Joanna hurried to the drawer and returned with slender tweezers. “Will this do?”
“Nicely,” I said and, using both tweezers and magnifying glass, plucked a sliver of wood from the corpse’s skull. I held it up to the light and reexamined it with the magnifier. “It is a splinter of highly polished wood, and atop it there is a bit of metal that has the appearance of silver.”
“What do you make of it?”
“There are a number of possibilities,” I replied. “But the one that keeps coming to mind is Dr. Christopher Moran’s walking stick. As I recall, it was silver-headed and made of polished wood.”
My father nodded. “A perfect weapon to bash in a person’s skull.”
“From behind,” Joanna added. “That is how someone like Moran would strike.”
“Hold on!” I said, raising my voice. “There is no real proof that a walking stick was the weapon involved here. In fact, we do not even know if a silver-headed stick could cause a circular skull fracture.”
“True,” Joanna said. “So let us prove it.”
“How do you propose doing so?”
“By example,” Joanna replied and gestured to my father. “Your walking stick, please, Watson.”
She tested the firmness of the silver-headed walking stick and hurried over to a hanging skeleton in the corner of the morgue. The skeleton had been present for many, many years and was rumored to have once belonged to one of England’s most celebrated poets. Joanna laid the skeleton on the floor, with its head up, and delivered a vicious blow, using the walking stick, to the crown of the skull. It made a loud, cracking sound. My father and I dashed over to see the result. At the crown of the skull was a depressed, circular fracture.
“There!” Joanna announced. “And so we have our weapon.”
My father stared at her, with his mouth agape. “How did you know to do that?”
Joanna shrugged. “It just came to me. And it proved my point, did it not?”
“Indeed it did,” my father replied, and watched her return to the corpse of Charles Harrelston where she attempted to maneuver the head of the walking stick into the circular skull fracture. My father lowered his voice to a bare whisper and said to me, “I swear to you I once saw Sherlock Holmes perform the very same test many, many years ago. The only difference was the weapon. Back then it was a metal hook he used on the skull.”
“Did you write about it?” I whispered.
“Not to my recollection.”
“It is an excellent fit!” Joanna called out from the marble slab holding the corpse. “And what are you whispering so secretly about?”
I replied, “We were wondering if you had read about the illustration you just performed.”
“No,” she answered. “It was not mentioned in Sir Michael’s monograph on the subject. Perhaps I should write him and suggest that he include the demonstration in his next edition.”
“So you simply thought up the illustration?”
“I did not give it much thought,” Joanna said, with complete honesty. “It was simply the most appropriate example to make my point.”
“You are quite remarkable,” my father said.
“It was elementary, Watson.”
Not to the rest of us mortals, I wanted to add.
“Well,” Joanna continued, “now that we have the weapon, let us connect the points. We have Dr. Christopher Moran striking Charles Harrelston and killing him. This event occurred in the secret room where the Chubb safe was located, for that is where we found the smears of blood that remained after the attempt to clean them away. So the key to our puzzle must center around the safe. Somehow, Moran lured Harrelston into that room to kill him. And the contents of that safe was the bait.”
My father went right to the heart of the matter. “So how do we learn the contents of the safe? We certainly cannot approach Moran.”
“Nor his secretary,” I added. “For whatever we ask of him will surely get back to Moran.”
“Can he be bought off?” my father suggested.
“Too risky,” Joanna opposed. “The secretary may still be loyal to Moran.”
“But he was gathering his papers and had given notice to Moran on the day we were there,” my father said in a rush. “His loyalty may well have disappeared once he walked out the door.”
“But some may remain,” Joanna said. “And if Moran learns of our interest in the safe, all of its contents will suddenly vanish. Then the case will never be solved.”
“So we find ourselves in a quandary.” I summed up the matter. “What we need most to do, we cannot.”
Joanna furrowed her brow and gave our dilemma considerable thought before saying, “We are going about this in the wrong fashion. In an effort to reach a satisfying outcome, we are omitting too many important steps. We surmise that Moran used his silver-headed walking stick to murder Charles Harrelston, but have not proved it. We have surmised that Moran’s safe holds the key to the puzzle, but have little to support it. We require solid proofs to make our case. We need evidence that cannot be refuted.”
“But surely the evidence at hand strongly points to Moran being the murderer and the safe holding the key to solving the case.”
Joanna waved her hand dismissively. “They are no more than suppositions and circumstantial evidence that will never hold up before a hardheaded British jury.”
“So how do we proceed?” I asked.
“We go after Moran and the secretary without them being aware of it.”
“How do you propose we do that?”
“With guile,” she said, and left it at that.
7
The Message
At noon the following day, as our carriage approached the Blalock mansion, my father instructed me to choose my words carefully should Sir Henry inquire about our request that Joanna join us.
“Only say that her familiarity with the Harrelston family could prove helpful in our investigation,” my father said. “Make no mention of the message we received, for the fewer people who know of this matter, the better.”
“But surely Sir Henry is not an idle gossiper,” I remarked.
“Everyone is an idle gossiper if the gossip is interesting enough.”
“What if Sir Henry persists in wanting an explanation?”
“Then persist in giving him none.”
Stepping out into the mist, I hurried to the sturdy door of the mansion and found Joanna waiting in the anteroom, with Sir Henry at her side. His expression appeared both solemn and stern, making it difficult to read. I took it to be a bad sign that I was not being greeted in the grand library as on my earlier visit.
“Have there been further difficulties for the Harrelstons?” Sir Henry asked.
“We are unsure, Sir Henry,” I replied. “But it appears they require our presence at the moment. My father thought that Joanna might be of some assistance, for she is familiar with the family and was a witness at his death.”
“So tragic for this fine gentleman to meet such a terrible end,” Sir Henry commented sadly.
“Indeed, sir,” I said. “With that in mind, I think you can well understand why the family wishes to leave no stone unturned.”
“Nor should you.”
“Then we have your permission to include Joanna in our quest for the truth?”
“Of course,” Sir Henry said, nodding his approval. “And if I myself can be of any service whatsoever, all you need do is ask.”
“I shall pass along your kind offer to my father.”
I opened my umbrella as we dashed out, for a heavy drizzle had begun and the darkening sky overhead foretold that there would be more to come.
“Why the urgency?” Joanna asked while being helped into our carriage.
“We have been summoned to the Harrelston house on a most compelling matter,” my father replied.
“Did they state the nature of the matter?”
“Only that it dealt with their son’s death.”
“Let us hope i
t will provide us with some desperately needed clues,” Joanna said, and pulled the blanket we afforded her up to her waist, for the day was both wet and cold. “I have the uncomfortable feeling that if this case is not solved quickly, it will not be solved at all. The tide is against us here and I am afraid it will remain so unless we act and force the issue.”
“How should we proceed?” my father asked.
“I would like you to invite Dr. Moran to your rooms at 221b Baker Street for dinner and conversation,” Joanna said. “He would be delighted for the two of you to share your experiences in the Second Afghan War.”
“What do we hope to gain from such a visit?” my father inquired.
“Proof that Moran is the murderer,” Joanna answered. “Of course we will require that you be totally at ease in his presence and show no sign that we believe him to be responsible for Charles Harrelston’s death. If he detects strain or nervousness on your part, it will alert him and he will cover his trail even more completely.”
“I did a bit of acting at university,” my father said.
“It will be needed here,” Joanna said. “And do not attempt to ply him with drink. That will never work with someone as clever as Moran.”
The sky darkened even more and the rain came down heavily. It drummed down on the roof of our carriage and drowned out our voices momentarily. To be on the side of caution, our driver pulled on the reins and our horse slowed noticeably.
“The strong rain is most unfortunate,” Joanna commented. “I had hoped to revisit the gardener and ask for a few more details, but he will surely not be at his work today.”
“Perhaps tomorrow,” I suggested.
“The passage of time is no good here,” Joanna said. “It dulls and distorts the memory, particularly for the finer points.”
“Which details were you interested in?”
“Moran’s unseemly behavior, which the public will never be privy to,” Joanna replied. “You see, the working class tend to form tight groups and tell indelicate stories about their upper-class employers. Our gardener would be on friendly terms with Moran’s chambermaid, cook, chimney sweep, and so on. They would talk and share intimate information that we could never obtain otherwise. Such knowledge could be of great value in undoing the clever devil that Moran is.”
“And he moves quickly with his cleverness,” I informed. “He has already approached Willoughby and inquired about the autopsy findings on Charles Harrelston.”
Joanna’s eyes narrowed with concern. “What did Willoughby disclose?”
“Only the information I gave him, which was that all injuries and wounds were traumatic in nature.”
“Did you omit the second fracture on the crown that was circular?”
“I could not, because Willoughby demanded to know why the hanging skeleton now had an obvious hole in the center of its skull.”
Joanna drew a deep breath. “That must have presented a difficult problem for you.”
“Only to a small degree,” I said. “I explained the crown of Charles Harrelston’s skull had a second, circular fracture, so we applied a blow to the skull of the hanging skeleton to prove that the smaller fracture was the result of trauma as well.”
“And he was convinced of that?”
“Not only convinced, but delighted,” I replied. “You see, he plans to include our experiment in his autopsy report. He will write that his carefully done studies in the department of pathology indicated that the smaller fracture was also caused by trauma.”
“Well done,” Joanna said. “But keep in mind that Willoughby is a fool and Moran is not. We must hope that Moran does not see through your deception.”
We neared the Harrelston mansion, and Joanna lowered her voice and gave it an even more serious tone. “Let me caution you not to be too revealing to Sir William. Do not in any way insinuate that Moran is involved in his son’s death, for vengeance is a powerful force and could precipitate an unwanted action by the Harrelstons against Moran. Then all would be lost.”
“Agreed,” my father said. “But a carefully worded glimmer of hope would be most welcomed by Sir William.”
“Please make certain it is not more than a glimmer.”
Moments later we bounded out of our carriage and, under the shield of umbrellas, entered the Harrelston mansion. An elderly butler, who was very slow of gait, showed us into the library where Sir William Harrelston awaited. Despite his sadness, he seemed genuinely pleased to see us. My father and I were warmly greeted, but he appeared to have particular affection for Joanna.
“Thank you, Joanna, for agreeing to assist us in these most dreadful of times,” Sir William said.
“It is my honor to be of service to you and your family,” Joanna responded.
“Your father-in-law tells me you have keen insight into such matters.”
“I possess some, but not nearly as much as Dr. Watson and his son,” Joanna said generously.
“As would be expected with their years of experience,” Sir William said, and turned his attention to my father. “Do you have any hopeful news?”
“Only a hint or two to suggest that Charles’s death may not be suicide,” my father said.
Sir William brightened just a bit. “Perhaps he slipped while leaning out the window.”
“We are investigating all possibilities and are of course interested in any evidence that might lead us away from suicide,” my father said. “Could your urgent summons to us be helpful in that regard?”
“I believe it may.” Sir William guided us over to chairs by a warming fire. As we sat, I noticed Sir William’s somewhat bedraggled appearance. His gray hair was tangled and disheveled, his wide sideburns not well trimmed. The frock coat he was wearing was both worn and out of fashion. His son’s death, together with the family’s financial woes, had taken a heavy toll on the man, but his voice remained strong.
“Allow me to begin by saying I am not grasping at straws. What I am about to tell you are facts from which you can reach your own conclusions. If I may, permit me to give you some background.”
“Please delineate every detail,” Joanna implored. “Leave out nothing, no matter how painful.”
“Very well then,” Sir William began. “You are no doubt aware that my late son was good friends with Christopher Moran, who was nearby when my son plunged to his death. Their friendship went back a very long way. You see, they were joined together in the Second Afghan War and remained close over the years. What you may not know is that there are two other officers who were also their comrades in arms. These four fine men—my son, Christopher Moran, Benjamin Levy, and Derek Cardogan—fought together and their friendship grew even tighter after the war. They were like a quartet, you might say.”
Sir William offered cigarettes around before lighting one for himself. “I did not mention the other two members of the quartet to Scotland Yard because I did not consider it important. Then I read the newspaper this morning and realized I should not have withheld the information.”
“What exactly did you read?” Joanna asked at once. “I want it word for word.”
“That Benjamin Levy had died suddenly and unexpectedly yesterday evening.”
Joanna quickly asked, “Was the cause of death given?”
Sir William shook his head. “None was mentioned.”
“The pieces start to fall together,” Joanna murmured softly, more to herself than to those seated around us.
Sir William did not catch the remark and cuffed a hand to his ear. “My hearing is not what it once was. May I ask you to repeat your comment?”
“I was thinking how strange it was for two of the four to die so close to one another,” Joanna said.
“My thoughts exactly,” Sir William agreed.
“Did the newspaper article state where the death of Benjamin Levy took place?”
“At the Athenian Club.”
“Was Moran a member as well?”
“Oh, yes. All four were long-term members.”
>
“I see.” Joanna strummed her fingers rapidly on the armrest, as if she was keeping time with her quick working mind. Gradually her fingers slowed, then stopped altogether. “But the death of Benjamin Levy alone did not merit an urgent summons.”
“There is more that I believe will grab your attention and hold it.” Sir Williams moved to his desk, where he lighted another cigarette from the one he was smoking, then continued. “On the morning of my son’s death, he was busily writing a message when I entered the library. He was irritated that I had interrupted, but tried not to show it. Apparently my entrance had caused him to make some mistake, so he crumpled the message and threw it into the wastebasket. An hour later my son gave the butler a sealed message he wished delivered immediately. It was addressed to Dr. Christopher Moran.”
Joanna was on her feet in an instant. “Do you have the message your son discarded?”
“I do,” Sir William said. “I was curious about the message, so I retrieved it, but could make no sense of it. Then this morning while rummaging through my papers, I saw the message again and realized it might somehow be related to Charles’s death.”
“It may indeed,” Joanna said eagerly. “Let us see it.”
Sir William reached into a side drawer and placed the crushed note atop the desk. He carefully smoothed it out. “As you can see, it is the oddest of messages. It consists entirely of numerous lines that are slanted in varying ways, yet have no recognizable sequence.”
The message read:
Joanna examined the note for some time, after which she turned it upside down and then on its sides, all the while studying each of its peculiar markings. If she detected a revealing clue, she made no mention of it.
“Could it be a foreign language of sorts?” Sir William asked. “Perhaps something they learned in Afghanistan or India during the war.”
“That is a possibility,” Joanna said. “And one that requires further study. May we use your library for this purpose?”
“Of course,” Sir William said. “If you wish refreshments, simply ring for the butler.”
“Thank you.”
Joanna waited for Sir William to close the door behind him, then turned to my father and me. “This message is written in code.”
The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes Page 8