Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of The Pigtail Twist

by M J H Simmonds

  “I think I will find a quiet spot of shade on deck and catch up with my notes,” I announced. “But before I do, Holmes, now that we are alone, I would like to you ask a question that has been troubling me.”

  “Of course, do go ahead, old chap,” replied Holmes, as he rooted around in his overnight bag.

  “I cannot believe that all of these people and agencies have acted in such an amenable way purely out of sense of justice. I am concerned that you have had to expend a considerable sum in arranging this scheme. I know just how much you desire a righteous outcome to this affair, but surely not at your own personal cost. I cannot see Gregson and Scotland Yard covering such expenses and unless you have some sort of prior agreement with Fauwkes, I am fearful that you will be considerably out of pocket.”

  Holmes stopped rummaging and faced me, a sincere expression upon his face.

  “I care not for money. I have no interest in gold, jewels or any other trinkets. Justice is all that I seek, that is my treasure and my reward. In the past, I have been well compensated from cases where my clients have been wealthy. Similarly, I have also solved cases without charging at all for my services. In future, I may charge a fixed fee, but for now I am happy to invest not just in justice but also in my reputation which, as a doctor, you know to be priceless.”

  Holmes recognised that I was not entirely satisfied with his answer, but before I could speak again, he added, “Less than fifty pounds, Watson. The total cost of this adventure. Including train fares, telegrams, accommodation and all payments to those who made the enterprise possible. I consider it money well spent and that must be an end to it,” Holmes finished, defiantly.

  “Very well, Holmes, you are quite right. It is not my place to judge what you do with your own money. But I do hope that you are amply and justly rewarded for your largesse in a future case.”

  I spent the remainder of the day catching up with my writing and did not see Holmes again until we joined the Captain and First Officer for dinner. The food was far better than I had expected, or indeed felt we deserved. Holmes had revealed earlier that Captain Irons had steadfastly refused to take any payment for his help or for our passage back to England. His hospitality was extraordinary and, at length, we found ourselves smoking dark Sumatran cigars, sipping rum and listening to a succession of increasingly hilarious anecdotes, recounted by Wilson, the First Officer.

  During a pause while Wilson went below deck to find more rum, the Captain asked a question that, in truth, I should have already asked Holmes.

  “So, what happens when we reach Southampton? Shiner is adamant that you have no proof that he is the killer. How long can the police, realistically, hold him?”

  “That is a question that troubles me deeply, Captain,” replied Holmes. “I have one last line of enquiry to follow when we reach England. I am hopeful that it will increase my knowledge of the background to the affair but, even with this information, I fear we may have no real case against Shiner unless he confesses. The truth is that we still do not know exactly how Harrison was killed and, until we do, we cannot prove that Shiner was the one responsible. I doubt we can persuade a judge to keep Shiner in custody for much more than forty-eight hours.”

  “We may be able to engineer some extra time if we can keep him at sea whilst Watson and I land first,” added Holmes. “If you are willing to spend a couple of days at anchor off the south coast while we make our way to London, we might just be able to gain an advantage,” he suggested.

  “Of course, Mr Holmes, we are in no rush to reach Southampton, nothing on board is perishable and we carry precious little mail these days. Shiner’s room has no windows and he is no sailor, so I doubt he will even realise that we have stopped, let alone what we are planning,” replied Captain Irons, smiling broadly.

  Buoyed by the Captain’s continued cooperation, we retired for the night and took to our bunks in good spirit. The days that followed passed in pleasant regularity. We were spared the worst of the Bay of Biscay’s malevolence and made good time as we headed north. The good weather and calm seas continued for a week. The spell of wind and rain that then followed was bearable as it persisted for just two days, before passing and being replaced, once more, by blue skies and smooth glassy seas.

  Chapter Fourteen - Return to Baker Street

  Monday 23rd June 1884

  We reached the south coast after ten days and, as promised, the Captain dropped anchor a couple of miles out from Southampton. Aided by two crewman, we took the ship’s dinghy, raised its small canvas sail and headed towards the port. After two hours of unsteady progress, trying to remember my summer sailing lessons when just a boy, we slunk into the harbour and within half an hour, we were on a train speeding towards London. I must admit that it felt good to be back, both upon dry land and in familiar surroundings.

  We arrived back at 221B Baker Street just after midday and it was a joy to be able to change clothes, bathe and take a light luncheon. Mrs Hudson seemed pleased to see us, but Holmes was his usual brusque self. The woman has the patience of a saint, I made sure that I thanked her profusely.

  After we had eaten, Holmes sat down at his desk and quickly wrote two messages, which he handed to Mrs Hudson.

  “Take these to the post office as quickly as you can,” he ordered, with an off-hand gesture.

  She gave him a stern look and stood unmoving.

  “Please, Mrs Hudson,” he added with a sigh. Mrs Hudson tutted, but took the missives with her as she left the room.

  “What now, Holmes?” I asked. “Should we head to Harrison’s solicitor to see if we can persuade him to reveal what it is you believe him to be hiding?”

  “I fear that we may have but one chance with Williams. We must have every possible advantage on our side before we confront him, and even then we cannot be certain that we will be able to persuade him to break what I believe to be a solemn oath sworn to Harrison under very different, and indeed very difficult, circumstances.”

  “I understand your reasoning, Holmes, but what more can we possibly bring to bear against this man? You have admitted, yourself, that even a direct plea from Scotland Yard had no impact upon him.”

  “I have had much time to contemplate this case, Watson, and I have come to certain conclusions. I feel I am closer now to having the armoury required to breach Williams’ defences. He is clearly a fine man, steadfast and with the highest of morals. He will not divulge what he knows unless we can convince him that it is the right, proper and just thing to do.”

  “So, what exactly are we waiting for?” I demanded, growing impatient with Holmes’ continued obfuscation.

  “Not what, old friend, but whom,” Holmes answered. “We await two people. Gregson will represent the law, armed with whatever legal precedent he has managed to uncover. The other will be Fauwkes, Harrison’s closest friend and, indeed, heir. I wired him as soon as I realised that he may well be the key. As the beneficiary of the estate, he must surely have a right to see the genuine will made by Harrison.”

  “Genuine will?” I asked. “What on earth do you mean? Do you not believe that the will supplied and acted upon by Williams is the real thing? Is it a forgery? This opens up an entirely new aspect to this case. And I thought it already complicated.” I could not help but let out a small, exhausted sigh at this point.

  “Yes, Watson, the will that we saw was a fake, but everything contained within it were the express wishes of Harrison,” Holmes replied.

  “Now I really am lost, Holmes,” I said. “If it represented the exact wishes of Harrison, how can it be a fake?”

  “That is exactly what we need to ascertain, Watson, and we shall have only one chance to succeed.”

  Chapter Fifteen - Legal Arguments

  Much to our considerable annoyance, we were unable to arrange a meeting with Williams for that afternoon, and in addition to this ill fortune, Fau
wkes was not able to leave Bedhurst Hall until the following day. Thus, the meeting with the reluctant solicitor was set for ten o’clock the next morning. We passed a frustrating evening, neither one of us being able to settle down or take our mind off our forthcoming appointment. I tried reading, but could not finish a single paragraph without being distracted by thoughts of Shiner, Harrison, wills and murder. Holmes just sat and smoked in silence.

  I tried to think through the remaining unknowns in the case. We were certain that Shiner had murdered Harrison in revenge for the death of his wife. What we did not yet know was as follows:

  What had changed to make Shiner believe that Harrison was responsible for his wife’s death, after all Harrison remained in Borundia for three months before leaving?

  Why did it take over thirty years for Shiner to take his revenge, what had he suddenly learned?

  How did Shiner kill Harrison, leaving no murder weapon?

  Until we learned the answers to these questions, we would have no chance of making a case against Shiner. In my mind, I repeatedly turned over the events of the previous days but failed to make any further progress.

  “I agree with you, Watson, it is a most intriguing and difficult affair,” announced Holmes, suddenly.

  “Why yes or, rather, what?” I spluttered, before smiling. “Of course, Holmes, you are quite right, after all, what else would I be thinking about? I do not think I have turned one page of this book in the past hour. Even I, with what little skill I have, would have observed this.”

  “I think I may have whittled it down to just two questions Holmes,” I said, glad of any conversation, no matter how repetitive. “What made Shiner believe Harrison had killed his wife, and how did he then murder Harrison?”

  “Shiner had plenty of money, so he was quite able to have pursued Harrison when he left Africa, but he did not, he remained in Borundia for another thirty years. If only half of what I have heard about Shiner’s character is true, then there is no way that he would have let Harrison get away if he had even the slightest suspicion that he was responsible for his wife’s death. Therefore, I think we can assume that Shiner had not the merest inkling of Harrison’s involvement in his wife’s death until shortly before he sold up and left Borundia.”

  Happy with my reasoning, I treated myself to a small cigar from my silver and leather case. I offered one to Holmes, but he was content with his pipe.

  “You see a little further, Watson, well done. But we must wait until tomorrow for the answer, I hope, to at least one of your questions.”

  Holmes returned to his pipe and did not speak again that evening. I took Holmes’ silence as an excuse to take an early night, but soon regretted it, as I signally failed to fall asleep.

  Tuesday 24th June 1884

  I woke early but was not in the least surprised to find Holmes already sitting at the dining table, drinking coffee and thumbing through the morning papers.

  “Good morning, Watson,” he declared with surprising alacrity, considering that he had probably barely slept, if at all.

  “I hope you have the strength to see the day through, old man,” I replied, before tucking into Mrs Hudson’s wonderful rashers and eggs.

  I hoped that Holmes would take my hint but, as usual, he ate little, preferring strong coffee followed by an even stronger bowlful of tobacco.

  We finally departed Baker Street at nine o’clock and headed for St Pancras. There we met up with Fauwkes and shared a cab to Williams’ offices in Pimlico. Waiting outside was Gregson, punctual as ever, holding a brown leather portfolio.

  “We have done what we can, Holmes, but short of charging him with obstruction of justice, we have little left with which to threaten him,” Gregson announced soberly. “And if we tried that, he would probably just laugh in our faces.”

  “The battle is not yet lost, Gregson,” Holmes smiled. “We must be positive, if he even so much as suspects that we hold a weak hand, then we will undoubtedly lose.” Holmes’ optimism was as unexpected as it was encouraging.

  We were shown into Williams’ office. It was that of a typical London solicitor, large and airy, with a substantial partner’s desk situated in front of a wide bay window. The walls on one side were lined with leather-bound legal publications, rows of green, red and black volumes filled shelves from the floor to a height of well over six feet. On the opposite side was a fireplace surrounded by fine Italian marble. The mantelpiece held a gold ormolu clock and several framed photographs of grey men in dark clothing. On the wall above the fireplace was a pair of dark and rather dreary landscapes. Williams rose as we entered and gestured for us to sit.

  “Gentlemen, welcome. I am Caerwyn Williams, solicitor and executor of the will of the late Mr James Harrison of Bedhurst Hall. Mr Holmes, a pleasure to see you again,” he introduced himself with a humourless smile.

  He momentarily appeared flustered as he realised that there were only three chairs available before his large desk, but before he could speak, Gregson declared, “Please do not concern yourself, Mr Williams, I am more than happy to stand.”

  I thought this was quick thinking by Gregson, his large looming frame could be a useful way of applying subtle, indirect pressure upon the recalcitrant solicitor. At the very least, it would help to counter Williams’ own ploy of keeping his back to the light to help mask his facial reactions.

  Williams was a man of below average height and slim of build. He wore a fine quality black suit with a stiff high-collared white shirt. His black tie was fixed with a large gold stud. Across his waistcoat was a gold watch and chain. This hunter bore the engraving of a compass and square, which matched the masonic badge upon his lapel. His hair was greying and swept back from the temples. He had a smallish face and nose but his eyes shone brightly with intelligence or defiance, perhaps both.

  Holmes began immediately, “Mr Williams, we have no time to waste. Since I was last here, circumstances have changed materially. We now know who killed Harrison, and why he was killed. We have a man in custody and are close to being able to bring charges. It is time for you to divulge all that you know. I understand the difficult position that you are in, but surely, you must wish to see that justice is done for your client. Sharing with us what you know may well be the difference between Harrison’s killer being convicted and him walking free.”

  “Mr Holmes, as far as I am concerned, nothing has changed. I wrote up the will of Mr Harrison and he signed it. That is the sum total of my knowledge in these matters. No amount of pleading, or indeed threatening,” he gestured towards Gregson standing menacingly behind us, “will change that.”

  “Again, I do appreciate your position, but let me explain to you what has occurred since we last met,” insisted Holmes.

  Holmes then proceeded to recount all that had happened since we left London in such a rush, almost two weeks earlier. He described how Shiner had left Bedden in the middle of the night and how we had pursued him across France, finally catching up with him in Marseilles. He then told the solicitor all that I had learned from Sir Christopher Janus-Bennedict, the friendship that had grown between Harrison and Shiner, their life in Borundia and, finally, Shiner’s marriage to, and the subsequent death of, Sarah Hardcastle. At this point, I thought I saw a look of sadness cross the face of the otherwise stoic solicitor.

  “So, you must now be as convinced as we are of Shiner’s guilt. I beg you to lift your shield and share with us what I know you to be holding back.”

  For a moment I thought Williams was about to break, but he simply sighed and slowly, sadly, shook his head.

  “Mr Williams.” Holmes now spoke with increased volume and vigour. “I have not yet introduced our companion, here, for I thought to spare his involvement if at all possible.”

  Holmes waved towards Fauwkes who had, so far, sat in silence.

  “This is Colonel Ephraim Fauwkes, the in
heritor of Bedhurst Hall and what remains of James Harrison’s wealth.”

  Williams, for a moment, looked unsettled but quickly recovered.

  “Well I am delighted to meet you, Colonel,” he managed, uncertainly.

  “I choose my words with great care, sir, when I state ‘what remains’ of Harrison’s wealth,” Holmes continued, with great authority. “For we have proof,” Holmes pointed back towards Gregson and the brown leather valise that he carried, “that a substantial part of Harrison’s estate has been misappropriated and that you are directly responsible.”

  I tensed up as I realised that this was Holmes’ bluff, his one chance to make Williams give up the secrets that Holmes was convinced were being deliberately kept from us. If Williams demanded proof of these allegations, then the game would be up, for we had only Fauwkes’ word that these missing bonds had ever existed at all.

  Williams sat, wide-eyed with shock, but said nothing.

  “Must I invoke the law and bring in the authorities?” Holmes demanded, slowly, in a low, quietly threatening tone.

  “Mr Holmes, please... I cannot.” Williams begged, in a whisper.

  Suddenly, Holmes’ entire demeanour changed. When he next spoke, it was in a far softer, more conciliatory tone.

  “Mr Williams, may I speak to you alone and in confidence for a moment?” he asked, gently.

  Holmes turned to face us. “Please leave us, quickly now,” he urged.

  We rose swiftly and left, Gregson followed by Fauwkes and then myself. Holmes closed the heavy oak door quietly but firmly behind us.

  We waited outside for nearly half an hour before the office door finally opened and out strode a purposeful-looking Holmes. He swept towards the front door, dismissing our questions with a wave of his long, thin hands.