“Inspector Bradstreet, it has been a long time,” said I.
“It has indeed, Doctor Watson,” he said taking my outstretched hand.
“So, Bradstreet you have something which may be of interest to us?” Holmes said by way of a greeting.
“Yes indeed, Mr. Holmes. A body was discovered lying by the side of the tracks and I think that it could be the man you are looking for,” said Bradstreet.
The inspector took out his dark lantern and led us to the end of the massive building; at the side of the track stood a lone policeman.
“It is Inspector Bradstreet, Blacklock. All has been quiet?”
“Yes, Inspector,” said the uniformed official.
“This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson of whom you may have heard.”
“Shine your light on the body, Bradstreet,” said Holmes. “Let us take a look at it.”
Both Blacklock and Bradstreet turned their lights towards the thing lying in the grass. Holmes knelt down over the body and quickly examined it.
A few moments later he rose to his feet. “You have wasted our time Bradstreet,” said Holmes. Turning on his heel he began walking away.
“Wasted your time how, Mr. Holmes?”
“Mrs. Dobson was quite certain that the man involved in the disappearance of Mrs. Watson was a Chinaman. This man is obviously Japanese, not Chinese. Really Bradstreet you would think that your men could tell the difference.”
“It seems a trivial point, Mr. Holmes.”
“It is certainly not trivial to them, Inspector. Your attitude would seem to mirror that of much of the English populace, who have little knowledge and even less interest in happenings outside of their own village let alone events which happen outside of Victoria’s Empire.
“Granted the two peoples are somewhat similar physically as they are both members of the Mongoloid race, however the Japanese people are on the whole smaller than the Chinese or for that matter most other members of the race such as the Esquimaux or the natives of Korea. Also Inspector, if you had bothered to look at his hands you may have noticed that the tattoo on the back of one of them is of a Japanese design not Chinese and he is missing the tip of the little finger on his left hand.”
“We seem to be faced with a surfeit of men with missing fingers,” I commented.
“There is a Japanese criminal organization not unlike the ones which plague Sicily, by the name of Yakuza which is known to punish its members by having them cut off the tip of their own fingers,” he replied routinely as if remarking on the weather.
With that he turned on his heel and briskly began walking towards the waiting hansom. The two policemen stared at his back.
“Come, Watson,” he called from the darkness. I followed quickly, as my ability to see in the dark was not as acute as that of my friend.
As the cab drove away I could still see the silhouettes of the policemen, two lonely and no doubt mystified figures, just visible in the small circle of light given off by their lanterns. Holmes manner was sullen which was unusual for him. At times he could be taciturn and secretive while involved in an investigation, however I had seldom seen him in a bad mood.
I was much too weary to attempt to break the silence even though I very much wanted to ask him about the latest happenings. A steady rain had begun to fall and the trip home was long and uncomfortable. Baker Street which seemed dirty and almost drab much of the time gleamed brightly with the rain. Holmes left me to pay for the cab and had disappeared inside before I could even turn around. By the time I had climbed the stairs the detective had lit the gas and poured a large brandy for each of us. I tossed off my wet outer garments and warmed my hands in front of the now blazing hearth.
“You are shivering, old friend,” said Holmes passing me the brandy.
“Yes I am afraid that I have rather over extended myself lately,” I said downing the fiery drink quickly.
I closed my eyes and contemplated the events of the last few days while Holmes played on his violin. He was capable of the most light and fanciful pieces when the mood seized him however tonight his music seemed plaintive and introspective.
The mournful music retreated into the background as I stared into the fire, my empty glass in my hand. Perhaps it was the warmth of the fire, or the effects of the brandy or even perhaps due to Holmes’ impromptu recital but sleep finally came. However it was a restless sleep and the worries which plagued me during the day manifested themselves as nightmares during the night. Nightmares in which I seemed forever doomed to search the endless labyrinth of London’s streets for my missing wife; and yet she remained as elusive as a wraith. I ran and ran and all the while I could hear her calling out to me. Her cries echoed in the strangely empty streets. I pursued her throughout London, finally arriving at Baker Street exhausted. I began to climb up the stairs when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around, expecting to see Mary but I was instead confronted with Sherlock Holmes shaking me by the shoulder.
“Come, Watson,” he said.
I shook the cobwebs from my head and rubbed the sleep from my eyes as I looked around. I was still sitting in my chair in the familiar surroundings of our old rooms in Baker Street. My brow and clothing were soaked with perspiration.
“Come, Watson,” urged Holmes again. “Mrs. Hudson has breakfast on the table and time is fleeting.”
I struggled out of my chair and made my way to the table which was already laid. The sideboard was filled with a welcome array of bacon, ham, eggs, preserves, and toast.
No conversation passed between us as I ravenously devoured Mrs. Hudson’s simple yet delicious fare while Holmes busied himself reading the morning paper which he had propped up against the coffee pot.
The urgency which was apparent in my friend’s demeanor a few moments earlier had been replaced by an uneasy calm. He now sat placidly at the table reading the Daily News, his own breakfast untouched and his head wreathed in a dense cloud of tobacco smoke. Finally he threw down the paper in disgust.
“Damn. He is late.”
“Who is late, Holmes?” I asked looking up from my copy of The Times, which I usually preferred to Holmes’ present reading material and its Liberal leanings.
“Bradstreet. I received a telegram from him before you awoke. He said he would be coming around this morning at eight o’clock. There have apparently been further developments as to the affair of last night.”
“He has perhaps found the Chinaman,” I said.
“Perhaps,” he said doubtfully, “although I do not think that the possibility is likely.”
At that moment there was a knock at the door.
“Come in, Mrs. Hudson,” he called out. His sensitive ears had no doubt recognized her footsteps on the stairs.
“I have come to clear the things away, Mr. Holmes,” she said.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he said impatiently. “Hurry, and be off with you.”
She sniffed and rolled her eyes.
“Mrs. Hudson, would you be good enough to bring me some hot water so that I may have a shave,” I said kindly. “Mr. Holmes has been kind enough to lend me a razor.”
“Of course Doctor, I will have Jenny bring some up in a moment,” she said as she clattered out of the door with the tray of dishes.
I had not yet finished my second cigarette of the morning when the parlour-maid returned with a large pitcher of hot water. I thanked her and went up to my old room to perform my morning ablutions. Using Holmes old and well used straight edge I managed to scrape a days worth of whiskers from my chin. That, together with a quick wash made me feel like a new man.
As I descended from my former chambers I could hear voices coming from the sitting room. “Good morning, Inspector it appears that you have spent a restless night,” I remarked as I took his outstretched hand.
“You are right there, Doctor Watson.”
“I understand that you have more information as to the body which was found at Charing Cross Station,” I said button
ing up my waistcoat.
Holmes walked over to the fireplace and filled his beloved brier pipe with the plugs and dottles of the previous day’s smokes which he had dried upon the mantel.
“Indeed I have,” Bradstreet answered. “Mr. Holmes arguments from last night not withstanding it would seem that the body we viewed last night was indeed that of a Chinaman.”
“Go on, Bradstreet,” Holmes remarked icily.
“If you would have taken the time,” responded Bradstreet smugly, “to examine the body more closely you would have seen that the man was a sailor by profession. The calluses on his hands and the evidence of tar upon his clothing, not to mention certain papers in his possession indicate as much. Once we determined the man’s calling it was but a matter of routine police work to locate the ship upon which he sailed. This ship ‘The Orient,’ is still berthed at the Docks. We examined the crew manifest which lists the man’s nationality as Chinese.
“You see your little lectures have not been lost upon us, Mr. Holmes.”
“That was quick work, Bradstreet. You have done well.”
The man from Scotland Yard beamed with pride. “However....,” he hesitated.
“However?”
“There is a most curious fact to which I wish to draw your attention, Mr. Holmes.”
“You interest me exceedingly, Inspector, pray continue.”
“Very well, Mr. Holmes. Well sir, upon closer examination what appeared to be a tattoo was actually nothing more than a somewhat common Japanese character etched upon the skin with India ink.”
“Are you sure, Inspector?”
“Quite sure, Doctor.”
“And what conclusion do you draw from this remarkable fact, Inspector?” asked Holmes.
“No conclusions yet, Mr. Holmes, it is merely an observation, and as the only person who can shed any light upon the matter is dead I think it is something which must remain unexplained. However it was Inspector Michael’s opinion that the Japanese are much more likely to tattoo themselves than their Oriental cousins so perhaps it was an attempt on the part of the dead man to make himself appear to be of Japanese ancestry and not Chinese.”
“And Michaels is an expert in such matters?” Holmes asked.
“He was our top man in Limehouse for years.”
Holmes never liked to be proved wrong, especially by the official forces. However he was a gentleman and secretly proud that he had been a mentor to many of them, and he accepted the other’s news gracefully.
“If you ever put this case to paper Watson, you can make me out a jackass,” Holmes said.
“This is all well and fine Holmes, however considering the untold thousands of Chinese in London the possibility of this being our man is certainly remote,” I pointed out.
“Would you like to view the body once again Mr. Holmes?” asked Bradstreet. “Perhaps in the light of day you will be able to see more than we.”
“By all means, Bradstreet. What say you, Watson, are you up for a drive through the early morning streets, and lend us your expert medical opinion?”
“Anything that will help us find Mary would be preferable to sitting here.”
“Bring your mac then, there is a rain.”
Bradstreet had a four-wheeler waiting and we climbed in. The heavy rain beat down relentlessly against the sides of the cab. The great city which never seemed to sleep was teeming with traffic despite the hour and the rain.
For the second time in three days we arrived at that stark and morbid repository. Despite the fact that dead bodies were nothing new to me, the place sent a chill down my spine, I was more accustomed to preventing my patients from ending their existence in a place such as this for as long as possible. The room was hot and airless, the white-washed walls gleaming in the harsh electric light. The attendant slid back the sheet which covered the body.
I stepped forward, the better to view the lifeless thing which was laid out upon the table as I had neither the time nor opportunity to examine it the previous night. The body was that of an Oriental man of around thirty years of age and it betrayed all the telltale signs of being viciously beaten. Holmes was unmoved at the sight.
“What do you think, Watson,” he said.
“This man has been beaten severely about the head,” I said.
“An astute observation, Doctor,” Holmes said dryly.
I ignored his tone and continued. “This man has been beaten severely about the head,” I repeated. “Death from a bludgeon to the head is almost always due to trauma of the brain and when the human skull receives such an injury splinters of bone often become embedded in the brain. Sometimes the brain itself becomes pulped if the damage to the skull is severe enough, however in those instances where the skull is not fractured haemorrhaging beneath the bone will result in internal bleeding.”
“Quite interesting and quite correct, Watson. Is there anything about this particular case to which you would wish to draw my attention?”
“Without a closer and more detailed examination, there is very little I can tell you, Holmes.”
“As always you are too timid in your inferences, Doctor. For instance this.....,” here he pointed to the massive trauma which had been inflicted upon the head, “appears to have been caused by the butt end of a pistol.”
“How can you tell that, Mr. Holmes?” whispered Bradstreet.
“There is no need for silence here, Inspector, you will disturb no one. As to your question, I have been lucky enough over the years to be allowed to spend some time at St. Bart’s Hospital. It is where Watson and I first met. While there, I conducted a series of experiments as to the shape of wounds left by various weapons. The wounds caused by such an attack as this are for the most part ragged in nature and there are usually strands of blood vessels, skin and tissue deeply impacted into the bone. The skull will often show depressed areas which in the majority of cases indicate the shape and by inference the nature of the weapon. I believe that once the body has undergone a more thorough examination it will be discovered that the injuries have been caused by the butt of a heavy revolver.”
“What else can you tell us, Mr. Holmes?” asked Bradstreet.
“I believe that the killing was either an accident or perhaps a crime of opportunity.”
“How can you say that, Holmes?” I asked. “It seems to me that the attack was a particularly brutal and premeditated one.”
“Brutal yes, but premeditated no; again look at the choice of weapons. A firearm used in this fashion would be quite unreliable. It is not really heavy enough to do the job plus there is every chance that the pistol would be ruined in the process. It seems to me that if someone had intended to kill this man they would have chosen a more appropriate weapon.”
“Why not use the pistol in the more traditional manner?” asked Bradstreet.
“There would be too much chance of being discovered,” I said.
“Exactly, Watson, however it is this tattoo which intrigues me, Bradstreet. You say that the design has been applied to the skin with an India ink.”
“It appears so, Mr. Holmes. The morgue attendant in the course of washing the body in preparation for the autopsy discovered the fact.”
“Holmes what possible reason could someone have for having a false tattoo?”
“I have no idea Watson. As with many aspects of this case, it is something which remains to be explained.”
CHAPTER 10
Holmes and I returned to Baker Street in time for lunch. The enticing smell of a roasting woodcock greeted us as we entered the premises.
“What are our plans now, Holmes?” I asked as I drained the last of my post prandial glass of port.
“I think a visit to the Diogenes Club would be in order,” Holmes replied.
“A call on brother, Mycroft?” I asked.
Mycroft was Holmes’ elder brother whom I had first met in the affair relating to The Greek Interpreter. He was Holmes equal in the science of deduction but as Holmes was apt to point out
he lacked energy. He seldom strayed from his office and rooms in Whitehall except when he visited the Diogenes Club, that strange association of men who belonged to no other clubs due to their abhorrence of any customary social contacts. No member of this peculiar group was allowed to speak to another except in the Strangers’ Room. Holmes had told me the tale, possibly apocryphal, of one member who choking on a bit of cheese had appealed for assistance from a fellow member, his life was saved however he was expelled from the club. It had always amazed me that Holmes himself was not a member. Mycroft being a founding member, his inclusion would have been automatic.
“You remember him then,” replied my friend.
“Of course, but what has Mycroft to do with the matter?” I asked.
“Mycroft, along with his more prosaic duties is also one of the guiding forces behind this country’s unofficial security and intelligence service and has made himself quite indispensable. If there are any irregularities to do with this Chinese man or the ship he sailed on, Mycroft will be able to put his finger on it, or,” he added as an afterthought “at the least he will be able to point us in the right direction.”
The drive to Pall Mall and the Diogenes Club was but a short one.
The attendant at the club was obviously familiar with Holmes as he showed us directly into the visitor’s room. A melancholy, yet distinguished looking gentleman was just leaving the room as we entered. Jarvis, for that was the attendant’s name, disappeared through the door like a wraith, no doubt to inform Mycroft Holmes of our presence. In a short while the massive bulk of my friend’s brother entered the room.
Seven years Sherlock’s senior, Mycroft was obese and indolent. No amount of excess flesh though could disguise the massive intellect, or the powerful and somewhat intimidating stance. Nor could it hide the cold, hooded grey eyes with their masterful gaze. The powers which my friend turned to solving crimes, his brother used with equal success in becoming an essential cog in the gears of the government machinery.
The Adventure of the Tired Captain A Sherlock Holmes Case Page 12