Sherlock Holmes
The Adventure of The Pigtail Twist
M J H Simmonds
First published in 2018 by
MX Publishing
www.mxpublishing.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
© Copyright 2018 Matthew Simmonds
Cover design by Brian Belanger
The right of Matthew Simmonds to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
For Henry and Ania
With all my love
I would like to thank the following, without whom, this book could never have existed.
H & A, Mum, Dad, James (Harrison), Chick and Waleria (Babcia). Tom Shiner (the polar opposite of his literary doppelganger, a finer chap was never made). Dominic Selwood and Robert Rankin for their great encouragement. Dom and Al at H&S. Daiva & Giuseppe. Steve Emecz and Rich Ryan at MX Publishing for having faith in me.
Finally, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his good friends, Doctor John Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
Introduction
June 1884
The summer of 1884 was so abominable it was barely worthy of the name. A band of low pressure had settled stubbornly to the west of Ireland and spread its cold misery eastward throughout the entire month of June and beyond. The rain pelted down through the murky grey streets of London and the wind blew it into swirls that left no surface dry and many a hardy soul with a limp and a shattered umbrella.
Sherlock Holmes, lacking for a case or any other intellectual challenge, was the very mirror of this foul presence. A hawkish, dark and moody doppelganger, taken to rapid pacing followed by hours of lethargy and cadaverous stillness. Neither pipe nor newspaper gave him relief and his eyes were increasingly drawn from the silk Persian slipper beside the firedog to that small coffin shaped box that sat above the gently crackling fireplace.
At the time, I was happy and content just to be indoors catching up with my reading and indeed putting some of Holmes’ recent exploits down on paper. Any lengthy exposure to the cold and damp would certainly inflame my old war wound - the throb from the old Jezail bullet was already noticeable. My suggestions for topics of conversation were met with silence or, at best, a curt grunt of disagreement. His face was drawn, and he appeared even thinner than usual, I could not recall seeing him take any solid sustenance for several days. Holmes’ ennui had now set in to the point where I could no longer see any way of stopping him reaching for his syringe.
Although it now felt like an eternity, it was, in fact, a mere three weeks since Holmes had astounded myself, most of Scotland Yard and half of England with the most amazing and sustained display of his talent for deduction and creative reasoning I think I have ever witnessed. Over the course of six days he had solved six crimes and even hinted at the presence of a seventh, yet undetected, felony.
Part One
It had all begun on a fine, if still rather chilly, May morning with a visit from Inspector Lestrade. He arrived at our Baker Street rooms looking particularly agitated. His face was flustered, and he twitched and flinched even more than usual. His clothes were ruffled and unkempt as if from a sleepless night and the dark shadows that had formed below his eyes seemed to confirm this. Despite the early hour, I immediately poured him a large brandy and motioned him to take a seat by the fire to which Holmes added fuel and prodded to encourage into greater activity.
“I see that you are quite overcome by your recent case volume,” announced Holmes with his back still turned.
“Why, yes I am. But how...?” stuttered Lestrade
“Your atypical appearance married to the veritable crime wave being reported over the last few days,” he gestured languidly at a disordered pile of recent local and national newspapers, “points towards friend Lestrade’s present state of duress.”
He turned slowly, and I imagined for a second that I could see the faintest hint of a smile appear and then vanish as he sat himself down in his musty old armchair.
I offered Lestrade a cigar, which he gratefully accepted, as Holmes gently emptied his favourite caliginous clay pipe into the fire before refilling, tamping and lighting it in his well-worn morning ritual. The smoke produced from this first pipe of the day was, as always, dark, acrid and pungent. It swirled around, quite overwhelming the lighter, finer smoke from our cigars. It was almost as if even his tobacco was asserting its total superiority over us mere intellectual mortals.
Although Lestrade was, at that time, still deeply suspicious of Holmes’ abilities he had, by now, witnessed the efficaciousness of his methods at first hand and a grudging respect was forming beneath his surface layers of scepticism.
“It is not the cases themselves, you understand,” began Lestrade, his composure restored by the warming golden liquid. “It is the sheer number of them. Mounting up more quickly than anyone on God’s earth could possibly solve them. Truly, I feel like Sisyphus himself”.
“Well I am rather busy myself,” lied Holmes, quite brazenly, gesturing towards his copious files, “but I will see what I can do to lighten your load,” he added, noncommittally.
I knew he had recently solved a rather unpleasant poisoning case involving a wine merchant, a chemist and a dissolving cork and was looking forward to a new challenge.
“Well, so far, I have a murdered flower girl in the Old Nichol, a rogue cabby at large, a jewel theft, a violent conflict of wills, a spate of suspicious deaths in Hampstead and a bookmaker beaten to death outside his own front door,” Lestrade disclosed, flicking through his leather-bound pocket notebook.
“I am aware of a number of these cases already and the remainder hardly appear to offer much more of a challenge either,” Holmes responded, casually. “But please let us start with the first, the poor flower seller.”
Case 1: The Flower Girl
Monday 12th of May 1884
“As you know the Old Nichol is the very worst of the East End, both in terms of poverty and crime, a place to be avoided even at the best of times, if you get my drift,” began Lestrade, leaning forwards to emphasise the seriousness of his statement.
“We were called to St Leonard’s Church at around eight o’clock last Friday evening, after someone reported seeing a man attacking a young lady who was selling flowers outside the church. When we arrived, her stall was wrecked, and she lay dead among the detritus. A sad sight it was, her lying amongst all those broken stems and colourful petals, considering that’s probably more flowers than she will see even at her own funeral.”
Lestrade paused for a moment. I often forgot that he was from, and empathised with, a far lower social stratum than Holmes or I, and had worked his way up through the force by sheer ability and persistence alone. This only rarely manifested itself, and almost always when dealing with the suffering of on
e London’s poorest creatures.
“She had been strangled and it appears her takings stolen, as she had not a coin on her.”
“We have arrested three suspects. Two are local ne’er-do-wells, the other is the son of the local verger. All were seen hanging around the church before the poor girl was attacked. All three fit the descriptions of the witnesses, but as it was already getting dark when they were seen, the actual descriptions were pretty vague to say the least.”
“Was this her usual spot? Or did she move around to ply her wares?” asked Holmes.
“I believe she was regularly outside the church, according to the witnesses anyway,” replied the Inspector.
“The verger’s son?” I questioned. “Is he really a likely suspect when you are also holding two miscreants who are already well known to the police?”
“Evidence, Watson. Discount no one until you have data. But I believe I have a fairly good idea of how to obtain it,” was Holmes’ curt reply.
“We shall see you at the Yard this afternoon then, say, midday? I wish to see the suspects.”
Holmes rose suddenly and gestured towards the door. Lestrade put down his now empty glass, bade farewell and uncertainly shuffled his way out and down the stairs.
“You already know who did it, don’t you?” I asked, slowly shaking my head in disbelief.
“I have a hypothesis that needs testing, but I am confident the matter will be resolved either way in time for a late luncheon in town”.
At half past eleven, we took a Hansom from Baker Street and made for Scotland Yard. The journey was fairly short and uneventful, taking us down Oxford and Regent Streets then across Piccadilly Circus. Holmes seemed to be in a good mood for once and began a short discourse on the relevance of pipe shapes to character and crime.
“A man who smokes a Bulldog or Rhodesian can always be trusted. But beware the man who smokes an overlarge bent Billiard. A voluminous sagging bowl indicates a lethargic personality. A man lazy enough to wish to fill his pipe as few times as possible is not one who should be tasked with any great responsibility. Whereas, the smoker of a Lumberman has made a deep conscious decision to...” However, we had arrived, and I never did discover the deep decision made by the Lumberman smoker.
Once inside, Lestrade greeted us and took us to the holding cells deep within the building. The three men were lined up before us, and I have to be honest here and admit that I saw little in their appearance to change my mind as to whom I would have suspected of having committed the ghastly deed.
The locals appeared to be of the low criminal kind, dressed in old, slightly tattered but basically clean, working clothes. Their faces were prematurely aged by days spent outside in all weathers and stuck in a perpetual half grimace of either pain or scorn, I could not tell which, probably a fair bit of both.
The verger’s son could not have looked any more different if he had just arrived from a far distant country. His eyes were red and swollen from weeping and he visibly shook as we studied him. His clothes were neat and well kempt, his shoes regularly shined but showing scuffs from recent heavy use.
To my great surprise, Holmes took only a cursory look at the two rogues and not much longer at the quaking young man.
“Hold out your hands,” he ordered.
Holmes’ manner could be so compelling that often those he commanded simply obeyed him without a second’s thought. All three instantly stretched out their hands towards him.
“I’ve seen enough,” he announced, “return them to their cells.”
“Well? Does Mr Sherlock Holmes have the solution then?” asked Lestrade, with more than a hint of a sneer, as the men were led away. His confidence seemed to have returned since his morning visit. His conceitedness too, sadly.
“Oh, I am so sorry, Inspector. I thought you knew. It is, after all, rather obvious is it not, Watson?”
As he spoke, I thought I spied the flickering return of his smile - but it was gone again in an instant.
“Oh, is it? Erm... maybe?” I stumbled, but the truth was that I was no further along with my reasoning than I was before we arrived at Scotland Yard.
“The verger’s son is the killer, that much is blindingly obvious.” We both stared at him but said nothing. “Whether it be murder or manslaughter will be up to a jury to decide.”
I slowly began to see the logic behind Holmes’ pronouncement.
“If the motive had been common robbery, the victim would have simply been punched or hit with some kind of weapon,” Holmes explained. “These types of criminals have no wish to hang for the sake of a few pennies. They would not have killed her and then wrecked her meagre stall for no personal gain. This was a crime of passion, gentlemen. Despite what you may have read in some sensational fiction, strangulation is a very personal business, intimate, close up, face to face.”
“I strongly suspected that the two knew each well, as they would have from being in such close and regular proximity. The verger’s son must have had designs on the poor girl and been spurned when he declared his feelings and intentions. I doubt that even in his wildest imaginings he could have believed that she, a mere flower seller, could ever reject him, an educated young man with real prospects. He snapped, smashed up her stand and killed her in a fit of madness”.
“But the hands, Holmes? What was the significance of examining those?” I asked.
“What is almost everyone’s favourite flower, Watson? One she would sell every day, far more than any other? One that begins to bloom in early spring”
“Why, roses of course!” I exclaimed. “Roses with thorns. If he swiped the stock off her stall with such ferocity that she was covered in broken stems and petals, then he would surely have also have been caught by many thorns in the process.”
“I saw the unmistakable prickles and punctures caused by their barbs all over his hands. It was really just the final confirmation of what I already suspected.”
“What about the missing money then? Just vanished did it?” Lestrade interjected, sarcastically.
“Why do you think I sent all three back to the cells? A simple case of opportunism after the event, as distasteful as it may seem. They saw the aftermath of the crime and quickly rummaged around, located her purse and ran off with it. If we are lucky, we will find it back at their lair, but I fear they have disposed of it already. In that case I cannot see any charges sticking, and you’d do as well to keep them locked up for as long as you legally can as this is the only punishment they are likely to receive.”
There is not much to add regarding this sad case. The two ruffians were never charged, just as Holmes predicted. The verger’s son narrowly escaped the noose, thanks in no small part to the surprise testimony of my friend Mr Sherlock Holmes, who showed then, and continues to show, a deep and sympathetic understanding of human nature that belies his seemingly cold and uncaring exterior.
Case 2: The Rogue Cabman
Tuesday 13th of May 1884
The next day began early. I was woken by the sound of voices, orders being given and received, it seemed to me. I dressed and made my way to the sitting room where I just caught sight of the back of one of Holmes’ young ‘Irregulars’ as he retreated from the room.
“A bit early for young Wiggins, is it not?” I yawned.
Looking at the mantel clock, I saw that it was just after half past six. The day was bright but crisp and I was glad to see that Holmes had already lit the fire.
“Almost all great work is achieved before midday” Holmes replied, brightly. “I promised to help Lestrade with his burden and help I shall”.
“So which case it today, then? If you’re going to work through them in the order given to us by Lestrade then it would be that business of the rogue cabman. It has been in all the papers due to some pretty high-profile victims.”
“Indeed. A cab
by who takes your fare and then your valuables and wallet too. It may only be a matter of time before he also takes your life.”
Holmes chose a dull brown Bulldog briar for his early smoke, filled it with the previous day’s dottles and cigar ends, packed them in gently with a slim thumb and then lit them with a taper, which he pulled from the fire.
“How do you expect to catch this rogue cabman? Surely, he could be any one of hundreds operating in the city, maybe thousands.” I was now addressing a dark smog that almost totally obscured my friend.
“Not at all,” Holmes gesticulated with his empty hand, clearing a small opening in his personal black cloud. Well here is the silver lining coming, I chuckled to myself. “The carriage is a Hansom, black with blue trim and dark leather seats inside.”
“Which currently describes several hundred cabs in London right now,” I complained. “Surely even you cannot find such a needle amongst the smokestacks.”
Holmes raised a critical eyebrow at what I thought was a rather clever little updating of the adage.
“Not only do I believe I will solve the case, but I shall do so by lunchtime. Without leaving this chair. Everything is set in motion, all we need do is wait,” Holmes paused, before adding, “and smoke”.
Holmes seemed to be grinning. I suddenly realised that he was turning this into an intellectual exercise. The case, though totally baffling to me, was not enough to challenge him, so he had set what I thought were impossible boundaries to make the problem even harder to solve.
After only a short while the noxious atmosphere of the sitting room became too much for me, so I escaped outside into the low early morning sunshine and spent a couple of blissful hours strolling through The Regent’s Park, returning only when the throbbing of my old wound moved from a distraction into actual discomfort.
I returned to Baker Street shortly before nine, and on my way inside greeted Mrs Hudson. I ordered rashers, eggs, toast and coffee for two to be sent to our rooms, knowing with absolute certainty that Holmes would not have eaten. I climbed the familiar stairs to our rooms, opened the door and stepped inside.
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