We assented that we had.
“My understanding is that it is not a good-natured nickname, but rather the epithet given to a grasping and ruthless businessman. The early facts suggest that Rutherford has made a myriad of enemies in the past decades. A man such as that might be killed by someone who became aware of this blackmail business, and used it as a cover for a murder to settle an old score.”
“Bravo, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “That is certainly one possibility.”
Holmes seemed surprised at the Inspector’s depth of thought in this matter.
“We are not the bumblers you suppose us to be at the Yard, Holmes.”
“I think no such thing, Lestrade. I think Scotland Yard is the finest police force in the world. If you have no one with the deduction skills of myself, that does not make the Yard a force of bumblers.”
Lestrade thought about that for a moment. He seemed to be unable to discern whether Holmes’s statement was a compliment or an insult.
“Well, be that as it may,” he continued. “We have Miss Crawley under observation. She can hold while I explore other avenues. If you will excuse me, I intend to interview some of Mr. Rutherford’s associates. I doubt many tears are being shed in the West End tonight.”
“Good luck, Lestrade,” Holmes said.
“I will be in touch, Holmes,” said he, and he was off in his normal breakneck manner.
Chapter Four
We found that the same carriage that had brought us to the Rutherford house was waiting to return us to our lodgings on Baker Street. During our ride, Holmes was deep in thought. I had known my friend long enough to be aware that when he was in that state, that nothing could draw him out. We rode in silence and we presently disembarked at our rooms.
Once inside Holmes curled up in his lounging chair He immediately stuffed his pipe with tobacco he pulled from the toe of a Persian slipper, and began puffing away. Holmes smoked a particularly pungent type of tobacco and the room was soon inundated with it. Although a smoker myself, I walked to the window and threw it open so as to clear the air. The heat of the day was finally dissipating and I settled into my chair. I then opened a book on the naval battles of the War of 1812. The small American navy had, in an unlikely scenario, fought the enormous and proud British navy to a standstill. I was reading an account of one of the most stirring ship-to-ship battles when my eyes grew weary and I laid the book down. My mind had wandered when I heard Holmes speak.
“Regicide is a horrible crime, Watson.”
“Indeed, Holmes. It is hard to believe it of Englishmen.”
I was shaking my head in sadness when I realized that Holmes had spoken my very thoughts. I looked at my friend and saw the merriment in his eyes.
“Holmes, you villain,” I cried. “Did you not promise me after the affair of The Resident Patient that you would refrain from such practical jokes?”
“I apologize, Watson,” said he earnestly. “I plead only that the case before us is so stimulating that my skills at detection were bound to find an outlet that was near at hand.”
“Well, be that as it may, it is still rather shocking when one finds a voice inside one’s own head,” said I. “Still I must admit a curiosity at how you managed to pierce my thoughts, and thus intrude upon them. How did you manage it?”
“I was reaching for a fresh bowl for my pipe when I saw you put down your book, deep in thought. I saw, as you set it down, that you were at the pivotal battle between the American frigate USS Constitution and the HMS Guerriere. It was in this battle that the American ship earned her nickname of Old Ironsides. Of course, that nickname is shared by Oliver Cromwell. Your eyes, upon putting down the book, were immediately drawn to the handsome biography of Cromwell by S. R. Gardner that you recently finished. Knowing that Charles I was a personal favorite of yours, I deduced by the sad expression on your face that you were thinking of his foul execution. I then saw you begin to shake your head slowly in disbelief at the actions of our past countrymen. It was then that I commented upon the terrible nature of the crime of regicide. I hope that is clear.”
“Outstanding, Holmes,” I cried.
“The merest trifle, my dear doctor,” said he. “It is a parlour trick, but it is an exercise that keeps the blade of my mind keen.”
“Surely the case at hand is exercise enough for your consulting detective skills.”
“Yes, the case,” said Holmes as if it were a trivial matter. “I have not forgotten the case.”
“Have you formed an opinion?” I asked.
Indeed I have, Watson,” said he. “But, I require additional information to solve the case.”
“Do you intend to interview Kate Crawley, Holmes? It would seem the next step in an orderly investigation.”
“Ah, but now you are intruding on my thoughts, doctor,” he said with a laugh. “Miss Crawley is an important cog in this case, and I have not forgotten her. Indeed, I expect that the morning will bring new developments.”
What these developments were I could not draw from the taciturn detective and I finally retired to my sleeping chamber, leaving Holmes still on his lounging chair with smoke curled around his head. I fell into a dreamless sleep.
***************
I awoke the next morning to bright sunshine streaming through my window. I washed and dressed quickly. My time in the army had accustomed me to a Spartan routine and I was soon ready for my breakfast, which I was certain had already been laid in by the faithful Mrs. Hudson.
I heard the faint sound of voices from the sitting room, which grew into a cacophony when I opened my bedroom door. Advancing into the sitting area, I was surprised to see the room was filled with roughly a dozen street urchins. They were dressed in rags and only their leader was shod. These were the Baker Street Irregulars. They were small group of ragamuffins that Holmes had formed to help facilitate investigations that called for the prying eyes of the London street brigades. In Holmes’s opinion, they were worth twice their number in Scotland Yard Inspectors under certain circumstances.
Their leader, a lad named Wiggins whom I recognized from previous cases, stood in front of the line of boys. Wiggins was somewhat older and taller than the rest. He considered himself Holmes’s lieutenant, an appellation Holmes encouraged, and he stood at parade line attention in front of my friend.
“Now, Wiggins,” said Holmes, as I entered. “The first two charges I have given you are for the entire group. You know the types of establishments to seek out. Do not bother with the expensive ones for either task, but set your men on the seedier ones. You know the type I mean, I am sure.”
Right, guv’nor,” said Wiggins. “I’ll set the boys off proper, I will.”
“Good. Now as to the last task, I am entrusting that to you alone, and I want it completed within the hour,” said Holmes, and then he turned his attention to the rest of the dirty army. “The regular rates apply, my lads. A shilling a day, per man, with a bonus of a guinea to the lad who completes either task. Success with both tasks would be wonderful, but at least one success is vital. Report to Wiggins, boys, for additional instructions. Are there any questions?”
“We’ve got it, we do, sir,” said Wiggins, with a wink. “I’ll set the lads to the business, and in a day or two it’ll be Bob’s your uncle.”
With that declaration, the small mob streamed from the room. Their footsteps faded upon the stairs and I strolled to the window to see them belch forth from building. With some words from Wiggins that I could not hear, they were soon running down the street and disappeared.
I turned to find Holmes sitting at our table, helping himself to generous portions of the viands of which Mrs. Hudson had provided us. My curiosity at the mission of the Baker Street Irregulars wrestled for some moments with my appetite. In the end my appetite won out. I joined Holmes at the table and ladled a large portion of eggs onto my plate. I followed this with a rasher of bacon, and settled in to break my fast without reserve.
Holmes did not, as a rule,
speak of a case when we were dining. Even the informal breakfast table was an oasis from his consulting detective persona. With this in mind, Holmes spoke of a wide variety of topics. I had once made a list of the topics on which he was conversant. It was an eclectic mix of subjects upon which Holmes felt were important to his chosen profession, no matter how tangential the connection was. That morning Holmes spoke on the cross pollination of wild orchids by various insects. It was a fascinating subject to me, and I found that I had quite forgotten about the murder of Benjamin Rutherford, as Holmes held forth on his subject.
“So you see, Watson,” said Holmes, as we finished our meal, “though Darwin first made this observation of the benefits of cross pollination, I deem that my research has gone farther still. I believe these studies may dovetail nicely with my beekeeping.”
I had often heard Holmes speculate on beekeeping as an avocation during his retirement, but I doubted my old friend’s ability to engage in such a dry activity for any measure of time. However, as it was his own future, and not mine, I allowed him to employ his imagination without rebuttal. I did allow myself a small smile as he spoke, which went unnoticed by the great detective as he pontificated. As he drew his lecture to a close, I suddenly remembered the events of the night before and my curiosity of Holmes’s conclusions.
“Holmes,” said I. “You have been characteristically closed mouthed about the case at hand. Have you nothing to tell me of your thinking?”
“Only that we face a wily killer, Watson. It is possible that the perpetrator of this crime may escape prosecution.”
“Surely, not,” I cried. “Do you mean to say that you have no leads?”
“Not at all, doctor, but leads and notions have no value in an English court. Even Sherlock Holmes cannot merely accuse. I must have evidence that will bend the minds of twelve stolid Englishmen.”
“And do the Irregulars have a task that might inform you of such evidence?”
“That is indeed their charge, Watson. At this very moment my Irregulars are combing the city.”
“Then you are certain that they will uncover that which you seek?”
“I am certain of their diligence, but, unfortunately, not of their success. We shall see.”
“And you will keep their mission a private matter between you and them?”
“Only for the moment, Watson. Remember, you have seen all that I have seen. It is the evidence of yesterday’s events that necessitated the need for the Irregulars.”
“You also spoke of an errand especially for Wiggins,” I reminded him. “You spoke of confidence that it could be accomplished within the hour.”
“Ah, yes,” said he. “To Wiggins I gave a special charge. I do not mind telling you, Watson, that it was a personal message to a lady. I asked for an audience, and I expect a reply posthaste.”
My thoughts went immediately to Mary Rutherford. I realized Holmes would need to speak with her, but I was shocked at his callousness of demanding a meeting on the morning following her husband’s death. Holmes was not reckoned a sentimental man, yet even knowing that, I was of a mind to upbraid him, though I was less than sanguine about the results of such an admonishment. As these thoughts ran through my mind, I heard the bell ring from the downstairs door. The muffled voice of Mrs. Hudson was mingled with another female voice.
“I believe that our guest has arrived, Watson.”
Chapter Five
The door was flung open, and I saw the figure of Mrs. Hudson.
You have a caller, Mr. Holmes,” said she. “And the page is not here at this early hour, as you well know. First your brood of young toughs, and now this?”
“My apologies, Mrs. Hudson,” said Holmes. “Necessity is a harsh master. There is murder afoot and time is of the essence.”
“A well-spoken gentleman you are, Mr. Holmes,” said the landlady, and she stepped to one side so that our caller might enter. “You certainly have honey on your tongue when it suits you.”
With that statement Mrs. Hudson left the room, closing the door behind her. To my surprise our visitor was not Mary Rutherford, but rather a woman with whom I was unfamiliar. She had swept into the room with a flourish, but now stood uncertainly before us swaying slightly.
Our visitor was an attractive lady with dark hair and fair skin. She was slim of figure and had brown eyes and dark hair.
“Please be seated, Miss Crawley,” said my friend. “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate Doctor Watson, who assists me in my investigations.”
The lady hesitated, and then sat primly in the chair Holmes had indicated.
“Then you know who I am,” said she. “Are you a denizen of the theater?”
“I fear not, dear lady. My friend Watson is a habitué of the West End, but I am not, save for the occasional Wagner opera.”
“Then how do you know my name?”
“It requires no great detection skills to surmise that,” said he. “You have the carriage and bearing of one trained for the stage, you made a most theatrical entrance just now if I may say so, and of course I sent a message to you within the hour asking for an interview. You have saved me the trip by making the journey yourself, so here we are. My friend and I get few female callers, and seldom one so beautiful.”
I was surprised by the last part of Holmes’s statement. My friend rarely seemed impressed by female beauty, least of all to comment upon it, but if his aim was flattery it was a success, as Miss Crawley fanned herself and blushed visibly.
“Really, Mr. Holmes,” said she with a smile. “I hardly expected such manners from a detective.”
“Have you found detectives so distasteful in the past?”
The smile disappeared from her face.
“I have only one detective on which to base my assumptions on the profession as a whole. A horrid little man, who all but accused me of blackmail and murder last evening.”
“Ah, so the good Inspector Lestrade made his way to your flat after all,” said Holmes.
I smiled at the lady’s description of Lestrade. While spoken in a disrespectful manner I nevertheless felt compelled to agree with the substance of her soliloquy. Though thorough, Lestrade’s tactics did leave something to be desired in tact.
“Do you then deny, madam, that you were involved in the death of Mr. Benjamin Rutherford last evening?” asked Holmes.
“I do indeed, sir.”
“And what of the blackmail attempt?”
The lady appeared flustered and clutched her purse.
“Now, there I am entirely fogged. This Inspector Lestrade said I was attempting to extort money from Ben in exchange for some silly old letters. This is absurd, Mr. Holmes. I am guilty of no such thing, and no lady would ever be involved in anything so seamy.”
“But, you do not deny the affair with a man betrothed to another,” said Holmes somewhat gently.
“I do not,” she said, at length. “Of course, in repose it seems to be a sordid act, but I plead youth and the passion of love. I do not expect others to sympathize.”
“I understand the wife was an invalid long past hope,” said I. I was rewarded with a wan smile from the lady.
“That is true, doctor. Mrs. Rutherford was a dear person. She was a true patron of the arts; however, she had not recognized a soul in over a year before Ben and I began our affair. He was truly miserable. He loved her, but her essence was gone and the body was a mere vessel of the person that was. He sent me many letters expressing his devotion to me when the affair was only a thought. He finally swept me off my feet, but the guilt was too much for either of us and it lasted only a few weeks. When his wife finally passed, her memory, and our ill deed, kept us apart. When finally he married Mary Dunson, I was happy for both of them.”
“You mention the letters,” said Holmes. “Do you still possess them?”
“Oh, yes,” said she. “The Inspector asked about them last night as well, but with his horrid manner I refused to show them to him.”
“But,
you still retain them? You are under no obligation to me, my dear, but I counsel you to show them to me. I seek only the truth, and if you are innocent of this foul deed you have nothing to fear from me.”
The lady clutched her purse even tighter and appeared to be in a quandary. At length I found her eyes upon me.
“Dr. Watson, you seem a kind and gentle man,” said she, in a pleading voice. “Do you advise me to give Mr. Holmes my letters?”
I found myself reddening under her hopeful gaze, as well as the bemused expression on Holmes’s face.
“Well…er…well,” I stammered. “I have no doubt that you do yourself well by trusting in my companion. You would be in fine hands.”
“But, doctor, I understood Mr. Holmes to say that you were his aid in his investigations, so I would be putting myself in your hands as well. Is that not correct?”
“Of course, my dear,” I said, as gallantly as I could.
She studied my words and face, and made a decision.
“It seems as though I must trust someone, and you are both gentlemen, as can be seen by a child. I swear before God that I have killed no one.”
The last part of her statement was said with clear conviction, but of course many murderers have made the same statement to Sherlock Holmes only to be ensnared by the brilliance of his detective skills. After pausing for a moment she thrust her hands into her purse and pulled out a sheaf of wrinkled papers. She studied them, her eyes running over the words, and then presented them to Holmes.
Holmes took the letters and studied them carefully. As with the other letters, he employed his magnifying glass for more minute examination. After some minutes he handed the letters to me. They were similar to the letters that Rutherford had shown us. They were written on blank white parchment, and expressed love and devotion to, “My dearest Kate”, and to “most lovely Kate”.
The Iron Dog (A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale) Page 3