Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Pigtail Twist

by M J H Simmonds

  Holmes smiled, doffed his hat to the Inspector and prepared to leave.

  “Why thank you, Mr Holmes,” replied a slightly stunned Inspector Lestrade, before making an admirably quick recovery. “I am sure we can take it from here. I’ll let you know when we have our man, it will not be long now you have pointed us in the right direction.”

  Holmes was already at the door as I bade farewell to the Inspector. I followed him through the corridors of the venerable home of the Metropolitan Police and out into the late morning sun. As I felt the warm sun on my face, Holmes turned and spoke.

  “It is almost midday, Watson, and we are but ten minutes’ walk from the Strand. Lunch at Simpson’s?”

  At that place, and in that moment, his suggestion could not possibly have been bettered.

  Postscript

  Lestrade did get his man, a fellow bookmaker no less. A dispute over territory had escalated into a full-blown feud in which neither man would back down. A one-to-one meeting was arranged, supposedly to calm the situation, but this failed disastrously. As he was leaving, suddenly realising that they were alone and there were no witnesses, the assailant grabbed the opportunity to settle the score once and for all. When he was found and arrested by Lestrade’s men, he was holding a stout ebony stick dressed with silver adornments. Its ferrule was missing.

  Part Two

  Prologue

  Tuesday 3rd June 1884

  The rain hammered mercilessly against the windows and the wind blew its contempt around the dark grey streets of the greatest city in the world. Outside, hardy folk braved the elements on their way to and fro, not letting the squall keep them from their business.

  If only my friend were currently so occupied. When involved in a case, nothing could keep him from following it through until its end, however complex or dangerous it transpired to be. Yet now, as I look at the pale, pathetic figure curled up in his armchair, I see the opposite. Holmes, when not retained upon some mystery or other, was a sad sight indeed. Thin, gaunt-faced, barely eating or drinking and drawn ever closer to the enslaving syringe.

  The exploits of the previous month now seemed like a lifetime ago. The good weather had gone and taken with it Holmes’ health and caseload both. I had even taken to visiting Lestrade alone, to ensure he was keeping no cases of interest from us. The Inspector had profited well from Holmes’ Herculean successes in the preceding weeks, but despite my disloyal thoughts, it transpired that he was himself also actively searching for a case worthy of our friend. He had seen the change in Holmes first hand, and it troubled him as much as it did me.

  Even when we bullied, shamed or even forced him to take on a lesser case, he resolved it without engaging even a fraction of the great intellect we know him to possess.

  One morning, during a brief lull in the turbulent weather, we were visited by a young lady. She was of maybe four and twenty years, and fairly attractive in a commonplace way. She worked in town as a sales assistant in a well-known ladieswear store and spoke well, rather better than her background might have suggested.

  The case was simple and quite pathetic. Her cat had gone missing. She suspected her husband, a carpenter, of having disposed of the poor creature, but had no proof. I heard the details myself as Holmes had yet to rise that morning. I was just in the process of trying to explain, as kindly as possible, that Sherlock Holmes did not take such cases when a disembodied voice called out. “Trousers Watson, ask about the trousers.”

  “Excuse me,” I addressed the young lady more than a little embarrassed. “What about whose trousers?” I hissed back at Holmes.

  “The young lady’s husband of course. Shoreditch, I believe. The accent, that is. Much worked upon, but still just apparent,” came Holmes’ casual reply.

  “What about them? This is insufferable, Holmes.” My face was as red as a Guard’s jacket.

  “Does the gentleman wear turn-ups?” He asked. I looked at our client and gave an apologetic shrug.

  “Why yes, yes he does,” she replied, somewhat bemused.

  “Very good,” answered the unseen detective. “When you arrive home, check inside his turn-ups. If you find a light-coloured sediment, heavy with grey clay, then I am afraid your cat is dead.”

  Holmes volunteered no further explanation or indeed anything at all. I led the confused client away as politely as I could, gently explaining that Holmes was suffering from nervous exhaustion and was not quite himself.

  Once she was safely outside 221B, I rounded on Holmes, banging on his door.

  “Really Holmes, this will not do. Teasing a poor client like that, not to mention what she will tell her friends and customers. You have a certain reputation that you must uphold.”

  There was a considerable pause followed by what sounded like weak laughter. “Fear not, dear doctor, I am not yet for Bethlehem,” Holmes said, weakly.

  “Then how can you excuse such behaviour? That poor woman has lost her cat and you have sent her home to examine her husband’s trousers?” I asked, incredulously.

  “The case is simple, Watson. These animals, the ones people keep for affection, vanish by the thousand each year. They are stolen, killed, trapped, poisoned and drowned for numerous reasons. I saw one other possibility. If it turns out to be correct, she gets her explanation and my reputation is enhanced. If I am wrong, then I believe we will never know what happened to the creature and I fear that, in future, I may find little work in Shoreditch.”

  “Well, it is good to see that your twisted sense of humour is still present, but please explain about the trousers,” I implored.

  “The Thames, Watson. Old Father, Mother and bastard child of London. The banks and shore around Shoreditch are mostly sticky grey clay. What would this distinctive alluvial matter be doing on a carpenter?”

  “I have no idea,” I admitted.

  “It could only have got there if he had recently walked upon the shores of the river, and what reason could he have had for doing so?”

  “Of course. What a cad, killing his wife’s pet and throwing the poor thing’s remains into the river.” I shook my head in disgust.

  “We shall see, Watson, for this may not be quite as you imagine. But no matter really, the odds are several to one against my theory and we will probably hear no more of this matter.”

  However, the very next morning, to my considerable surprise, we received a note from our client. She thanked us for our help in solving what she had believed to have been an impossible problem. She had done exactly as requested by Holmes, found the soil and confronted her husband. He immediately admitted disposing of the animal’s body, but explained that he had found the creature in a terrible state, dying from multiple wounds, the result, it seems, of a vicious feline battle for territory. He could do nothing but end the poor creature’s suffering. Wanting to spare his wife’s feelings, he removed the body and denied all knowledge of the sad incident. Though sad at the confirmation of her pet’s demise, she was nonetheless happy to discover that her husband was not at all the violent, spiteful man she had begun to fear.

  I was impressed, as anyone would have been, but Holmes merely shrugged off any compliment with a languid wave of his hand. His only comment on this, or any other minor case brought to him at the time, was to simply convey an estimation of how small a percentage of his brainpower he had used in solving such meagre pickings.

  “About twelve per cent,” was his desultory approximation of the above case, one unique, in that he had solved it without ever leaving his room and having never actually met his client.

  The days passed and still no case worthy of the great detective knocked upon our door. It was now Monday, the ninth of June and finally, so it seemed, the weather was beginning to change for the better. I awoke to an unfamiliar crescent of bright sunlight breaking through the edges of my bedroom curtains. I dressed and made my way to the sitti
ng room, my mood improved by the subtle warmth that was already radiating its warm fingers through the city. Holmes was sitting in his chair, early morning sunlight streaming through the windows. For the first time in weeks, the fireplace was empty and unlit.

  “Well this is a bit more like it, old man. The sun is out, one can almost feel the damp being steamed out of the city. I am sure this must be a good omen,” I ventured, as cheerily as I could muster.

  “Has it stopped raining? I hadn’t noticed.” Holmes looked up and saw the bright morning sunshine cascading into our rooms as if for the first time. “Sadly, Watson, it will take more than sunlight to stop me from rotting away.” He sighed and settled back to his morning pipe, its hideous smoke curling and twisting like a cursed wraith dying in the bright early rays of the new day.

  As I sat down to another fine breakfast prepared by Mrs Hudson, I was surprised and excited to hear the ringing of the front door bell.

  “Well, this must be a case, old man, who else would call at such an hour?” I questioned, enthusiastically. Holmes barely shrugged.

  About a minute later, Inspector Gregson appeared at the door. His tall, slightly stooped figure peered into the room. “I hope I am not disturbing you, gentlemen, but I find myself rather lost and incapable. I have a problem that I think only you, Mr Holmes, could ever make sense of.”

  I looked towards Holmes and saw a momentary flash of pleasure sweep across his face before turning a serious glance to Gregson. “Pray, tell me your story. Be precise, leave out nothing.”

  I smiled and offered Gregson a seat and warm coffee. Inside, I felt relief and elation that my friend might have finally found a case that could challenge him. As Gregson began his tale, there was little to suspect that this would turn out to be one of the most labyrinthine and saddest cases of his entire career.

  Chapter One - Beda’s Hurst Hall

  Monday 9th June 1884

  “Bedhurst Hall is a fairly obscure country house in rural Bedfordshire. It is owned, or rather, was owned, by a Mr James Harrison. Last night he was murdered in a house full of guests. No one could have entered the house and nobody left. We know that he was strangled, but have found no murder weapon. We have searched the property and all of those present, but have found no clues or evidence, whatsoever. We are at a complete loss, Mr Holmes. I beg you to help as you have done in the past.”

  Gregson’s big blue eyes were wide open and pleading, his scruffy blonde hair only adding to his almost childlike appearance.

  “Bedfordshire, you say?” Holmes leaned forwards. “There is an hourly train from St Pancras, we shall meet you at Bedford station at midday and share a cab to the Hall.”

  Holmes turned away, dismissively. Gregson knew it was time to leave, but as he passed me, he nodded and I could see that he was greatly relieved that Holmes was now engaged in this mystery.

  “Well, what do you make of this then, Holmes?” I asked.

  “Probably a simple matter, but there may just be a few points of interest,” was his less than enthusiastic reply.

  “Oh come on, old man, show a bit of ardour. It certainly sounds like a real puzzle to me. I am going to pack a bag as I am guessing we may be there a day or two.”

  “Don’t forget your service revolver,” Holmes replied, rather to my surprise.

  “Whatever for?” I asked, but received no reply, as Holmes ignored my inquiries and retired to his room to dress and prepare for the journey.

  We took a cab from 221B and journeyed through the welcome sunlit streets to the magnificent station of St Pancras. We alighted in the finely jagged shadow of Gilbert Scott’s great gothic Midland Hotel and made our way inside, past the ticket offices and into the cavernous iron-beamed Barlow train shed, its roof the largest without support in the entire world. Even after numerous visits, I still had to pause to take in its scale and geometric beauty, a miracle of engineering and mechanical artistry. Beams of light streamed in and where they met smoke and steam they were bent, twisted and diffracted in a magical dance of light and dust.

  “Wake up Watson, you old dreamer.” Holmes grinned as he, almost playfully, nudged me with his overnight bag. I grunted myself out of my daydream and followed Holmes into an empty First Class carriage.

  The short, hour-long journey passed quickly with little conversation. The train slowed as we passed the Britannia Works and halted a few moments later at Bedford station. Gregson was there, waiting on the platform, his tall form and blonde hair fluttering in the breeze, were unmistakable.

  A four-wheeler awaited us and we climbed aboard, beginning the six-mile drive to the village of Bedden. On the way, Gregson gave us a short history of the Hall.

  “The village was originally called Beda’s Dene, dene being Anglo-Saxon for a small valley. The house itself was built on a wooded hill, a hurst, so was known as Bedashurst Hall, later contracted to Bedhurst. Similarly, the village is now known simply as Bedden,” he recounted, most keenly.

  Holmes appeared to be dozing, so I nodded at the appropriate points and feigned interest in Gregson’s local knowledge.

  We headed northwest through gently undulating farmland until we descended into a small hollow where about a dozen small houses and a handsome inn announced that we had arrived in the village of Bedden. A small green with a closely cropped cricket square along with a regulation duck pond completed this most quintessentially English village. We stopped briefly at the inn to take rooms and unload our bags before continuing through the village and following the road, which soon became wooded and began to slowly climb. The trees suddenly gave way and we caught our first sight of Bedhurst Hall, a quarter of a mile away, sitting proudly atop the highest ground of the parish.

  The Hall was not particularly large or grand but was finely proportioned and set among neat, well-kept gardens. The house appeared to have originally been of ruddy-brick Tudor origin, but had been extensively, but sensitively modernised. I instantly approved of this clever method of both conserving the historic Hall and bringing it up to date without losing what had made it so attractive in the first place.

  Holmes was still silent. I imagined he was studying the house and grounds with a very different eye. I attempted to do the same. I could see that the open ground, which surrounded the house, would make it very difficult to approach or leave unobserved. I mentioned this to Holmes, who nodded, but said nothing.

  A constable was waiting at the front of the house and he saluted Gregson as he jumped athletically from the carriage.

  “Has all been left exactly as I ordered?” he asked.

  “Yes sir, but it is getting harder to keep the guests quiet and all in one place. They are complaining with ever increasing regularity, sir.”

  “I will have a word with them, presently. A murder has been done and no one is leaving until we have answers.” His confidence and mood had clearly been improved by Holmes’ presence.

  He turned to us, “Would you like to meet the guests?” he asked.

  “Soon, but first the scene of the murder, I think. I suppose the body has been removed?” Holmes sighed, without optimism.

  “Certainly not, sir. I insisted that it was left exactly as it was found, just as you have wished it in the past.” Gregson’s eager face looked at Holmes for approval.

  “I will save my praise until I see what the local constables have left me to work with, I can already see their heavy footprints in the gravel, obscuring all others,” Holmes replied, rather brusquely.

  We followed Gregson into the Hall. The inside was much like the exterior, a mixture of traditional dark mahogany panelling and plain white plaster walls, giving the Hall a sense of space and light, but also of warmth. There were surprisingly few paintings, and all of these were quite shockingly modern - bright, crude and rather vulgar. We passed by a large wooden staircase, turned right and through a sparse parlour, into a similarly u
npretentious dining room. There was little in the way of decoration, the walls were painted in simple uniform bright colours and the occasional shelf and table held little more than a handful of drinks bottles, a large humidor and a collection of tribal looking statues and masks. At the rear was a set of glazed double doors in the French style, these were both wide open and through them we could see into a large greenhouse or conservatory. Once inside, we could finally appreciate the size of the glasshouse. It stretched twenty yards ahead of us and was almost as wide as the house. It was filled, from floor to twenty-foot high roof, with exotic plants, flowers, ferns, bushes and trees. Hundreds of glass panels, each about three feet square, were held in place by a latticework of white-painted iron, creating the impression of a vast spider’s web, dripping with condensation from the humidity created by the massed flora below.

  We walked forward, then left, right and right again. It appeared that the layout of the paths had evolved in a manner as unplanned and organic as the plants themselves. We eventually reached the far end of the structure. Looking through the windows, we could see a neat garden, after which, the ground fell away leaving a huge stretch of blue sky interspersed with occasional fluffy clouds. I estimated the view faced somewhere between southwest and west, some truly beautiful sunsets must have been observed from here. It was with this thought that I noticed the wooden bench, positioned just for such occasions, and also the slumped figure, thereon.

  The attending constable stood to attention, then stepped back to allow us full access to the wretched scene. Harrison was still half-upright but leaned dramatically to the right. His head was turned upwards and his face told me a simple and terrible tale. His skin was dark, blood vessels burst all over. The eyes were wide and bloodshot, almost protruding from their sockets. A black tongue stuck, out surrounded by a pair of light purple lips. He had been strangled to death.

  Holmes began his examination. He removed his lens and studied every inch of the dead man in minute detail. From head to toe, he looked in every pocket, turn-up, fold and crease of his clothes. He even checked the undersides of the poor man’s soles before inspecting the surrounding area. After twenty minutes, he straightened.