The Iron Dog (A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale)

by Steven Ehrman

  “It is my understanding that Benjamin Rutherford had an interview with you this very day,” said Lestrade. “Mrs. Rutherford is upstairs in her bedroom with her doctor, but she has communicated that much.”

  “It is true,” said Holmes. “The Rutherfords offered me a commission this morning, which I did not accept.”

  “I say, Inspector,” said I. “Is the lady’s health in danger? Was she assaulted as well?”

  “No, doctor. She is merely overcome with the brutality of the crime. It was she who discovered the body, After a short interview, she became overwrought, and her personal physician was sent for. He is with her now, but I expect she will recover after a night’s rest.”

  Lestrade pulled his notebook from his pocket and reviewed it.

  “Now, Holmes,” he continued. “This commission was, as I understand it, concerned with the attempted blackmail of Rutherford by one Kate Crawley. Is that so?”

  “It was, indeed,” said he.

  “Now surely, Mr. Holmes, you know that that is a matter which should have been brought to the Yard,” said Lestrade in a scolding manner. “A bit high handed of you to shield a blackmailer and withhold evidence of a crime from the proper authorities.”

  I felt my temper rise in defense of my friend. Lestrade’s attack on my friend’s good name was approaching slander as far as I was concerned, but Holmes seemed blithe in his reply.

  “My dear, Inspector,” said he. “There was no crime to report, merely the accusation of one and indeed, if it will act as a sop to your sensitivities, I counseled the couple to pursue the matter with the authorities. If they chose not to do so, I can hardly be held at fault.”

  “Well, I’m certain you followed protocol, as you see it, Mr. Holmes, and I did not mean to suggest otherwise,” said Lestrade in a more restrained manner. “It is simply that a murder has occurred within hours of this interview. Can you tell me what transpired at this meeting? The lady could only provide me with a threadbare account owing to her condition.”

  In his succinct manner, Holmes proceeded to describe to Lestrade the events of the morning, leaving out nothing that I could discern. The Crawley woman’s attempted blackmail of Rutherford with the incriminating letters was included, along with the slightly scandalous matter of Rutherford’s infidelity to his current wife. This last item I would have held back as incidental to the case, but Holmes seemed to feel it was important to hold back nothing of note. Lestrade scribbled furiously in his notebook, as Holmes described the meeting, with several grunts of disapproval at the appropriate points.

  “Now, Lestrade,” said Holmes, as he finished his recitation, “perhaps, you will be good enough to tell the details of the gentleman’s death. We have only your note as information so far. Pray give me the facts of the case.”

  “It would appear fairly straightforward, Holmes,” he said. “I have only asked you to appear because of the timing of the murder. The facts are these. At approximately eight this evening Rogers, the butler, admitted a lady to the house. She was described by him as a dark slim woman of middle height. She was veiled, but he noted an Australian accent, and she had a somewhat husky voice. She said her name was Kate Crawley. She asked to see the master. Rogers took her to his master’s study, and announced the guest. He retired, and heard nothing else until his mistress began screaming an hour later. She was outside the study and was beside herself, screaming that her husband was dead. She told Rogers that she had thought she had heard a loud noise, possibly the shot, from her bedroom and came down to find her husband stricken. Rogers went into the study and verified that Rutherford was indeed dead, and went into the street to find a constable. One of London’s lads was nearby, and he stood guard over the crime scene until I arrived.”

  “So nothing has been disturbed,” said Holmes.

  “Only what was necessary to determine that Rutherford was indeed past all hope. A police surgeon examined him earlier, and he was under strict instructions to take care not to disturb the scene. I know your methods, Holmes,” said Lestrade. “As I said, this may be a very straightforward matter, but I have learned that when Sherlock Holmes is in the area of a crime, then perhaps all is not as it seems.”

  As Lestrade finished his speech a man began to descend the stairs. He was a spare, distinguished man carrying a black medical bag. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs to address the Inspector.

  “I’ll be leaving now, Inspector,” he said.

  “Very good, doctor,” said Lestrade, with gravity. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and a professional colleague of yours, Dr. Watson. Gentlemen, this is Dr. James Wilson.”

  The doctor nodded at both of us, and I saw a bit of a flutter in his eyes as the name Sherlock Holmes was announced.

  “Mr. Holmes, the detective?” he asked. “I have heard of you, of course, sir. I pray you can bring the perpetrator of this crime to justice.”

  “Did you know the deceased well, doctor?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. I was Mrs. Rutherford’s physician. I knew her husband only by reputation. As a denizen of the theater his name was known, if not his face.”

  “Doctor,” said Lestrade. “Will the lady be able to answer any further questions tonight?”

  “That will be quite impossible, Inspector,” said the doctor, with a weary shake of his head. “I have administered a mild sedative to her, and she is resting now. I will look in on her in the morning. At that time I see no reason why she should not be able to answer your questions. If you gentlemen will excuse me, I will be leaving now. It has been a tiring day for me.”

  The fatigued doctor excused himself, and Holmes faced Lestrade.

  “Inspector, I believe the time has arrived for the inspection of the crime scene. If all has been held as it was, it should be instructive.”

  “Have you already formed a theory, Holmes?” I asked. His manner was one of tense excitement that I knew well.

  “It is dangerous to form an opinion without all the facts, Watson, but there are certain factors that lend themselves to a theory. Time will tell if that theory comes to fruition.”

  “Well, be that as it may,” said Lestrade. “I don’t hold myself with fancy theories. Solid detective work and hard toil is good enough for me. Nose to the grindstone if you will, Holmes. This way.”

  Chapter Three

  Lestrade led Holmes and me down a short hallway, and we entered the study of the deceased. The room was very warm. A fire had obviously been lit earlier in the evening and was just dying down. The room was filled with bookshelves lined with tomes and was dominated by a huge mahogany desk. Beside the desk, crumpled on the floor was the dead man.

  I immediately recognized the loud checked jacket of Benjamin Rutherford. There was likely not another jacket of that same style in London. Goodness knows, I had never seen one.

  The cause of death for the unfortunate gentleman was obvious. There was a bullet wound in the back of his head. It was certainly an entry wound, as it was relatively small. As I walked around the body I was presented with a horribly distorted face. The exit wound had blown out much of Rutherford’s forehead and had left the remainder a bloody mess with horribly disfigured features. I had seen many of these types of wounds in Afghanistan, yet I still blanched at the sight of such cruel damage to the human body.

  Under the dead man’s arm was a sheaf of papers, that appeared to be of the same variety he had shown Holmes and myself that very day. They were undoubtedly the blackmail letters. The hand with the large ruby pinky ring appeared to be clutching reading glasses.

  Holmes was examining the body, and I saw that he was paying particular attention to the reading glasses in Rutherford’s hand. I followed his interest and saw nothing of note. The glasses were held in a closed fist, and Holmes had produced a magnifying glass from his pocket for a closer inspection. He continued in silence for some time before standing up. He laid his chin upon his chest in deep thought.

  “Have you discovered something, Holmes?” aske
d Lestrade.

  “I suppose a large ruby ring of that sort is quite valuable,” mused Holmes.

  “I see what you are driving at, Mr. Holmes,” cried Lestrade. “Perhaps the scene was made to appear to be a crime of blackmail gone wrong when in fact it is a cover for a jewel switch. That ring is certainly worth thousands of pounds. My early information is that it is a trademark of the gentleman.”

  Ever the man of action, Lestrade eagerly examined the ring. After several minutes he gave a disappointed sigh.

  “Nothing there, Holmes,” said he. “That ring did not come off tonight. That much is certain. This gentleman was running to stout, and I am confident the ring could not be taken off at all.”

  I saw at once, Lestrade’s point. The ring was encased in flesh on the sides, as rings often are when a man has gained weight whilst continuing to wear it. I could not imagine a criminal managing to pull the ring off of the dead man’s finger and replacing it with a fake.

  “Nevertheless, Holmes, I will make a note to have the authenticity of the stone checked,” averred Lestrade. “Diligence will out, as I’ve often said.”

  As much as I admired the methods of Sherlock Holmes, I admit that Lestrade’s energy was infectious, and I found myself comparing the two men. Lestrade was the very picture of activity, while Holmes cast a more languid shadow.

  “Have you formed an opinion as to how the murder actually took place, Inspector?” asked Holmes. He had strolled over to the dying fire and stood gazing into it.

  “Leaving the identity of the killer aside, I believe the method is easily discernible,” said Lestrade, in an officious manner. “The killer gained entrance to the study and, in some manner, induced Rutherford to turn his back to him or her. At that moment the killer shot Rutherford from behind. Probably from a distance of only a few feet.”

  “Surely not,” said Holmes. “Observe the burn marks on the victim’s hair. From the scorching, I believe we can deduce that the killer was directly behind Rutherford.”

  Lestrade and I both leaned down to inspect the body. Holmes was indeed correct; distinct burn marks from the powder were visible.

  “Well,” said Lestrade, “I will concede that point, but surely it is a minor one. Whether the distance was six feet, ten feet, or point blank, the victim was certainly killed by gunshot.”

  “A small point, as you say,” commented Holmes. “Has the murder weapon been found?”

  “It was left beside the body. We were obliged to move it as to determine if it had been recently fired. It is here on the table,” said Lestrade.

  The Inspector gestured towards a large caliber revolver on a rugged oak table next to a magnificent globe. Holmes picked up the weapon. He sniffed the barrel and felt the weight of the gun and then handed it to me.

  “This weapon is familiar to you, I believe,” said Holmes.

  “Indeed, it is, Holmes,” said I, as I examined the piece. “It is an Enfield revolver. This was the standard officer sidearm in Afghanistan. It is an extremely powerful weapon, and is certainly capable of inflicting the massive amount of carnage the victim demonstrates.”

  “It is a careless killer that leaves the murder weapon at the scene of the crime,” said Holmes. “Surely this is a valuable aid in identifying the murderer.”

  “Not in this case, Holmes,” said Lestrade importantly. “The butler identifies it as the belonging to the dead man.”

  “Indeed; well, that is interesting,” said Holmes.

  “It makes a certain kind of sense though, Holmes,” said Lestrade. “The butler reports that Rutherford kept this gun in his desk, and it was often lying on top of the desk, as his master enjoyed cleaning and oiling it. If that was the case today, then perhaps Rutherford engaged in an argument with someone, the Crawley woman or someone else, and in the heat of the moment, the other person snatches the weapon from his desk and shoots. There is only one round missing. It fits the known facts of the case.”

  Holmes did not respond, and Lestrade seemed to take Holmes’s silence as acquiescence. As I replaced the service revolver on the table, Holmes stirred himself.

  “Are you certain that only one round is missing, Lestrade?”

  “I am, Holmes. Why do you ask?”

  Because right here in the oak paneling, next to the wall there is surely a bullet hole that someone has attempted to cover up.”

  Holmes drew our attention to a spot on the wall some four feet from the floor. There was indeed a bullet lodged in the wood, and it appeared as if someone had tried to cover it up with a bit of clay. How Holmes had noticed it was quite beyond me.

  “Well, I’ll make a note of it, Holmes,” said Lestrade. “But it does not appear to be a fresh round. I would say it has been there for some time. It’s not likely to have anything to do with this crime. Is there anything else you wish?”

  “I would like to have a word with the butler now,” said Holmes. “If that is convenient to your investigation, Lestrade.”

  “Of course, Holmes. I know you wish to recover all my ground,” said Lestrade, with a good-natured wink.

  The butler Rogers was sent for, and he was soon before us. Rogers was a typical English butler. He was slender and of medium height and stood ramrod straight in front of us. He had a taciturn expression on his face, and seemed to mildly disapprove of us being in his master’s study.

  “Yes, Inspector? May I help you, sir?” said he, cocking his head toward Lestrade. Rogers emphasized the “sir” as if to suggest that a Scotland Yard Inspector was not a proper gentleman.

  “This gentleman wishes to ask you some questions. I am instructing you to answer them to your full ability.”

  “Certainly, sir,” he said, and turned to Holmes.

  “Now, Rogers, you admitted a woman to this house this evening,” stated Holmes, in a low voice.

  “I beg your pardon, sir.”

  Holmes repeated the question in a louder tone of voice.

  “That is correct, sir. It was just short of eight o’clock.”

  “Very good, and had you seen this lady on any previous occasion?” asked Holmes, again in a low tone of voice. Again, the butler asked Holmes to repeat his question and again, Holmes spoke in a loud voice when he repeated it.

  “I do not believe the lady was a previous visitor to the house. Of course she was veiled, but I did not recognize the voice and I had not heard that accent before.”

  “Surely it was the same type of accent your master had.”

  “I am sorry, sir. I meant that I had never heard a lady’s voice with that accent.”

  “An Australian one, you mean,” said Holmes.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What happened next, Rogers?”

  “I announced the lady to the master, and admitted her to the study.”

  “Did you leave immediately?”

  “No, sir. I waited to see if the master had any instructions.”

  “Did he?”

  “No, sir. He dismissed me and I left, closing the door as I went.”

  “Did your master seem upset by his visitor?”

  “Pardon me, sir?”

  “Did he seem upset? Surprised? Angry?” demanded Holmes.

  “If I may say, the master seemed amused if anything, sir,” said Rogers.

  “Now I understand there was trouble in the marriage,” said Holmes.

  “I am sure I would not know, sir,” said Rogers stiffly.

  “Come now, my good man. This is a murder investigation. I have been told that there was an issue of infidelity in the marriage of your master and mistress.”

  “I am sure that I could not say, sir,” he said. “Will there be anything else?”

  “Just a couple more questions. Did you hear anything that could have been the shot that killed Mr. Rutherford?”

  “No, sir. You see, I was in the other wing and the study is nearly soundproof. The walls and the doors are quite thick.”

  “So you heard nothing until Mrs. Rutherford discovered the body?”<
br />
  “That is correct, sir. The mistress came down from her bedroom, and found the poor master dead. She had nearly fainted by the time I got to her. I found a constable in the street, and attended to her as best I could, until the doctor arrived.”

  “Was anyone else at home during the tragedy?”

  “No, sir. The cook leaves after the evening meal and it is the maid’s night off.”

  “Very good, Rogers,” said Holmes. “You may go.”

  The butler gave a short, stiff bow and left the room.

  “Well, his testimony seems quite straightforward, Holmes,” said I. “He was obviously lying about Mr. Rutherford’s infidelity, but you could hardly expect him to divulge that. Not a butler of the old school such as he.”

  “That is well observed, Watson,” said he. “I did not expect him to confirm it, but his reaction to the question was, as you say, instructive. I am not surprised Rogers did not hear the gunshot,” he continued. “Did you notice how hard of hearing the man was?”

  “Was that the game you were playing with him, Holmes?” I asked.

  “Certainly,” said he. “I noticed him cock his head to hear the Inspector. Now the Inspector has a loud voice, and a man with normal hearing should not have had to cock his head to understand him. The fact that he did gave rise to the suspicion that he did not hear well. My small experiment confirmed that.”

  Whether or not Rogers is hard of hearing is of small import, Holmes,” said Lestrade. “The fact is he did not hear it. Why, is surely unimportant.”

  “As you say,” returned Holmes. “I assume you have arrested the Crawley woman.”

  “We have not as yet,” said Lestrade suavely.

  “I am surprised by that,” said I. “I would have thought that she was the only viable suspect, Inspector.”

  “We have not ignored that possibility, doctor, but there are facts that have come to my attention that widen the field somewhat,” he said. “You have heard of this Iron Dog business, I assume?”