by June Thomson
‘And what was the cause of death?’ Holmes continued when MacDonald had finished his account. ‘Has that been established yet?’
He had asked this last question in his normal voice and, overhearing it, the police surgeon bustled forward to be introduced and to shake hands.
‘Mr Holmes!’ he exclaimed, puffing out his cheeks with pleasure. ‘I have heard of you, sir, and your famous detective skills. May I say how delighted I am to make your acquaintance?’
‘What of the dead man?’ Holmes asked, cutting short this eulogy.
‘Ah, the corpus delicti!’ the doctor replied, flourishing the Latin tag like a silk handkerchief. ‘No external injuries visible, so cause of death is uncertain but I may be able to ascertain that at the post-mortem. Of course, he may have died of natural causes such as a heart attack. As to the time of death,’ he continued, taking out a gold pocket watch and examining it in the same ostentatious manner, ‘it is now twenty minutes past three o’clock. At a rough estimate, he has been dead for about twenty-eight hours.’
‘Which would place his death at approximately eleven o’clock yesterday morning,’ Holmes put.
‘Exactly so, sir!’ The little doctor seemed impressed with the speed with which my old friend had made the computation.7
‘Thank you. You have been most helpful,’ Holmes said gravely, shaking the man’s hand in a dismissive manner, for he showed every sign of remaining while Holmes and MacDonald made their own examination of Cardinal Tosca’s body, which was lying on its back, its legs straight and its arms folded across its chest as if whoever had placed it there had gone to some trouble to lay it out properly.
As soon as the police surgeon had taken the hint and departed, Holmes crouched down over the corpse with the eager air of a terrier at a rabbit-hole, taking care to avoid certain marks in the mud near to where it was lying which consisted of a number of footprints overlapping one another and, more clearly defined, two parallel grooves about three quarters of an inch wide and two feet apart. At that early stage, he touched nothing but his keen gaze moved swiftly over the dead man’s face and clothing. At the same time, he kept up a running commentary on his observations, as much for his own benefit, I felt, as for ours.
‘He is undoubtedly the missing cardinal,’ he remarked. ‘The clothes and features exactly match the description we were given.’ Picking up one of the plump white hands, he turned it over in his own. ‘Father O’Shea spoke of his beautiful hands and he was right to do so. They are carefully looked after and suggest a man unused to physical labour. One can also see the mark on this finger where he normally wore the ring, a symbol of his clerical status. No other marks on his hands and face, which suggests he was not attacked by an assailant or tried to defend himself. The surgeon may be correct in suggesting he died of natural causes.
‘Now for the clothing. No blood that I can see, nor any tears in the fabric. But hello! What have we here?’ he suddenly exclaimed. He had rolled the body on to its right side and was running his hand over the frock coat the dead man was wearing, and had evidently felt something inside an inner pocket which proved to be a leather pocket book. Opening it up, he revealed a wad of paper which, when unfolded, revealed ten five-pound bank notes.
‘Interesting!’ Holmes commented. ‘Why should the cardinal be carrying so much money on his person? Well, it proves one fact at least. If he was murdered, robbery was clearly not the motive.’
Having handed over the pocket book to MacDonald, Holmes returned to his close scrutiny of the dead man’s clothing and began examining, with the aid of his magnifying glass which he always carried with him in his pocket, the right sleeve of the dead man’s coat, to which some coarse yellow grains were clinging, before moving his attention down the corpse towards the lower garments.
‘Nothing on the trousers that I can see,’ he continued. ‘Now for the feet. And what have we here? More fascinating debris, by Jove! Why, the cardinal’s boots are a veritable mine of crucial evidence.’
Opening his own pocket book, he took out several small envelopes of the type he always carried on his person and, using the blade of his penknife, he carefully scraped samples of that debris he had referred to into the little paper receptacles. As far as I could see, it consisted of more of the yellow grains he had found on the sleeve as well as some grey, gritty substance and a white, powdery paste which was compacted into the arch between the heel of one of the dead man’s boots and the sole. Having sealed the envelopes, he replaced them in his pocket book.
It was at this point that MacDonald, who had stood silently watching Holmes as he set about collecting this evidence, now moved forward.
‘I think you will nae need me to point out the two lines of parallel marks on the ground,’ he remarked.
Holmes looked up at him.
‘Indeed, friend Mac. I had already observed them. From the distance between them, I would guess they were caused by the wheels of a hand-cart. I would also hazard, judging by the place where they stop, close by the body, that the cart was used to transport the dead man here from wherever it was he died. Note also the footmarks round the corpse,’ he added, pointing a long finger to an area where the mud was heavily trampled. ‘Two men, would you not agree? And here,’ he went on, ‘you may see the fainter traces of the wheels as the two men pushed the cart away; fainter because it was then empty and, without the weight of the body, the wheels were not pressed down so hard on to the muddy surface.’
Head lowered, he set off to follow the tracks back to the entrance, MacDonald and I close upon his heels. At the point where the yard opened out into the street, he paused again to point downwards.
‘And here, if you look closely, gentlemen, you will see the wheel marks veer off to the left, suggesting the owners of the cart must reside in that direction.’
Although the tracks were particularly difficult to discern, being only faintly impressed on to the mud and moreover trampled over by the comings and goings of MacDonald and his colleagues as well as the police surgeon and whoever had discovered the body in the first place, it was still possible to see, now that Holmes had drawn our attention to them, the double row of wheel tracks turn off to the left before vanishing from sight altogether on the cleaner surface of the public footpath.
‘To sum up what we have already discovered,’ said Holmes as we turned back into the yard, ‘we can, I believe, safely assume that, while it was not necessarily murder and that robbery was not a motive, two men were concerned with the disposal of Cardinal Tosca’s body in Paternoster Yard and that the two men were in a line of business that involved the moving about of certain materials, more of which I think you will find on the back of the cardinal’s coat once the body is turned over.’
‘You are referring, are you not, Holmes, to the various substances you have collected from his boots?’ I asked.
‘I am indeed, my dear fellow.’
‘Which are?’ Inspector MacDonald interposed.
Holmes gave an enigmatic smile.
‘That, my good Inspector, I will have to ascertain when I have performed various chemical tests on them,’ he replied with an evasive air. ‘As soon as I know the results, I will, of course, inform you.’
And with that, he shook hands with MacDonald, beckoned to me and, stepping out briskly into the street, hailed a passing cab.
He made no further reference to the case on the journey to Baker Street, nor during the next few hours after our return when he closeted himself in the sitting-room with his chemical apparatus and proceeded to subject the contents of the little paper envelopes to a series of tests. Experience had taught me not to ask questions when he was absorbed in the investigation of a case and, after twenty minutes of sitting silent by the fire with only the Evening Standard for company, I admitted defeat and left the house for my club, where I passed the time more agreeably playing billiards with an old acquaintance of mine, Thurston.8
When I returned to my lodgings, Holmes was absent, although the evidence of hi
s recent activities was apparent in the jumble of test tubes, litmus paper and bottles of chemicals which still littered his chemistry bench. There was no note, however, of where he had gone or when he proposed returning and I was left to kick my heels for three quarters of an hour before I heard the street door slam and footsteps bounding eagerly up the stairs.
‘Get ready to leave, Watson!’ he cried. ‘I have a cab waiting below!’
‘To go where, Holmes?’ I enquired, wondering, as I scrambled into my coat and seized up my stick, what destination Holmes needed to set out for with such urgency when he had only that very moment returned to the house.
‘You will shortly see, my dear fellow,’ he replied over his shoulder as he set off down the stairs which he had so recently mounted. ‘And no questions, Watson! I refuse to answer any questions. I know what you are going to ask and the answers will be made as clear as daylight very shortly.’
As if to emphasise this prohibition, he dominated the conversation on the journey to an address, Makepeace Court, which was unknown to me, talking in such a sprightly manner on a variety of subjects from Gothic architecture to the study of philology9 that I could do nothing except listen to him, fascinated by this monologue, for, when Holmes is in one of his high-spirited moods, he can be a scintillating companion. However, from time to time, my thoughts strayed to those forbidden questions which still occupied my mind: What had he discovered during his chemical tests which had led to this exuberant state of mind? Where had he gone during his absence from Baker Street? And what was the significance of Makepeace Court, our apparent destination?
At the same time as I listened to Holmes and pondered these questions, I also glanced occasionally at the passing scenery, trying to ascertain our whereabouts and, after a while, I began to recognise some of the streets we were driving through. One in particular seemed especially familiar and it was only when the hansom clattered past an opening between some dingy houses and I caught a glimpse of a painted sign affixed to the wall which read ‘Paternoster Yard’, that I realised we had returned to Spitalfields and to the scene of our earlier examination that afternoon of Cardinal Tosca’s body. But on this occasion we did not stop but drove on for another quarter of a mile or so down shabby little streets of workmen’s cottages interspersed with taverns, pawnbroker’s, second-hand dealers and, from time to time, terraces of once-elegant eighteenth-century houses, the former homes of prosperous silk weavers, now sadly dilapidated, until eventually the cab drew to a halt outside another entrance, not dissimilar to Paternoster Yard, where we alighted.
It led, however, not into the filthy recesses of that earlier setting but into a smaller but more orderly open area in which the various materials used in the building trade were neatly stacked, timber in one corner under a lean-to shelter, bricks and slates in another, and, on the far side, gravel and sand under a tarpaulin next to a handcart tipped up on its front edge, its shafts pointing upwards, with the name Jas. C. Buskin & Son painted on its sides and the word ‘BUILDER’ written in larger letters below.
The same name and occupation was displayed on a board over the doorway of a single-storey building to our left. It appeared to serve as an office as well as a store, for, through the open door, I caught a glimpse of a tall, old-fashioned wooden desk and stool in front of the window and, further back in the darker nether regions were shelves, containing, I surmised, more perishable building materials such as tins of paint and sacks of cement kept under cover from the weather.
Our arrival was not unnoticed, for hardly had we set foot inside the yard than a man emerged from the rear of this building and came towards us.
He was a broad-shouldered, grey-haired man with a walrus moustache, wearing shabby working-clothes of boots, waistcoat, corduroy trousers, very worn and stained about the knees, and a flannel shirt without a collar, the sleeves of which were rolled up to reveal powerful forearms. His manner was aggressive and unwelcoming.
‘Mr Buskin?’ Holmes enquired with a pleasant smile.
‘’Oo wants to know?’ the man demanded belligerently.
‘My name is Sherlock Holmes,’ my old friend replied in the same pleasant manner, ‘and this is my colleague, Dr Watson. We have come on behalf of the police to enquire into the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca, whom I believe you are acquainted with.’
The effect of this remark on Mr Buskin was immediate and dramatic. With a loud cry, he staggered back a few steps, his face grey, one hand going up to clutch at his throat as if gasping for air. Fearing he might be about to suffer an apoplectic seizure, I hurried forward and, grasping him by the arm, supported him into the low building where I found an upturned crate, on to which I was able to lower him.
His outcry had alerted a younger man, his son, I assumed, who until that moment had been out of sight in a storage area at the back of the office and who ran forward.
‘Holloa! What’s going on?’ he called out, his pleasant, rather plump features expressing acute anxiety.
I glanced round as I bent over his father.
‘Fetch some water!’ I ordered him abruptly.
The young man took one horrified look at his father’s face and, seizing up a cup which was standing on the desk, he dashed the dregs of tea which it had contained on to the floor before running out into the yard to fill it at a standing tap and bringing it back to me.
‘’E’s not going to die, is ’e, like …?’ he began and then broke off suddenly before he had completed the question.
I was more concerned with my patient’s condition than with the significance of the unfinished query, although Holmes must have taken heed of it, for, as I saw Mr Buskin, to my relief, recover sufficiently to sip a little water from the cup I held to his lips, Holmes had turned with a stern expression to the younger man.
‘Like your visitor who came here yesterday morning?’ he enquired.
The younger man’s face went white as he cast a terrified look at his father, who was now struggling to sit upright.
‘Tell him, Jack,’ he ordered in a hoarse voice.
But even with this parental permission, the son seemed incapable of speech and it was Holmes who took up the narrative.
‘Yesterday morning a visitor came to see you and your father, a wealthy Italian gentleman who had helped you and your family financially for many years. I am correct, am I not?’ He waited for an affirmatory nod from the young man before continuing, ‘At some point during the visit, your visitor suddenly collapsed and died.’
Again Holmes paused but this time Jack Buskin made no gesture to confirm the truth of Holmes’ statement; he merely ran his tongue over his lips. Only Buskin senior made any response. He groaned aloud and I felt him put all his weight on my arm as he struggled to rise to his feet.
‘Holmes!’ I called out in warning.
Perceiving the older man’s distress, Holmes said quickly, ‘I shall stop there, Mr Buskin. I should not wish to cause you any further concern.’
But Buskin senior was adamant.
‘No, go on, sir!’ he cried, making a beckoning gesture with one arm as if urging Holmes to step forward. ‘I’m glad the truth is coming out at last.’
‘Then with your permission, I shall continue,’ Holmes replied and resumed his account. ‘I do not know what caused your visitor’s death but I am sure it was natural, a heart attack possibly or a stroke. But whatever the reason, you and your son were left in a dreadful dilemma. You had a dead man on your premises whose address you did not know and whose identity you were unsure of. I think I am correct there. Mr Buskin, under what name did you know the Italian gentleman?’
‘Signor Morelli.’
‘And did you know his occupation?’
‘’E said ’e ’ad a business in Rome; something to do with church buildings, as I understood it.’
‘I see,’ Holmes said gravely, his expression perfectly bland. ‘And now we come to the nub of the matter – how Signor Morelli became acquainted with you and your family in the first place.’
I saw Buskin senior glance across at his son, a humble, placatory expression on his face and, when he spoke, he addressed his remarks to his son, not Holmes.
‘I’d always ’oped I’d never ’ave to tell you this, Jack, but the story’s got to come out now that Signor Morelli’s dead. The truth is me and my wife was not your mother and father, although we brought you up from when you was a baby and loved you like our own son. Signor Morelli was your real father and my late sister, Lizzie, was your mother.’
At this point in his narrative, Mr Buskin, who seemed on the verge of breaking down, fell silent and covered his face with one large, calloused hand.
It is never an agreeable sight to see a grown man reduced to tears, certainly not someone of Mr Buskin’s large and powerful stature, and I was considerably relieved when Buskin junior dragged another crate to the side of his erstwhile father and, seating himself upon it, placed a protective arm about the older man’s shoulders.
‘Now, Pa,’ said he, ‘for you’ll always be Pa to me, don’t distress yourself. Whatever ’appened in the past is over and done with. All that matters is that you and me are together and always will be. Now I know Mr ’Olmes ’as to make enquiries on be’alf of the police or whoever it is ’e’s acting for, but I’m sure ’e’s enough of a gen’leman to come back another time when you feels up to talkin’ to ’im. Isn’t that so, Mr ’Olmes?’
‘Of course,’ my old friend began but Buskin senior cut him short.
Drawing himself up, he said with great dignity, ‘It’s kind of you to offer, Mr ’Olmes, but the truth ’as got to be faced and better now than later, says I. And the truth is this.
‘Thirty years ago, my sister Lizzie was in service in a boarding-house somewhere in London, although I can’t remember the address. She was a lovely looking young woman was Lizzie, not quite seventeen, and she caught the eye of this Italian gentleman who had been sent to London to improve his English. Anyway, to cut a long story short, he fell in love with Lizzie and I’m sure you and your friend there, being men of the world, don’t need telling what happened. Signor Morelli went back to Italy and Lizzie found she was carrying his child. There was nothing to be done. We had no address for him and Lizzie wouldn’t tell us the name of the ’otel where she’d met ’im; not that it would have done any good because, as soon as the ’otel owner found out about the baby, Lizzie was dismissed with no references.