by Steve Emecz
His face was as white as milk, save for the bruises. He said he didn’t recall anything of last night, but had faith in Scotland Yard’s investigation. He also asked me to send a message to his family solicitor. And then that Mr. Jones took him away, still unsteady on his feet with a terrible headache, I’m certain.”
“Why did you decide to come to me?” said Holmes.
“I have read of your skill in matters of detection. I told the maid not to tidy the study when the police were finished with it and took the first train to London, determined to consult you. Surely if anyone can prove the doctor’s innocence, it is you! And now,” she said with a nod, “I put the entire matter into your hands, Mr. Holmes.”
The three of us caught the afternoon train from Waterloo. Although a trap waited for us when we disembarked, the journey was so quick we could have easily walked to Dr. Undershaw’s house. Holmes gave the lovely Georgian building and well-tended garden a cursory glance before hurrying inside. I offered Mrs. Maurice my arm, but she gestured for me to follow Holmes.
I found him in the study, kneeling beside the hearth, studying a corner of the brass fender. I glanced about the room, still in disarray, and crossed to the gory window seat, where Velope’s body must have lain. Rusty brown bloodstains covered the cushion and pooled on the floor. The window itself was fastened shut and flanked by heavy shutters.
As Mrs. Maurice appeared beside me, Holmes rose, his keen gaze sweeping the room. He went to the sideboard and bent over two wineglasses, still sticky with their dregs. After studying the Tantalus, he strode to the window and subjected cushion and shutters to several minutes of intensive scrutiny before clapping his hands together, a brilliant smile illuminating his expression.
“Mrs. Maurice, you were quite correct: The good doctor is innocent of murder, and thanks to your prompt action in consulting me, I shall prove it.” Ignoring her cries of surprise and pleasure, he continued, “Do not move so much as a particle of dust in that room.” He turned to me. “Watson, we must catch the last train. Tomorrow we shall return with Inspector Athelney Jones and reveal the truth of the matter.”
That evening, Holmes refused to discuss the case even in the most oblique manner, so I quashed my annoyance and enjoyed the splendid food and drink at Simpson’s. The following morning, I met Holmes and the inspector at Waterloo. I never did discover what inducement Holmes used to persuade Athelney Jones to accompany us, but it was effective.
After we settled into our compartment, Althelney Jones scowled at Holmes, who stared out the window and quietly smoked his pipe. The inspector turned to me.
“Come, Doctor! The man was found practically driving the knife into the murdered man. He is obviously guilty. Surely you will drop me a hint about what you have discovered. Mr. Holmes insists on remaining mum, but I know you are a fair man and will not leave me in the dark.”
I smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Inspector, for I know no more than you. You know how Holmes enjoys his surprises.”
Despite the inspector’s near-constant grumbles, it was a pleasant journey, and I enjoyed the walk from the station to the house.
Mrs. Maurice greeted us at the door. Holmes declined her offer of coffee, although Jones looked as if he would have been glad of a restorative. Leading us into the doctor’s study, Holmes paused in the middle of the room.
“Now, Inspector,” he said with great good humour, “oblige me with your reconstruction of last night’s events, based on the evidence and your interview with the doctor.”
“You brought me all the way from London to tell you what I already know?” He snorted. “Very well, Mr. Holmes. I shall give you facts, despite the doctor’s supposed lack of recall. The victim arrived around ten and was shown into this room. As stated in his note, he had come to make amends, and the two gentlemen enjoyed a friendly glass of wine. Note the empty glasses on the sideboard.” He pointed to the goblets. “They talked, but the doctor would not accept Velope’s apology. Their talk turned to argument, blows were exchanged, and in the course of their struggle, furniture was overturned and papers scattered.
“Angered beyond reason, the doctor grabbed the knife that served as his letter opener and plunged it into Velope’s back. Velope’s outflung arm hit the doctor, who fell back onto the fender, striking his head and losing consciousness. Velope expired almost immediately.”
Jones gave an emphatic nod. “Those, gentlemen, are the facts.”
“Excellent, Inspector! Really, a remarkable reconstruction,” said Holmes.
“That is the sort of skill experience grants,” said the inspector with a pleased smile.
“Of course, your conclusions are almost entirely wrong, based as they are upon preconceptions and superficial observations.”
Ignoring the inspector’s indignant reply, Holmes continued.
“In one instance you are correct: Velope did arrive at ten. But he did not come to make amends; he came to place his old friend in the exact situation he is in at this very moment. Consider, Inspector! Mrs. Maurice states that Velope was a changed man: gaunt, with bad colour. Watson, would you hazard a guess at his condition?”
I started at Holmes’ question. “Not without more data; though it sounds as if he suffered from a chronic, debilitating illness.”
“The exact nature of his illness is immaterial. Suffice it to say, Velope was not a well man and in considerable pain, for he had chosen to smoke a small quantity of opium before arriving.”
“Opium?” Athelney Jones shook his head. “You cannot know that he smoked opium.”
“The smell, Inspector! It is quite unmistakable. Mrs. Maurice commented on Velope’s sickly-sweet odour, and indeed the smell is still perceptible in the cushion on which his body lay. He did not smoke enough to fall prey to the lassitude that characterizes heavy opium use, but used an amount sufficient to ease his pain and allow him to proceed with his plans.”
“And what plans would those be?” The inspector crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Holmes.
“To have Dr. Undershaw falsely accused of murder.”
Athelney Jones’ befuddled expression was almost comical, although I shared his astonishment.
“But Holmes,” I said. “There was a fight, the evidence is plain. And you cannot get past the fact that Velope was stabbed in the back, he could not do that himself.”
“Indeed!” cried the inspector. “The facts support my theory!”
“Ah, but he did stab himself in the back,” said Holmes. “Dennis Velope was a cold-blooded killer who wanted Dr. Undershaw hanged for a murder he did not commit.”
“Then what actually occurred?” I asked.
“The evidence clearly tells the tale, gentlemen. Velope arrives and is greeted by Dr. Undershaw. Velope asks that they not be disturbed, so the doctor locks the door. Almost immediately Velope stuns him with a blow to the head. The doctor falls by the hearth, and Velope is free to continue his arrangements.”
“Why not kill Dr. Undershaw while he was incapacitated?” I said.
“That would be far too straightforward a revenge. No, Velope was a vindictive man. I suspect he discovered that he would die of his illness soon, and he wanted the doctor to suffer. So he waited until the household grew quiet, occupying himself with reading the doctor’s private correspondence and drinking wine.”
“But two glasses were used,” said the inspector.
“One man may drink from two glasses,” Holmes said. “Remember, Inspector, that he wished the police to believe that the two men were having an amiable chat. Once the household grew quiet, he took the letter opener and wedged it, blade pointing out, in the shutter bracket—you can see the scratches where the handle rested—and then proceeded to overturn the furniture and shout, as if a fight had erupted.
“This is the point where the man’s true nature displayed itself
,” continued Holmes, his expression grave. “For he stood with his back to the window, the point of the knife resting against his jacket, and threw himself backward onto the blade. With his last breath he raised himself high enough to free the handle from its cradle, then collapsed onto the seat, dead. If you study the shutter, Inspector, you can see the dried droplets of blood where it sprayed during that desperate thrust.”
Athelney Jones hurried to the window seat. He frowned at the shutter, and then turned. “This is all very well and good, Mr. Holmes, but I will need more evidence if you wish to prove the doctor innocent.”
“That is easy enough,” said Holmes. “First, a close inspection of the letter opener’s ivory handle will reveal scratches that correspond with those made by the shutter’s bracket.”
“How did you know of the ivory handle? Did the housekeeper tell you?”
“There was no need,” said Holmes. “Traces of ivory remain on the shutter hardware. He must have adjusted the letter opener until it was in the correct position for his purposes. Second, you saw Dr. Undershaw last night; did he have any blood on his hands or his clothes?”
The inspector’s frown deepened. “No.”
“Given the pattern of blood spray on the shutter and the position of the letter opener in his back, it was not possible for the doctor to stab Velope and remain unmarked. Velope committed suicide in such a way as to condemn his former friend to death.”
“Good God,” I whispered. “The man was mad.”
The inspector stared at the window seat for a long moment, then drew a deep breath. “Mad or not, Doctor, he received the fate he deserved. I don’t like to admit it, but you have convinced me, Mr. Holmes. I shall return to London on the next train and see that the charges against Dr. Undershaw are dropped.”
“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson!” Mrs. Maurice clasped my hand again as we stood at the door. “I cannot thank you enough for all you have done.”
Holmes bowed, and then started down the drive.
“It was our pleasure,” I replied, freeing my hand with no little difficulty. “And I shall be forever grateful that you gave Holmes the opportunity to save Undershaw.”
The Doll And His Maker
By Patrick Kincaid
Coventry, UK
So please grip this fact with your cerebral tentacle.
The doll and his maker are never identical.
- ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
When Herbert proposed to me, I had to put on a little act of astonishment, replicating a girlish squeal I’d once heard in the theatre. It made him gape with laughter, and I saw the silver in his molars. Who, I wondered, had given him that sweet tooth: the medical father or the dead mother? More likely, it had been some menial, charged with bringing him up. Anyway, it was what he said next that made me cry out in earnest.
“Steady on, old thing,” he said. “I shan’t be leaping for joy when you drag me along to meet your mother.”
“But she’s not a famous author.”
“Famous or not, the old boy’s hardly interesting. That’s rather the point of him, isn’t it?”
We drove into the South Downs the following Friday, chasing a late summer sun. I laughed dutifully at Herbert’s jokes, bellowed out over the engine’s roar, and clung to my seat as he tore into the country lanes. The crooked ways straightened beyond Rotherfield, and for a time we cut through sculpted fairways, before plunging into a forest of new pine. And at the crest of a hill we found the mock-baronial pile for which we here headed: an Arts and Craft confection in crimson brick, with a crest above the oaken double doors.
“The house a spectral hound built,” said Herbert, hopping from the car. “Not at all what we firstlings were used to.”
“You didn’t live here as a child?”
“Certainly not. I grew up in a house, with bay windows and gables, not a bally castle!”
A man of rich complexion came out to carry the cases, and Herbert called him Billy. I looked for some trace of the innocent pageboy he’d once been, but only saw signs of a middle-aged debauchery. Beyond the double doors, in the high hallway, we were greeted by a boy of thirteen in knickerbockers and a jersey. “It’s Bertie and his girl,” he cried and dashed through another oaken door, deeper into the fastness. We followed him, entering a modern mead hall decked out with divans. The hearth alone might have housed a family from the London slums.
“This ragamuffin’s Edward,” Herbert said, clipping the boy’s ear. The boy winced and punched at Herbert’s belly. “What’s that on your cheek, ragamuffin?”
There was a purple mark there, corresponding in shape to a flattened hand. “Papa did it.”
“And what did you do, ragamuffin?” Herbert made to clip the boy’s other ear.
The boy ducked. “We were waiting in the car for Mama, outside the vicarage, and I saw a lady come out of a shop who looked exactly like a pig. Honest, Bertie, she had a snout and everything! Well, I said to Alexa, ‘Look at that ugly woman.’ And Papa turned in his seat and swiped me. ‘No woman is ugly,’ he said.”
“He really is a terrible old Victorian,” Herbert told me. “Not that you didn’t deserve it, ragamuffin. By the way, this is…”
“I know who she is,” the boy yelped, and shot out another door.
Herbert shook his head. “His mother’s spirit, I’m afraid. Now, I suppose you’ll want to tidy up, old thing. I’ve a telephone call to make, but Billy will show you up to your room. See you back here in half an hour?”
And with a kiss he left me to the superannuated boy in buttons.
As I was led up red-carpeted stairs and along a dark-panelled corridor, I listened out for signs that the man of the house was home. All I heard my guide’s wheezing. He left me at the door of a room as bright as the rest of the house was dismal: not an item of furniture or inch of wall in it, but wasn’t festooned with pink and cream flowers. When I’d counted to twenty, I stepped into the dim passage again, and stood with my head cocked, like a spaniel’s. It was foolish of me: I’d read that my quarry still favoured pen and ink, and so I knew there’d be no clack and rasp of a Remington to lead me to him. But within a minute I heard a light cough. I followed it to where the corridor branched, and found a door ajar. There was more dark wood inside, upholstered with red leather now, and cases of neatly ordered books, and an ornate desk with a green-shaded lamp on it: I was put in mind of a Harley Street consulting room. My host was sat with his broad back to me, and I watched him dip his pen in the inkwell and write the last lines at the bottom of a leaf of foolscap. His hair was white, soldier-short at the neck and thinning at the crown. When he laid down the pen and opened a draw, I assumed he was after more paper—but he pulled out a revolver instead, and calmly turned it my way.
“My children learn from an early age to avoid me in my study,” he said, “my servants always knock, and my wife is not due home until five o’clock. You will slowly push the door open, young lady, and step inside.”
I did so, and saw my shadow move on the wall to the right of his desk. “I didn’t wish to disturb you.”
He rose from his chair, and the gun remained steady, as if it were on a tripod. “Then you have not been successful.”
“I should have introduced myself.”
“On the contrary, you should have waited to be introduced.”
He was exactly what I’d expected: a progression from those images I’d studied as a girl in The Strand Magazine. Tall, moustached according to the fashion of an earlier epoch, and bound from knee to throat in bespoke tweed. Though age had given him bulk and had hooded his eyes, he remained handsome in a solid sort of way.
“But the formalities are dwindling,” he said. “And besides, I know who you are.”
I nodded at the gun. “In that case, is the museum piece really necessary?”
A shadow smile passed over
his lips. “Forgive me. I have reason to distrust those who would approach me unseen.” He returned the revolver to the desk draw.
“A Beaumont-Adams point 442,” I said. “The commentators have pronounced it a Webley, you know.”
“Nothing so modern. Pray sit, so that I might, too.”
I took the armchair he indicated and he returned to his desk chair.
“So, when did you plan to tell my son that your engagement to him is a sham?”
I’d known, of course, that he would prove cleverer in life than he was in his writings. “I thought it best to simply disappear,” I said.
“Now?”
“Tomorrow morning at six. A taxi from Rotherfield will meet me at the gate.”
The hooded eyes surveyed me closely for about a minute. ‘A steady income, I should think, but meagre.’
“You can’t be more precise?”
The ghost smile flitted across his face again. “Your spatulate fingertips,” he said, “suggest that you use a typewriter, but you hold a pen as often, as is indicated by that callous on the middle finger of your right hand. The red marks either side of your nose show where your spectacles rest, and since you do not wear them now, and do not squint, it is clear you need them only for close work, such as reading and writing. Your pallor tells me that you spend even these sunny days indoors. I conclude, then, that you are a scholar, and one who keeps the wolf from the door by typing up the work of more senior colleagues.”
I, too, controlled the impulse to smile. “Spatulate fingers may be an inherited trait,” I said. “Drawing with a pencil can disfigure a finger as easily as writing with a pen. Eyesight may be destroyed with needlework. And I may suffer from anaemia.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Then I was wrong?”
I smiled openly. “Not in any particular. May I try the trick on you?”