The Daughter of Sherlock Holmes

by Leonard Goldberg

  The barkeeper’s grin disappeared immediately. “Very sorry, madam. I truly am.”

  “I am not interested in your apologies, but only want to hear what you know for a fact and can answer to in a court of law. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “To start, did you know Martin Morris?”

  “Oh, yes. He was a regular and came in at least twice a week.”

  “By himself?”

  “Almost always, for he was a confirmed bachelor and told everyone he preferred to remain so.”

  “But last night was the exception.”

  “He came in with a gentleman of some standing and each had a pint of Guinness dark.”

  “How long did their visit last?”

  “The gentleman departed after his pint, but Martin stayed on for a good many more.”

  “How many?”

  “Five, by my count.”

  “So he was in good spirits.”

  “He seemed very happy because he was on his way to live in Spain. At least, that is what he told us.”

  “There was another man in here last night whom I doubt you have ever seen before. You would quickly notice a stranger to your pub, would you not?”

  “From the second he entered.”

  “There was a large man, tall, over two hundred pounds in weight, who smoked one cigarette after another and probably had a wheezing cough. He would have stood off to the side, for he wished not to be noticed.”

  The barkeeper thought back briefly, then said, “I do remember him. He positioned himself off by the far wall, yet always faced the bar itself.”

  “Can you describe him for us?”

  “I cannot, madam, and that is the truth. He stood in a darkened area and I did not see him up close, for he ordered his drinks from the barmaid. She had a better look at him and even mentioned he was a mean-looking bloke. I didn’t pay it much attention because, if you cause trouble in here, you shortly find yourself in the street. Shall I call her over?”

  “Please.”

  “Janie!” he cried out and waited for her to approach. “These people are from Scotland Yard and have some questions about that mean-looking bloke you served last night.”

  She recalled him instantly. “He was the type that you wanted to stay clear of.”

  Joanna asked, “Can you describe him?”

  “Ugh!” Janie made a twisted face. “He had a big, apelike head, with a split lip, and he kept coughing over everything. He only bought one pint and didn’t bother to leave a farthing extra behind.”

  I tried to hold my composure, for the man the barmaid was describing was almost certainly the brutish intruder I had fought the night before.

  “How long would you say he remained in the pub?” I asked.

  “Thirty minutes at most,” Janie said. “Then he hurried out.”

  “Did he have a normal gait?”

  She shook her head. “He had a bad limp, but it didn’t stop him from scurrying out.”

  The barkeeper leaned over the bar and asked in a most serious voice, “Do you think that bloke had something to do with what happened to Martin Morris?”

  Joanna shrugged indifferently. “We are only looking into all possibilities. Thank you for your assistance.”

  Outside, Lestrade could not wait to announce, “That mean-looking bloke is our assailant. In this very pub, he picked out Martin Morris as a likely target and followed him home.”

  “Spot on, Inspector,” Joanna said.

  “I shall put out a description of this man over all of London and can only hope he will show his face again.”

  “I am afraid he is long gone with his ill-gotten goods.”

  “We shall see.”

  Lestrade strode happily away, with his new but hopeless mission. We all knew that, unless the assailant walked into the very halls of Scotland Yard, he would never be seen again.

  “Lestrade is half correct,” Joanna said. “The assailant was not in the pub to choose a victim; he was there waiting for Moran to point the victim out. It was all nicely planned. Moran planted the murderer in the pub, then invited Martin Morris for a friendly, parting drink. Now the murderer knew how Martin Morris looked, where he lived, and what route he would take home. It was a perfect setup.”

  “And of course the assailant is none other than the brute who broke into my father’s rooms last night,” I added.

  “Beyond any doubt,” Joanna said with a sweet smile. “And asking the barmaid about the brute’s gait was a very nice touch, John. His obvious limp was the icing on the cake.”

  “With any luck, he will limp the rest of his life,” I hoped.

  “I struck his knee with that in mind,” Joanna said without inflection. “But now let us return to Martin Morris, for everything he told us was an out-and-out lie, which he may have rehearsed prior to our visit. He did not go to university, but to a local college. He did not leave to enter a business venture, but was dismissed because of criminal behavior. There was no family real estate in Scotland, for they were poor as church mice. And he did not inherit that house in Spain, which belongs to Dr. Moran, from any dead uncle. Lies! All lies!”

  “But why deceive?” I asked.

  “Because he is involved and does not want his true past known.”

  “But why? Is it because of fear of further criminal charges?”

  “It is that and more, for Martin Morris assisted in the murder of Charles Harrelston,” Joanna said. “He was the accomplice lying on the couch in Moran’s parlor who pretended to be Charles Harrelston.”

  “I say!” my father cried out. “What proof do you have of this?”

  “Allow me to draw your attention to the account of events given by Mrs. Lambert,” Joanna went on. “She distinctly told us that, apart from Charles Harrelston, there were only two visitors to the Moran house that morning.”

  “The two ill patients,” I interjected.

  “Each of whom she escorted out,” Joanna emphasized. “And recall that Mrs. Lambert zealously guarded both doors to the house so no others could gain entrance. That leaves Christopher Moran, Charles Harrelston, and the accomplice as the only occupants in the residence. Now pray tell, how did the accomplice enter the house under Mrs. Lambert’s watchful eye?”

  My father and I gave the matter careful thought, then shrugged at each other, for there seemed no apparent way for the accomplice to enter the house without being discovered by Mrs. Lambert.

  At length I suggested, “Perhaps Moran secretly left the tradesman’s door unlocked.”

  “That would be far too risky,” Joanna countered. “The housekeeper may well have found it as such and relocked the door. In addition, there was always the very real possibility that ever vigilant Mrs. Lambert would see the stranger entering and all would be lost. Keep in mind that our Dr. Moran is a very cunning fellow who will not take unnecessary chances nor commit stupid mistakes.”

  “But the accomplice had to make his way in somehow,” I pondered.

  “He came through the front door,” Joanna said. “For, as I pointed out, the accomplice and Martin Morris were one and the same.”

  “But Morris had departed for a prolonged lunch when the murder occurred,” I argued.

  “By whose account?” Joanna challenged.

  “Christopher Moran’s and Martin Morris’s.”

  “Both liars.”

  “But Mrs. Lambert is not, and she vouched that Martin Morris was gone at the time of Harrelston’s fall.”

  “Pshaw!” Joanna said dismissively. “The housekeeper vouched for an empty desk and assumed Martin Morris had left for lunch. So I implore you to do the arithmetic. By Mrs. Lambert’s honest account, all visitors had exited except for Charles Harrelston, which indicated he alone was in the home with Christopher Moran. Yet an accomplice who had no way of entering suddenly appeared. This sequence does not fit the facts we have before us. The only possible explanation is that the accomplice entered the house much earlier and would raise no susp
icion, for he had a familiar face. Thus, all the evidence points to Martin Morris. He no doubt made a rapid exit while the housekeeper was fetching a glass of water in the kitchen.”

  “So, despite Christopher Moran’s coaxing, it was after all Mrs. Lambert who provided the important clue here,” I remarked.

  “Indeed,” Joanna said. “The guardian at the gate is always the best counter of heads.”

  My father seemed lost in thought for a moment, then his eyes twinkled and he asserted, “Martin Morris was quite nearby when the murder occurred. He actually helped dispose of the body.”

  “From what do you draw this conclusion?” Joanna asked at once.

  My father smiled slyly. “Why, I used your very splendid deductive skills. Charles Harrelston was killed while at the Chubb safe, was he not?”

  “He was,” Joanna agreed.

  “And Charles Harrelston was a big man, almost as large as Moran, was he not?”

  “He was.”

  “Then how did Christopher Moran move this heavy body up a steep flight of stairs to the roof? Remember, this was dead weight and had the body of Charles Harrelston been dragged up the stairs, which would have been a most difficult feat, we would have seen scuff marks from his shoes on the steps, which were not present. So the corpse must have been carried up.”

  “By Moran and Martin Morris, who lent a hand to this dastardly deed!” I exclaimed.

  My father nodded, with the most pleased of expressions.

  “Brilliant, Watson! Absolutely brilliant!” Joanna took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You have outdone yourself. And never speak to me again about your brain going soft.”

  I clapped my father on his back. “Even Sherlock would applaud, Father.”

  As I gazed at his happy face, I remembered the words he had spoken early in this story. When asked why he continued to see visitors seeking Sherlock Holmes’s advice, he had replied, “I am merely an old man trying to remain relevant.” Well, here he was, being very relevant indeed this day. And he knew it.

  At that moment Lestrade ran up to us and paused to catch his breath. His face was flushed with excitement. “Look what one of my men found hidden under the floor in Martin Morris’s closet.” He reached for a wide manila envelope and extracted a thick stack of ten-pound notes. “A fat cache of one thousand pounds!”

  “A fortune for a man on a secretary’s salary,” I commented.

  “Now we know what the thief was after,” Lestrade said.

  “I wonder how a secretary could accumulate such a large sum,” Joanna mused, and gave me and my father the subtlest of smiles.

  “A very good question, which crossed my mind as well, madam,” Lestrade said. “Rest assured we shall investigate the matter thoroughly.”

  The three of us exchanged knowing glances, for the source of the money was abundantly clear. It was payment from Christopher Moran. It was BLACKMAIL!

  19

  Derek Cardogan

  Near noon the following day we set out to interview the man who represented the final piece of the puzzle.

  “How did you obtain Derek Cardogan’s address?” I asked.

  “From the window tax records,” Joanna replied.

  “Surely you jest.” The window tax was a fee levied on all dwellings in London and was based on the number of windows in a house. The greater the number of windows, the greater the size of the house, and thus the higher the tax. “I know for a fact those tax records are sealed and remain strictly confidential.”

  “Not if your father-in-law was once Chancellor of the Exchequer,” Joanna said.

  “Did you dare use his influence?”

  Joanna smiled craftily. “He was of some small assistance.”

  As we continued our journey through the Knightsbridge area, I gazed out at the pricy shops and restaurants and the finely dressed patrons entering them. Derek Cardogan had to be quite wealthy to live in this neighborhood, yet he still desired his share of the hidden treasure, which no doubt was illegally obtained and thus had to be concealed from the public eye. But I kept remembering Joanna’s statement that greed was a strange transformer of the human character.

  As our carriage turned onto Sloane Square, my father broke the silence, saying, “I am surprised Mr. Cardogan agreed to be interviewed.”

  “He did not agree and has no idea of our impending visit,” Joanna said.

  “Then he will most certainly refuse to see us unannounced.”

  “Oh, he will see us promptly.”

  “Why are you so confident?”

  “Because I will present him with a very persuasive message.”

  Our carriage pulled up in front of an impressive four-story brick home, with window frames that were painted a sparkling white. Its door was solid mahogany, the brass fittings polished and gleaming. All drapes were drawn, save for those on the second floor. I saw a face peeking out, but could not define its features.

  We rang the bell of 510 Sloane Square and waited. The butler took his time before answering and promptly refused our entry.

  “Mr. Cardogan is indisposed and is not receiving today,” he said haughtily.

  “I am certain Mr. Cardogan will wish to see us,” Joanna persisted.

  “Perhaps another day, madam.”

  Joanna reached into her purse for a sealed envelope, and handed it to the butler. “Please deliver this message to Mr. Cardogan. It explains the urgency of our visit.”

  The door closed, and we waited in bright sunshine.

  “What is in the envelope?” I asked.

  “A message that states we are here to discuss his share,” Joanna said.

  “That should rouse his attention.”

  “Particularly since it was written in their secret code.”

  A moment later the door opened and the butler informed us that Derek Cardogan had consented to our visit. He led the way into a spacious library, which was expensively furnished and had bound books lining all the walls except for the one that contained the windows. With its hanging tapestries and oil paintings, there was an opulence to the library, but it still seemed old and tired. The air held the unpleasant, musty odor of the sick.

  Derek Cardogan was slouched down in a large, cushioned chair and did not rise to greet us, nor did he offer us seats. He appeared to be a wasted man, thin and jaundiced, with hollowed cheeks and hair that looked as if it had not been washed recently. He wore a thick, red robe which seemed far too large for his small frame.

  “I am very ill, and do not wish to be bothered,” Cardogan groused. “So make your visit brief.”

  “We regret the intrusion, Mr. Cardogan,” Joanna told him. “But I am afraid you have a choice to make. Our intrusion, or your sudden death. Please choose.”

  “Are you referring to death by malaria?” Cardogan asked in a hoarse voice.

  “I am referring to death by murder, such as occurred to your friends Charles Harrelston and Benjamin Levy.”

  Cardogan flicked his wrist dismissively. “Harrelston died by suicide, Levy by accident.”

  “How convenient their sudden deaths were,” Joanna said. “Is it not strange that two of your partners left this world within days of each other and under such unusual circumstances?”

  “These things happen.”

  “Yes, they do. Particularly when the deaths greatly benefit those remaining behind.”

  Cardogan narrowed his eyes. “I see no benefits from their deaths.”

  “But Christopher Moran did. Now he will keep their shares.”

  “Wh-what shares are you referring to?” Cardogan asked defensively.

  “The share I mentioned in my message to you that gained us immediate entry into your library.”

  “I was merely curious regarding what you meant by the word share in your note.”

  “Come, come! You are not doing well at all here. In my note, I did write the word share, but I jotted it down in code known only to you and the other members of the quartet.”

  Cardogan star
ed back at her in silence, having no answer.

  “Moran has no intention of giving you your share of the treasure. He will murder you for your share, as he murdered Harrelston and Levy for theirs.”

  “Ridiculous!” Cardogan raised his voice in protest. “We were all comrades in arms, and trusted each other with our lives during war. Christopher Moran is not a murderer, and it is scandalous that you even suggest that he is.”

  “It is the truth, whether you wish to accept it or not.”

  “Where is the proof of these accusations?”

  “Right before your eyes if you will only see it. Think for a moment about the circumstances of your friends’ sudden deaths. Harrelston, a stouthearted fellow, jumps to his death over a debt that he knows his share of the treasure will easily cover. And Levy chokes on drink while asleep! These events do not ring true in any natural order. And add to them, the most recent murder last night of Martin Morris, Moran’s former secretary.”

  Cardogan’s eyes flew wide open. “Morris, dead?”

  “Quite. With his head bashed in during an apparent robbery.”

  “A robbery! There you have it. Morris was not killed by Moran.”

  “But it was planned by Moran, who staged the robbery to cover the murder.”

  “Again, where is your evidence?”

  “It is being collected and evaluated by Scotland Yard at this very moment.”

  “How would you be aware of this?”

  “Because I am a consultant to Scotland Yard and am privy to what they do and what information they have.” Joanna gave Cardogan a long, serious look and said, “We are here to save your life, the end of which is quite near. You must act now or suffer the consequences.”

  “I am steadfast in my trust of Christopher Moran, and none of your inferences or unproven evidence will sway me.”

  “It will only require simple precautions to prevent your murder.”

  “Bah! I need no protection from my dear friend Christopher Moran. He was here only yesterday to assure me all is well.”

  “All is well with your share? Is that what he meant?”

  Cardogan’s face closed. His mind was made up.