In Sherlock's Shadow (Mrs Hudson & Sherlock Holmes Book 2)

by Liz Hedgecock

  ‘What is it?’ asked Sherlock.

  The governor sat next to Mr Lawrence. ‘Not good news, I am afraid. Sage here has just got back from Palmer’s rooms. There was no answer to his knock, and no-one had seen him, so at first Sage thought Palmer had fled. But there was a smell —’

  ‘A bad one,’ Sage interjected. ‘So I looked through the keyhole, and —’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the governor said, motioning Sage to be quiet. ‘Mr Sage broke in, and he found Palmer hanged from a hook in the ceiling.’

  ‘An’ from the smell,’ added Sage, ‘’e’s been there some days.’

  CHAPTER 20

  We made but a sorry procession to the rooming house where Thomas Palmer had ended his life. The landlady, weeping, was waiting for us in the doorway. ‘I never thought — I mean, he was quiet, he was always quiet. No trouble… I just thought he’d gone away for a few days.’ Our eyes followed hers to a brisk, stout, tweed-suited figure coming up the path. ‘Here is Dr Meredith. Oh, thank God.’

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Harmsworth,’ said the doctor. ‘I understand there’s been a death.’

  The woman shrank back. ‘I shall lose all my paying guests!’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said the doctor. ‘You don’t have to tell ’em how the man died. Anyway, let’s get down to business.’ He led the way in. ‘Where can we find him?’

  ‘Second floor back,’ she gulped, looking up the stairwell as if she expected a thunderbolt to descend.

  The doctor went up the steep, rickety stairs, followed by Mr Lawrence, then Sherlock, then the Inspector. The governor had stayed at Wandsworth. ‘I can be far more use here than there,’ he had said. ‘Lawrence will look after you, and he can identify the body too, if necessary.’ I brought up the rear, hoping that I would not be required to enter the room and see the body. It would only be the second corpse I had seen; but the second within a year.

  The smell, a mixture of rotting flesh and mustiness, grew stronger the further we ascended the staircase. ‘I can’t believe it’s taken this long to work out he’s dead,’ said the doctor, testily. ‘Anyone with a nose could tell that something was up.’ He pulled out a large cotton handkerchief and placed it over his nose and mouth, tying the corners at the back of his head. ‘I strongly recommend that you follow my example.’

  The men did so; my handkerchief was too small to suffice, though. ‘I shall wait on the landing,’ I said, thankfully.

  ’You could always borrow one of ours, ma‘am,’ chuckled the doctor. ‘If you’re really interested, that is.’

  ‘I am sure you will be able to tell me everything I should know,’ I said, backing away.

  ‘Brace yourselves, gentlemen,’ said Dr Meredith, and flung open the door.

  I had retreated to the furthest part of the landing, but an evil impulse made me look. I saw the dangling body turn slowly before I ran downstairs, bile rising in my throat.

  The landlady was below. ‘It’s horrible, isn’t it, dearie,’ she said. ‘Come and sit down, the parlour’s free. My tenants are all at work during the day.’ I allowed myself to be led into a room stuffed with cheap furniture, and seated on a hard sofa whose horsehair was escaping from the seams.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea? It settles the stomach something wonderful.’

  ‘That would be very kind.’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ She bustled away, glad to be doing a domestic, mundane task.

  I looked about me, but little was to be gleaned from the room, whose only ornament was a collection of broken china shepherdesses on the mantel and a print of a stag at bay hung above. How long would the men be up there? What would they need to do?

  ‘He used to sit in here most evenings.’ The landlady’s voice made me jump. ‘I would open this room up to all my gentlemen, since most of them didn’t have room for more than one chair.’ She set down her tray, and while pouring, serving and drinking tea she kept up a litany of when Mr Palmer had left for work, when he had returned to his room, and a succession of remembered titbits of things that he had once said, leading on to speculation about his family. ‘He was a close man, you see; friendly enough, but he didn’t invite questions, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Did he ever invite people back to his room, or to sit in the parlour?’

  She thought for a moment, stirring sugar into her tea. ‘I don’t recall anyone in particular. Certainly no women. It’s a house rule, but you’d be surprised how many of my gentleman have tried to sneak someone past my door.’

  ‘Had he had any visitors in the last month or so?’

  ‘Noooo. But there was an odd thing, though I thought nothing of it at the time. You never do, do you, until something happens and everyone’s all over you with questions. Not that I mean to suggest —’

  ‘No, not at all,’ I said. ‘What was the unusual thing?’

  ‘It’s probably nothing.’ The landlady added another spoonful of sugar to her tea. ‘It was just that he came home in his warder’s uniform late one night. “That isn’t like you,” I said to him, as he went upstairs. And it wasn’t. He always said that he spent enough time in the uniform, and he was glad to take it off at the end of his shift. He didn’t want people to know he worked at the prison. I think he was worried one of the former inmates might recognise him and come after him.’

  ‘Did Mr Palmer say why he hadn’t got changed?’

  ‘Not really. He raised a hand and said “I’m tired.” And sometimes he was tired when he got back, especially if the prisoners had been naughty —’

  ‘Right!’ Dr Meredith came in, followed by the others, and sat down heavily opposite me. They had pulled down their handkerchiefs, which remained tied around their necks. ‘It appears to be a clear case of suicide by hanging. A length of rope round the hook, a chair kicked away, and a note in his hand saying “I AM SORRY”. And as far as anyone can tell, given the state of him, the man hanging upstairs is Thomas Palmer.’ The doctor thrust a reeking paper under the nose of the landlady, who recoiled. ‘Is that his writing?’

  She uncovered her face and peered at it. ‘I couldn’t say, I’m sure,’ she said, finally. ‘I mean, that’s printing.’

  ‘Could I see?’ The doctor shrugged and held it out to me. The cheap white paper and block letters looked horribly familiar.

  ‘Sherlock —’ His eyes met mine, and he nodded. I turned to the landlady. ‘Mrs Harmsworth, can you recall which evening it was that you saw Mr Palmer going upstairs in his uniform?’

  ‘Well!’ She puffed out her cheeks with the effort of recall. ‘It can’t have been Monday, because I went to bed early myself, and I was writing letters in my room almost all Tuesday evening. And it was definitely more than two days ago, so…’

  ‘Remind me on which morning Emmett Stanley’s cell was found empty?’ said Sherlock quietly.

  ‘The sixteenth,’ said Lawrence and the Inspector, in unison.

  ‘When you saw Mr Palmer that day, Mrs Harmsworth,’ I asked, ‘did he turn round when he spoke to you?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Why, no. Like I said, he raised a hand, said he was tired, and carried on up the stairs.’

  ‘I am sorry, Dr Meredith,’ Sherlock said, twitching the note from his hand. ‘I do not think this is a clear case of suicide. I believe it is murder. The man who assisted in the abduction of Emmett Stanley then went on to murder Thomas Palmer. Once he was in Stanley’s cell, he stripped off his prison garb to reveal a warder’s suit. He then let himself out, made his escape from the prison, and walked to Palmer’s rooms. We shall need to check if Palmer was working, and if so which shift; but the man you saw, Mrs Harmsworth, was almost certainly the murderer.’

  ‘Yes!’ I interrupted. ‘Mrs Harmsworth said that Mr Palmer never wore his uniform home. Mr Palmer bore a reasonable likeness to Emmett Stanley — and, logically, so did the murderer. The uniform would be enough to convince a casual viewer that he was Palmer.’

  ‘Oh my!’ Mrs Harmsworth clutched at her heart. ‘I have had a mur
derer in my house!’

  ‘I am afraid it looks like it, Mrs Harmsworth,’ said the Inspector. ‘We shall be conducting further investigations, of course, and I have to warn you that —’

  ‘But why would anyone kill Mr Palmer?’ she cried. ‘He wouldn’t hurt a fly!’

  ‘Perhaps that was why,’ said Sherlock. ‘He was in the right place at the right time, and they thought they could pin the abduction on him.’

  ‘They?’ The Inspector wheeled round.

  ‘Haven’t you smelt this note, Inspector?’ Sherlock held it out to him. ‘The cheap white paper, the printed capitals, and, under the stench of a dead body, the scent of jasmine.’

  CHAPTER 21

  ‘Can you at least open the window to air the room?’ Mrs Harmsworth called through the door.

  ‘We are quite busy at the moment,’ Sherlock shouted back.

  Mrs Harmsworth wrung her hands. ‘I shall never get the room right again!’

  I touched her arm and she jumped. ‘We should go downstairs. They could take hours.’ She allowed me to lead her away, and for the next hour I listened to her complaints about the many lodgers who had damaged her furniture, run off without paying, or committed numerous other crimes. Every so often we would hear movement in the otherwise silent house; once there was a ghastly thud.

  ‘What was that?’ whispered Mrs Harmsworth, her eyes raised to the ceiling.

  ‘I think they have cut him down,’ I said.

  Shortly afterwards footsteps came down the stairs and the front door closed. Mrs Harmsworth got up and peeped through the curtains. ‘The young man is leaving!’

  ‘Perhaps he has to get back to work. Or maybe he is taking a message to the prison governor.’

  ‘Mm.’ She did not seem satisfied with this explanation.

  Shortly afterwards there was a rap at the door, immediately followed by Sherlock. ‘Is there somewhere I can wash my hands, please?’

  ‘The kitchen and scullery are at the back of the house,’ Mrs Harmsworth said, faintly.

  ‘Thank you.’ He disappeared, returning a few minutes later and taking the nearest chair. ‘I need a break. God, it’s disgusting.’

  Mrs Harmsworth yelped, and I shot Sherlock a warning glance.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Mrs Harmsworth, Lawrence has gone to wire Scotland Yard, to get a doctor sent out. They will take the body. We are almost finished in the room, and then you can have it back. I apologise for the inconvenience, but it is procedure.’

  ‘That’s quite all right, sir,’ she hiccuped. ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I have rooms to dust.’ She stumbled from the parlour, muttering to herself.

  ‘Have you found anything?’ I asked.

  ‘Not much. We’ve gone through his things and all is as you would expect; a book or two, a jar of coins, a bundle of letters from his mother and sister, a Sunday suit… A small, cramped life.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how it was done?’

  ‘Nothing definitive. I suspect an injection of some kind, perhaps a tranquilliser or a muscle relaxant. A struggle would have been heard. When the doctor comes from the Yard I shall suggest an analysis of Palmer’s blood, to detect any undispersed drugs. Given that it has been a few days, though, that is a very long shot. They might not be able to squeeze a drop out of him. I could be entirely wrong; and yet, if I am right…’

  ‘What, Sherlock?’

  ‘If I am right,’ he said, slowly, ‘the probability is that Thomas Palmer was killed by someone who knew him. The killer could not assume that Palmer would be in bed asleep, with the door unlocked. Therefore he must have been someone Palmer would admit to his room on sight, even at a late hour.’

  I moved closer. ‘Have you shared this theory with the Inspector?’ I whispered.

  ‘I have not. We can get no further until the body has been examined and the analysis is complete. Besides —’ he leaned across and whispered in my ear, ‘I have a suspect in mind.’

  I cupped my hand round Sherlock’s ear, and whispered a name, and he nodded. ‘Say nothing, for there is not a shred of proof. We shall let him continue, perhaps with observation from an Irregular, and hope that he makes a slip. An accusation now would make me a laughing-stock.’

  A sudden bang at the door startled us both. Mrs Harmsworth scurried down the hall, and a loud voice barked ‘Where’s the Inspector?’

  I followed Sherlock from the drawing room. Standing in the hall was a well-dressed man with a military bearing, holding a doctor’s bag. ‘Ah, Mr Holmes.’ The man offered a hand.

  ‘Dr Carter,’ said Sherlock, stepping forward. ‘How did you get here so quickly?’

  ‘Luck, boy, luck. I was due at the Wandsworth and Clapham this morning, and Scotland Yard, knowing I had an appointment there, re-sent the wire over to me. Wonderful stuff, technology.’ The doctor rubbed his hands. ‘Now, where will I find the body?’

  ‘It’s on the second floor; I’ll take you up. I fancy there might be a toxicology report in it, too.’

  ‘Excellent, I’ll go and get a receptacle. For our patient, I mean,’ he said, seeing my eyes stray to his leather Gladstone. ‘I shall need a hand down the stairs, too.’

  A few minutes later, after much stamping, banging, and shouted direction, a canvas bundle proceeded down the stairs, with Sherlock at one end and the Inspector at the other. It seemed far too small to contain a man. ‘That’s it,’ called Dr Carter. ‘Jolly good. The carriage is outside. Mind the step.’ He watched the Inspector struggle to open the carriage door and retain hold of his burden. ‘Between you and me, my dear,’ he said behind his hand, ‘it wouldn’t matter if he did drop him. The body’s already decomposing.’

  The Inspector slammed the door of the carriage. ‘We’re about done here,’ he said. ‘Mrs Harmsworth, I’m afraid that one of your sheets is in with him. Five shillings should cover it.’ He fumbled in his pocket and poured a small heap of change into the landlady’s hand.

  Mrs Harmsworth looked outraged. ‘That was one of my best sheets!’

  ‘Madam, if that was one of your best sheets I would hate to see what your less-favoured guests are sleeping on,’ chuckled the doctor. ‘I’ll pass on any news as soon as I can, but you’ll need to sleep on it. These things take time.’ He tipped his hat to the scowling landlady, and walked to the waiting carriage.

  ‘Could I see the room, do you think?’ I asked the Inspector.

  ‘Not much to see, Mrs Hudson, but of course you can.’ I followed the Inspector back into the house and up the stairs. ‘Cover your nose and mouth,’ the Inspector cautioned before opening the door. ‘We’ve opened the window, but it’s still pretty bad.’

  The Inspector did not exaggerate. The room was a hell-hole. The shafts of light which managed to pierce the grimy window illuminated a space both bare and cramped. An iron bed, a tallboy, a small table and chair, and a threadbare rug at the bedside. The half-filled drawers of the tallboy stood open, and a couple of cheap novels stood on top. But my eyes kept avoiding, and then returning to the scrap of rope dangling from a hook in the ceiling.

  ‘We’ve got his letters, just in case there’s anything to them, but I doubt there will be.’ The Inspector shook his head sadly. ‘A bad business. Not even a shirt-button or a fingernail paring for a clue.’

  ‘Do you see anything more here, Sherlock?’ I asked.

  ‘I wish I did,’ said Sherlock slowly. ‘I am trying to visualise how the scene played out, and it is difficult. But I do not think we need to be in this room any longer.’

  Mrs Harmsworth clearly agreed, for she was hovering outside the door, peeping in every so often, and muttering to herself. ‘Could one of you gentleman take off that piece of rope?’ she asked.

  Sherlock reached up, but even with his height and long arms, his fingers could only just touch the hook. He stood on tiptoe and worked the rope off, then stood turning it over in his hands. ‘This could have come from any hardware shop or chandler’s.’

  The Inspector tutted. ‘Come
on, we are wasting time.’ He led the way downstairs. ‘Thank you, Mrs Harmsworth, for bearing with us.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ she said, abstractedly. ‘I daresay you gentlemen can see yourselves out.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the Inspector, raising his eyebrows. ‘Good day to you, madam.’ As we walked to the door, the landlady went into the parlour.

  I looked back when we had crossed the road. The net curtain at the ground-floor window twitched into place, and I noticed that the front part of the hand-lettered sign, which had previously said ‘No Vacancies’, had been removed. I imagined the clank of the bucket, the slop of the mop, and the removal of Thomas Palmer’s few worldly effects to await a claimant, as Mrs Harmsworth made the second-floor back ready to welcome another paying guest.

  CHAPTER 22

  ‘You’ve got an idea, haven’t you,’ the Inspector said as we walked back to Wandsworth Prison. He framed it as a statement, not a question.

  ‘I have,’ said Sherlock. ‘But no proof, yet.’

  ‘And I don’t suppose you’ll let me in on it till you have.’ The Inspector shook his head in the manner of an uncle over his favourite wayward nephew.

  ‘I’d like to see the staff roll.’ Sherlock remarked, and said no more until the building loomed before us.

  This time Mr Lawrence came to collect us from the gatehouse. ‘I do apologise for leaving you alone back there,’ he said, hurrying us along. ‘The guvnor was keen to know what had happened, and then there were orders to be signed, and the wage bill to pay —’

  ‘Ah, how fortunate,’ said Sherlock. ‘I need to see a list of everyone employed in the prison, and the pay-bill would serve admirably.’

  Mr Lawrence stopped, an expression of gentle puzzlement on his face. ‘The pay-bill, sir?’

  ‘It gives the most accurate indication of who is currently working here, and you obviously have it to hand,’ Sherlock said smoothly.