The Deadwood Stage

by Mike Hogan

  “I think, young man, that you had better make your number at home for tonight. Mrs Everest was worried about you. I am sure that your mother and father are too. I wrote a letter to Lady Randolph that said - ah - that you are a fine young fellow. I am certain that she misses you, and you her.”

  Churchill looked up at me, his eyes glistening in the gaslight. “But I may come back tomorrow, mayn’t I, Doctor?”

  “Of course you may, Churchill. You have done well today. Holmes will be pleased with our progress.”

  He beamed, and I felt like a cad.

  I handed him the cab fare and waved him off.

  Lestrade on the Scent

  I was exhausted, but I gathered my resolve and wrote a short note to Scotland Yard. Peterson across the road was still up, so I sent it by messenger. I then spent an hour or more leafing through Holmes’s notebooks and scrapbooks looking for his patent method of detecting blood. When we had first met, at St Bartholomew’s Hospital six or more years previously, Holmes had said, boasted rather, that he had discovered a method for detecting even minute quantities of blood. I wanted to test the reddish brown flakes I had scraped from the balustrade of the house in Narrow Street with his technique. It would pay Holmes back, I thought, for his presumption over the arsenical curtains.

  I could make nothing of the cataloguing system, and by the time Billy came up with supper - a tureen of beef soup and some crusty bread - I had given up and placed the flakes in an envelope on the laboratory bench. Really, I thought, I should encourage Holmes to index his papers in a less eccentric manner.

  I felt a sense of guilt; I had been hard on young Churchill. He had furnished several important facts in the case, in particular the description of the lessee of the murder house.

  I had thought to acknowledge his acuity in the note I wrote to Lestrade at Scotland Yard. However, it seemed obvious that the inspector might be less, rather than more, inclined to act on the facts if I had explained their source. I had therefore not mentioned the boy’s contribution to the interview with Mrs Plum. I had no doubt that I should have won the information from her by some means of my own, given time.

  I poured myself a glass of Madeira and reviewed my notes on the case thus far, in preparation for briefing Holmes the following day.

  Facts: the killing and the disappearance of Bobby and his friend were connected by the photograph found on the body, and by the resemblance between Aaron and the victim. They might be relatives, brothers perhaps. Aaron had been brought from America by Taylor as a servant. Why would his relative follow him, and how would he have obtained the money for the transatlantic steamer fare?

  Mr Wilmer was the possible murderer. It stretched credulity to think that Mr Maxwell Taylor, Bobby Taylor, and Mr Richard Wilmer were unconnected. Mr Wilmer said that he had recently arrived from America, where Taylor and the boy had lived. He might have used his real name, or a fake one to rent the murder house. Why was he there a week after his lease had run out? Why was the dead man at the house? The case was less clear, not less clouded. I feared more and more for the safety of young Bobby and his friend. I could hardly wait to lay the facts before Holmes. I yawned and stubbed out my final cigar of the evening.

  I heard a knock at the sitting-room door.

  “Come.”

  Inspector Lestrade came in looking annoyed.

  “I got your remarkable letter at the Yard, Doctor.”

  “You work late, Inspector.”

  “And I catch my worm, given half a chance. I could have wished that you had wired this information to my office direct from Limehouse. We would have saved an hour.”

  “I did not expect you to be at your post at night,” I said shortly. “Does Scotland Yard work twenty-four hour shifts like a Lancashire cotton mill?”

  Lestrade sniffed in his uncouth manner.

  “We have had an officer on duty at all hours since the Irish bombings. He has orders to fetch me if there is urgent need. We could have scoured the shoreline for a gentleman in evening dress rowing a boat; an uncommon sight on the River, as I think you will agree. I am certain that Mr Holmes would have -”

  “I cannot swear that he was dressed so, or that he had anything to do with the murder. Would you care for a glass of wine?”

  Lestrade took his usual seat on the sofa and accepted a glass of Madeira.

  “We are late on the scent,” he said. “However, with your very complete description, we will have our man before the night is out. We have warned all hotels frequented by foreigners. I have men watching the premises in Limehouse, and our water station at Wapping has detectives rowing on the River looking for suspicious characters.”

  “You have been most active, Inspector.”

  There was a soft knock on the door, and Churchill entered. He wore a dark cutaway jacket over knee breeches and long socks. I guessed that this was his uniform at his preparatory school.

  “Churchill,” I said with a stern look. “What are you doing here? I sent you home. It is very late.”

  “Everyone has gone to Blenheim Palace, Doctor. The Duke of Marlborough is holding a Jubilee Ball. There are just servants in the house. I did not care to stay there alone. Billy said that Inspector Lestrade was here, so I came up.”

  He looked at his toes.

  “Quite right,” I said with a smile. “There’s soup. Ask Bessie to warm some for you.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” He too sat in his usual seat.

  “What I don’t understand, Doctor,” continued Lestrade ignoring Churchill, “is why this man Wilmer returned to the murder house the day after the killing. And what was he doing there a week after his lease expired? Did this landlady, this Mrs Plum, not have any opinion on the matter? You winkled out a great deal of information from her -”

  I stood. “She said nothing more about Mr Wilmer. You will want to put that to her yourself before tomorrow morning is out.”

  Lestrade stood and shook my hand. He smiled.

  “I hope you’ll forgive my peevishness earlier, Doctor. We are most grateful to you for the information we received. The flakes of material you included in your note have been sent for analysis, but I have no doubt that they are bloodstains.”

  He left.

  I coloured and turned to the fireplace. I made a show of slowly filling my pipe.

  “Churchill -”

  “It’s quite all right, Doctor. You could not involve me. The inspector would have laughed the matter away. I do understand.”

  He beamed shyly at me.

  “Well,” I said, “have some soup and get to bed. Today was a jungle of a day. We have a great deal to tell Holmes tomorrow. And we can have a lie-in: Holmes won’t be here until lunchtime at the earliest.”

  “Goodnight, Doctor.”

  “Goodnight, young man. I shall smoke a last pipe and meditate on the facts of the case of the missing American boy. I feel it in my soul that he is in the gravest danger.”

  Churchill opened the sitting-room door.

  “I say, old fellow,” I asked softly. “Were you not invited to the Blenheim ball?”

  He shook his head.

  “I believe that I was forgotten, Doctor,” he said, “in the excitement.”

  8. The Sprightly Correspondence

  A Monstrous Imputation

  “Watson!”

  I woke to the familiar sound of my friend’s voice and a hammering on my bedroom door.

  I unhooked my pocket watch from its stand on the night table and checked the time in the weak light filtering through the curtains. It was not yet six.

  “Good morning, Holmes,” I croaked.

  “Coffee in the sitting room in twelve minutes,” he called.

  I heaved myself out of bed. I wondered what emergency had brought Holmes back so much before his expected time, and in
deed how the deuce he had managed to get from the North to London so early.

  “This coffee is excellent,” said Holmes as I opened the sitting-room door. “Spencer-Churchill is coming along. If he learns one new fact daily, and a new skill every fortnight, he will do well. He seems set on the Army; he has a large collection of toy soldiers. I shall write to Gamages Store to encourage them to add a set of miniature consulting detectives to their collections.”

  “You are early, Holmes,” I said as I joined him at the breakfast table.

  “I caught the milk train. I could not stand a moment more of Stockton, that miserable town. I am astonished that the good people of Darlington should have been so eager to establish a railway link with the place. Let me pour you a cup of this excellent brew and you can acquaint me with your adventures in the Caspar case. Spencer-Churchill assures me that the witnesses were entertaining.”

  I described the visit to Madame Audet and my lack of success in getting a clear statement from her. Churchill came in carrying a stack of morning newspapers, followed by Billy with a tray of bacon and eggs. Holmes grabbed The Pall Mall Gazette and scanned the pages.

  “More abuse thrown on the police by that monstrous regiment of political women, ha! They have nothing new. Ha, ha! They do not have it; they do not have the answer.”

  “Do you?”

  Holmes looked up from the paper with a vainglorious grin. “Naturally, my dear Watson. I have all my birds lined up but one, and that will flutter in my net within the day.”

  “How is the coffee, Mr Holmes?” asked Churchill.

  “First rate, young man. I could be on the banks of the Orinoco. I see from the newspapers that Venezuela is in its usual state of unrest. I hope that does not mean a rise in the already abominably inflated price of coffee beans.”

  He applied himself to his breakfast with the air of a pilgrim who fasted with reason and deep conviction for a week and who was let loose at last.

  “Stockton, Holmes,” I said. “What did you discover?”

  “Oh, I learned everything the police did not. Lestrade’s men were still at the local police station poring through their rancid records when I arrived. I went directly to Miss Caspar’s home, a pleasant corner property where her mother caters to travellers in the commercial line. She was in a deplorable state, had taken to her bed in fact, and her maid had even less understanding of the culinary arts than our dear Bessie. When I disclosed that I acted in the case, Madam Caspar was kind enough to offer me a room. After a long day of coaxing and bed-side-mannering, she produced the evidence I had hoped for and that was that. The Scotland Yard detectives did not deign to visit her. Ha! Ha, ha!”

  He waved his fork in triumph.

  I looked across to Churchill. He seemed as confused as I was. What possible evidence could the lady’s mother in Stockton offer?

  “I say, Holmes -”

  “Tell me about the Major,” said Holmes, looking up with a sly smile.

  “He lives in Oriental splendour a stone’s throw from the Fulham Road.” I described the house, the lounge and its furnishings.

  “Attendants?”

  “He mentioned an Ahmed, perhaps a cook. We saw only one, a young Indian or Malay girl. He mentioned Ceylon, so she may - what?”

  Churchill and Holmes convulsed with laughter.

  “I’m sorry, Watson,” said Holmes, recovering his breath. “We have played upon you. You had better tell the Doctor, young Churchill, although I do not envy you that heavy task.”

  There was a loud ring at the doorbell.

  “Ah,” said Holmes. “We are saved by the doorbell. This will be the first of my bird dogs.”

  The door of our sitting room opened and Wiggins strode in. He wore a clean and respectable tweed suit and a soft wide-awake hat. He saw my surprised look.

  “Investment, Doctor: tools of the trade. I’m on the Dead Faint game, though it’s not a big earner without Bobby.”

  “Wiggins,” said Holmes. “You are to confirm that the person named on this paper lives at that address. Do so discreetly, and have your men follow if necessary. Take care, your quarry will be wise to the street. Wire me when you coop your prey. Usual rates plus meals. Give Wiggins ten-bob, Watson.”

  He took the money, saluted and left.

  Holmes and Churchill buried themselves in the morning papers.

  “Ahem,” I said. “We were in the middle of a conversation when the doorbell rang.”

  Holmes looked across the room to Churchill and raised his eyebrows. The boy responded with an impertinent shrug.

  “The girl who served us tea, Doctor,” said Churchill. “She was no girl.”

  “And Major Massingham is undoubtedly one of nature’s gentlemen,” added Holmes. “A confirmed bachelor.”

  They looked at me with a kind of pleasant speculation. I was utterly taken aback.

  “I do not believe it,” I said stiffly. “It is a monstrous imputation upon a retired official in the Indian Colonial Administration in Ceylon. They maintain the highest standards.”

  “My dear chap,” said Holmes. “Spencer-Churchill has described the nude painting of bathing boys, the dainty furnishings. You would have been entirely convinced had you stayed to view the photograph albums.”

  I remained silent as I recalled the delicate features and compelling gaze of the young girl at Major Massingham’s home. Her wide, almond eyes and soft skin were entirely un-boy-like; I could not imagine such a creature playing rugby football.

  “I do not believe it.”

  “Do not feel gulled, Watson. The practices of the East, to which Major Massingham has evidently succumbed, are intractable to the wholesome, English mind.”

  I helped myself to a last half-cup of coffee as Holmes continued.

  “I do not discount the Major’s evidence despite its moral inadequacy. It is of the first importance; it is the final piece of the puzzle. As I have said before, the investigator must recognise, from the mass of data that constitute the facts of a case, the vital elements and the merely incidental. It was clear to me from the beginning of this affair that the key to the solution was the discrepancy between the witnesses as to the location of the arrest. PC Endaby and Madame Audet state positively that Miss Caspar was arrested in one place, while Major Massingham and Miss Caspar firmly assert that she was arrested in another. Neither Police Constable Twyman nor Police Constable Dyer, on duty in the area, saw the arrest.

  “It seems inexplicable,” I said.

  The doorbell rang downstairs.

  Billy ushered Inspector Lestrade into our sitting rooms.

  “Coffee, Inspector?” I offered. “We can make another brew.”

  “Thank you, no.”

  He sat at our breakfast table opposite Holmes and slid a large grey envelope across to him.

  “Chapter and verse, sir,” he said shaking his head.

  “The Stockton papers,” said Holmes. He handed the envelope to me. I opened it and slid a wad of official forms onto my knees.

  “These are arrest records for Miss E. Caspar of thirty-eight, The Railway Embankments, Stockton. Mostly dated last year and the year before: loitering, various noise nuisances, ah -”

  I looked up and across the room to Churchill. He sighed and stood, but Holmes waved him back into his seat.

  “Cautioned on suspicion of importuning for a certain purpose,” I continued. “Cautioned for suspicion of soliciting for same, and again, and again; the list goes on Holmes. It is most damning.”

  “The date of the last arrest?” he asked.

  “Eleven months or so ago. There are also envelopes here addressed to Miss Caspar in various hands that contain certain letters.”

  I stuffed the papers back into the envelope and flung it onto the table in disgust.

  “I hope that
you heeded my warning, Mr Holmes,” said Lestrade in his nasal bray. “I trust that you made no rash statements as to Miss Caspar’s innocence that might be awkward to repudiate. The letters are from various male acquaintances. The contents are sprightly, sir, very sprightly indeed. A Royal Navy commander with the Mediterranean Fleet offers to set the lady up in keeping, as his paramour.”

  Billy appeared at the door with a telegram on a tray.

  Holmes stood, but waved for me to take it.

  “Thank you Inspector,” he said. “You have been most thorough. May I beg you to return at two of the afternoon? I may have some information vital to the case by then. Oh, I would caution you not to make any statements on the guilt or innocence of Miss Caspar, despite the Stockton materials, until you have returned to me here.

  “Is there any news of Mr Wilmer?” I asked.

  “None at all, Doctor. If we had been on the track earlier -”

  “Show Inspector Lestrade out, Billy,” said Holmes.

  The door closed and Holmes turned to me.

  “Cooped,” I said as I read the telegram. “Garrick Street, Covent Garden. Meet at Lamb and Flag, Wiggins.”

  Churchill slapped his hands together and grinned. “Got you, My Lovely.”

  “Our leopard is treed,” Holmes said. “Our case is complete. I must to the Lamb and Flag pub at Covent Garden; Spencer-Churchill, kindly ask Billy to fetch me a four-wheeler.”

  The Bird in Covent Garden

  I watched from the window as Holmes hurried out to the growler. Churchill jumped in beside him. I was rather surprised that Holmes had not asked me to accompany him as he usually would when the game was afoot. Of course, my friend liked to keep his cards close to his chest during an investigation. He would lay them out with a flourish when he was sure of his conclusions. But in this case, young Churchill had insinuated himself into Holmes’s confidence, and he appeared to know more than I did.

  I had to confess to myself that I felt only confusion when I examined the facts of the Caspar case; I could not imagine why the location of the arrest should be of such significance. My feeling was that Constable Endaby had panicked when he heard Miss Caspar’s explanations while he was conducting her to the police station. He felt that he had to bolster his case, so he made up the frequent visits earlier in the year. It was to me utterly inconceivable that the young lady who had graced our waiting room was capable of the indelicacies described in the materials from Stockton.