the young man eagerly.
“There are two separate sets of footprints here. It is clear that two men were involved in effecting an entry into the property, although only one actually carried out the assault. It confirms what I suspected earlier: that there are two men involved in the affair. The attempted murder of Miss Marshall was planned. There is a motive behind this crime, Watson – a motive which, for the moment, is hidden from view.”
Holmes’s statement hushed us into silence.
He then gave a business-like sigh. “Well, I believe that we have learned all we can here. I now think it would be apposite to visit Miss Marshall to see if we can extract further information concerning her ordeal.”
Firbank shook his head. “I am afraid she is unlikely to be of any help to you. In her drugged and confused state she remembers nothing of that night. It’s as though she has blotted it from her memory. She will probably be unable to answer any questions you have for her.”
Holmes gave a grim smile. “Silence can be very instructive at times,” he said.
* * *
Firbank had arranged for Ruth Marshall to be cared for in a small nursing home in Camberwell. He informed us that the minor physical injuries she had incurred during the assault had healed and that it was only her mental distress that lingered. We were accompanied to her room by a Dr. Standish, an elderly medical man of dour demeanour. His stern grey eyes, which peered out from beneath heavily tufted eyebrows, viewed us with great suspicion.
We found the young woman in a pleasant, cosy chamber, sitting up in bed staring blankly into space. Firbank went to her, flung his arms around her and gave her a gentle kiss on the lips. She did not respond. In fact, it appeared as though she was barely conscious of the embrace.
When Holmes moved towards the bed, Standish placed a restraining hand on his arm. “I implore you, Mr. Holmes, be gentle with the young lady. I feel sure that Miss Marshall will come to her right senses in time, provided that she is not disturbed unnecessarily; which, dare I say it, is likely to occur if she is reminded of her ordeal.”
Holmes nodded. “Fear not, Dr. Standish, it is not my way to cross a medical man.” He cast me a knowing glance before sitting on the edge of the bed. Miss Marshall took no notice of him. Holmes leaned forward and gently examined her neck. Even from where I was standing I could see the dark bruises, the mementoes of her attack. Holmes’s expression gave a hint that in studying the marks he had observed something of significance.
“I would like to help you,” he said softly. “I would like to find the man who tried to hurt you. Can you help me?”
She gave no response.
“Was the man who did this a tall man? Did you know him?”
Again she remained mute.
“You are wasting your time, Mr. Holmes,” said Standish with some impatience. “The girl is not yet in a fit state to respond to your questions – questions which may disturb the balance of her mind.”
Holmes ignored the medic and leaned forward, gently placing his hands around the girl’s neck. This had an immediate effect upon her. She gasped loudly, her eyes flickering wildly. “He’s coming for me,” she cried. “He was in the shadows and he’s coming for me.”
“What is he like?” asked Holmes.
“He is young. Tall. His face is… like a ghost. He has dead eyes.” She paused for a moment, her strained expression indicating clearly that she was reliving the experience. “He walks oddly… like a clockwork mechanical toy,” she continued, her voice a rasping whisper. “His hands are reaching out for me. His fingers…” She froze, her eyes widening in distress. She gave a little scream and fell back onto the pillows in a swoon.
“That is disgraceful,” howled Standish. “You scoundrel, how dare you treat my patient in such a cavalier manner? I must ask you to leave this room immediately. You may have done untold damage.”
“I think not, Doctor. I believe that the only way to successfully treat patients suffering such a trauma is to let them face their fears, relive the experience in order that they may expunge it from that dark area of the brain where it has been lodged, causing them grief. In this fashion, they
find mental relief and stability. Have you not read Freud on the subject?”
“How dare you, sir! How dare you presume to dictate to me your tinpot medical theories? I am a qualified physician and you are a mere private policeman.”
Holmes fixed the man with an icy stare before turning abruptly to me. “Come, Watson. We must do as the gentleman requests.”
Somewhat sheepishly, I followed my friend from the room. I must admit that I was as shocked and dismayed by Holmes’s behaviour as Dr. Standish had been. To my mind my friend had acted recklessly and in an insensitive manner, without taking into consideration the effect his treatment of the girl would have upon her. I could tell by the pale and tortured features of Alan Firbank, who left the room with us, that he was equally amazed and bewildered by Holmes’s behaviour.
“Really, Mr. Holmes, was that absolutely necessary?” he managed to stammer with indignation as we reached the bottom of the staircase.
Holmes gave him an indulgent smile. “I believe it was, and trust me, no real harm has been done to Miss Marshall. I predict that in a couple of days she will be well on the way to being her natural self again. Now she has come to terms with what happened to her, faced her demons as it were, I am sure that all she requires is further rest and comfort and she will emerge from the dark cell where she currently resides. And, I have to say, my visit here has been most instructive.”
“In what way?” asked Firbank.
“I prefer not to divulge any information I have gleaned at present. I need to build up a more complete picture before I can deal with certainties and various scenarios. Suffice it to say that I have collected a few crumbs today.”
“You are going to continue with the case.”
Holmes nodded with a smile. “Yes, Mr. Firbank. I would not miss it for the world.”
* * *
I was silent on our trip back to Baker Street, and it was only when we reached our sitting room that Holmes tackled me concerning my demeanour.
“You are angry with me, aren’t you, Watson? Angry at the way I treated the young woman.”
The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Instrument of Death Page 9