by George Mann
* * *
Third Instalment: Lamppost on the Corner of Sumner Street and Southwark Street
Popular spot, this. Just about every dog in the vicinity leaves a dribble here when passing. Basil the beagle, of Tabard Street. Isambard the Labrador cross, of New Cut. That Jack Russell from Gravel Lane, Georgie I think she’s called. All the local characters, plus the strays as loiter around Bethlehem Asylum, those slouchy semi-feral curs.
And there we are. Leg cocked. My business done too, giving all-comers the next portion of the story.
So it turned out that Dr Watson had only just then joined Mr Holmes on the case and had no idea what crime they were investigating. As we walked westward – me happily lolloping along at their heels – Mr Holmes caught him up.
“Have you heard, Watson, of the Honourable Jeremy Farnaby-Coutt Esquire, sole son and heir of Viscount Harrington of Warwickshire?”
“I have heard of the Dishonourable Jeremy Farnaby-Coutt. A scoundrel and a rogue, by all accounts. One of those young aristocrats who shames the nobility with his scandalous behaviour. He has left a trail of ruined women in his wake, has he not? They say he has sired so many illegitimates that he ought to found a school to educate them.”
“His offences against morality are great in number, but so are his offences against the law.”
“Yes, he has a reputation as a thief.”
“A gentleman thief, the worst kind,” said Mr Holmes. “One who robs not because he is short of money but because he is short of entertainment. He does it solely to amuse himself and bring excitement into what is otherwise a life of idleness and indolence. Yet he has never been caught. That is the remarkable thing. He carries out audacious burglaries, stealing from the homes of the wealthy, sometimes right under their noses, but no one has been able to pin the blame on him.”
“At least it would seem he targets his own kind, taking only from those who have plenty, those hailing from the same refined circles in which he himself moves,” said Dr Watson. “I would rather that than him preying on the poor. Tell me, is it too much to hope that you have evidence on him, proof that will finally see him brought to account for his misdeeds?”
“Patience, Watson, and I shall explain.”
* * *
Fourth Instalment: Heywoods the Pie Makers, on Stamford Street
Always nice to take a pause for relief outside a pie makers’ shop. The aromas of meat, lard and pastry wafting out through the door – heavenly.
Now, where was I? Oh yes.
Mr Holmes related to Dr Watson the latest events surrounding the Honourable Jeremy Farnaby-Coutt and how he had been called upon to involve himself in the affair.
It went like this.
In recent months Farnaby-Coutt’s crimes had grown both more frequent and more bold. Time and again a diamond necklace would go missing from some duchess’s dressing-table drawer; a safe belonging to Lord Such-and-such would be cleaned out; a priceless portrait hanging in the hall of a grand mansion would vanish. And on every occasion the finger of suspicion would point firmly at Farnaby-Coutt. He was the common factor in each crime because just days before he would have been a guest at that particular household, attending some swanky soirée or lavish dinner. In other words, His Nibs was using these parties as cover while he indulged in what is known in common parlance as “casing the joint”. He’d craftily identify where the valuables were, then return a week or so later, usually on a night when he knew the owners were going to be absent, and break in and help himself.
Very cunning, but what baffled me when I heard about it was that, if he was known for this racket, which he was, why did these noble folk ever invite him round? Wasn’t that asking for trouble?
Dr Watson put this query of mine into words, and Mr Holmes replied that Farnaby-Coutt was notoriously charming. The same rakish looks and fine speech that he used to seduce his female conquests he also applied at social gatherings. Put simply, nobody believed that someone so handsome and nicely spoken could possibly be a crook, and even if they did have their suspicions, they were too constrained by politeness and etiquette to voice them. Farnaby-Coutt relied on the good manners of the well-bred to continue having his devilish way with their belongings. Perhaps they even liked the fact that he had something of the dark about him. It introduced a thrill into their safe, staid lives.
Moreover, it had lately become apparent that Farnaby-Coutt was more innocent than he was generally held to be. For, since the middle of last year, every single one of the burglaries for which he was the likeliest culprit, he could not have perpetrated. He had a cast-iron alibi each time. He would be seen out and about at the exact same moment the felony was being committed. He would be sitting in a box at the opera, twirling gaily at a formal dance, or telling jokes at his club. His metaphorical fingerprints were all over the crime, but there was no way he could have committed it.
“Remarkable,” said Dr Watson, and I had to agree.
* * *
Fifth Instalment: Outside the Main Entrance to Waterloo Station
However, all that had changed. Just last night, Farnaby-Coutt was finally caught in the act.
It happened at the home of Sir Reginald Theakswood, the parliamentarian and industrialist who had made several fortunes in the wool trade. A no-nonsense Yorkshireman with a forthrightness to match the size of his bank balance, so Mr Holmes described him.
Sir Reginald, Mr Holmes said, had played host to a literary salon last week at which Farnaby-Coutt was a surprise attendee. The knight of the realm had been reluctant to let the arrogant, caddish son of a peer in through his door. Rather than turn him away, however, he had been persuaded by his wife, Lady Angela, to act hospitably, so as not to cause a fuss and upset the proceedings. He had watched Farnaby-Coutt like a hawk the entire evening, but the latter had behaved impeccably throughout, applauding the poetry recitals and the literary readings with the appreciation of a true connoisseur.
Then last night Farnaby-Coutt had struck.
Sir Reginald was a collector of rare Ancient Egyptian artefacts. He owned, amongst other antiquities, a set of Canopic jars, which are clay pots containing the dried-up internal organs of some long-dead king, Pharaoh Somesuch – I did not quite catch the name. Worth a pretty penny, those jars, and they were openly on display in the drawing room of Sir Reginald’s Kensington home, the same room in which the literary salon had been held.
Sir Reginald had supposedly gone up north to a place in Yorkshire called the East Riding, to visit his voters. But that was just a lie he had put about so as to make it seem as though his house would be unguarded. Instead, while the rest of the household had indeed upped sticks and headed to Yorkshire, he remained in London. He was dead set on bringing about Farnaby-Coutt’s downfall.
So it was that the man who sneaked into the house shortly before midnight, having eased open a casement window at the rear, was in for a rude shock.
* * *
Sixth Instalment: Parapet of Westminster Bridge
Sir Reginald, Mr Holmes continued, caught the miscreant red-handed. In flagrante delicto, as the lawyers have it. Lying in wait in his study, he heard furtive noises coming from the drawing room, and sure enough, as he burst in, there was the Honourable Jeremy Farnaby-Coutt, busy stuffing the Canopic jars into a knapsack.
The Yorkshireman let out a roar and lunged. Farnaby-Coutt was too quick for him, though, and managed to trip him up so that he fell hard against the fireplace. Farnaby-Coutt then fled, heading for the selfsame window he had entered by. Sir Reginald recovered and, pulling out a revolver he had taken the precaution of arming himself with beforehand, gave chase. Farnaby-Coutt was at the far end of the garden and clambering over the back wall by the time Sir Reginald was finally able to take aim. He had a clear shot. He loosed off a round, which struck Farnaby-Coutt in the calf. The wounded man gave a yelp of pain but nonetheless managed to scramble over the wall into the garden beyond and, though limping, made good his escape.
Sir Reginald summon
ed the police, who accordingly went round to Farnaby-Coutt’s house in Chelsea.
But here is the queer thing. Farnaby-Coutt had, it appeared, just returned home from an evening carousing with friends. The policemen found him dishevelled and definitely drunk, preparing to turn in for the night.
And he did not have so much as a scratch on him. His leg was intact – no bullet wound.
Not only that but two of the aforesaid friends were present and swore they had been with Farnaby-Coutt all evening, accompanying him from pub to pub and onward to a private members’ club where they had gambled at cards until just past midnight.
In short, Farnaby-Coutt could not have been the one who had stolen Sir Reginald’s Canopic jars. It was simply not possible.
And yet Sir Reginald swore blind that the man he had confronted at his home had been him.
Naturally, with the police at a loss what to do, Sir Reginald travelled to 221B Baker Street first thing the next morning to engage the services of Sherlock Holmes.
Mr Holmes told Dr Watson that he had driven with Sir Reginald in the latter’s private brougham to Kensington and immediately conducted an inspection of the crime scene.
“As ever, the policemen had trampled over everything like a herd of cattle,” said he, “erasing much that could have been useful in the way of clues. But,” he went on, “I was able to procure a small piece of evidence that, with Toby’s help, could prove crucial in securing a conviction.”
“And what is it?”
“You shall see shortly, Watson. In the meantime, perhaps you might care to advance a theory as to how Farnaby-Coutt could be in two places at once and, more to the point, recover almost instantaneously from a bullet wound so that it left not the slightest trace on his body.”
“You wish me to offer a few blundering, misguided suggestions that you can then mockingly dismiss.”
“It does you good to exercise your brain.”
“And it does you good to vaunt the superiority of your intellect over mine. Well, I will oblige. First of all, perhaps Sir Reginald’s shot missed. In the heat of the moment he only thought he hit Farnaby-Coutt.”
“No, there were definite signs of injury at the scene. Fresh bloodstains on the garden wall.”
“Then he misidentified the burglar. It wasn’t Farnaby-Coutt at all. He wanted so much to see Farnaby-Coutt that that was who he imagined he saw, but it was in fact someone else.”
“It was unquestionably him. Sir Reginald was quite adamant. ‘Wouldn’t mistake that cocky little whippersnapper anywhere’ – those were his very words.”
“What if Farnaby-Coutt is one of identical twins?”
“Really?” said Mr Holmes, arching an eyebrow. “And all this time he has kept his brother under wraps? No one has ever seen this other Farnaby-Coutt? Even if that were so, a quick check in Debrett’s would dispel the notion that he is anything other than an only child.”
“So you admit you considered the possibility and looked him up?”
“It was, I will allow, a conjecture I briefly entertained – but for no more than the few seconds it took me to eliminate it. And no, Watson, don’t you dare say what you are about to say next.”
“What am I about to say?”
“That Farnaby-Coutt has some supernatural gift that enables him to appear in two places at once. I have seen those books on mediumship and spiritualism in your library.”
“They are Mrs Watson’s.”
“And yet they sit on a shelf directly adjacent to your preferred reading matter: Dickens, Thackeray, Scott, Trollope. It is suggestive that you yourself like to peruse them.”
“I may have dipped into one or other of them now and then.”
“Pray do not let their charlatan content infect you.”
“But it has been well documented that certain people, saints not least among them, have been shown to display the power of bilocation and—”
Mr Holmes held up a hand and barked, “Watson! Enough! We are not going to consider even for a moment a non-rational explanation for this mystery.”
“Farnaby-Coutt’s leg healing so swiftly does, if nothing else, seem miraculous.”
“It is fraud, old fellow. Fraud and subterfuge, nothing more. As you yourself will soon discover, assuming my inferences are correct and Toby’s nose is still the sharp forensic tool it has hitherto shown itself to be.”
At the mention of my name I pricked up my ears and gave a little wag of the tail. Humans always like to be rewarded with a sign of acknowledgement when they bring you into the conversation. They’d feel neglected otherwise, wouldn’t they?
* * *
Seventh Instalment: Pavement of Victoria Embankment
Nice long stroll Mr Sherman is taking me out on today. I love it when he exercises me properly and gives me a chance to stretch my legs and take in the air. I spend so much of my time cooped up in 3 Pinchin Lane. Sometimes I think my master forgets that I’m half spaniel and half lurcher – both of them breeds as relish the great outdoors.
My journey with Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, which covered at least as much distance as this one looks set to, took us across the river at the Albert Bridge and northward up into Chelsea. Lots of scents unfamiliar to me there, the markings of dogs I’d never met and would likely never meet, their histories splashed piecemeal everywhere. I would have loved to stop and sniff, learning about who they were, where they had been, what they had done. But that would have been possible only if this had been a leisurely amble. The three of us were, instead, engaged on a mission. There was no time to pause and check the chronicles these other dogs had left behind, nor add commentaries of my own – a dash of opinion, a sprinkling of advice.
Presently we arrived at a huge house just off the King’s Road, a dwelling fully five times the size of Mr Sherman’s humble abode. Outside, we were greeted by a police inspector I had not previously made the acquaintance of, although Mr Holmes and Dr Watson both bore old residues of his scent on them, in such quantity as to indicate they had had numerous dealings with him in the past. Lestrade was his name, and his pointed, pale features put me in mind of one of the weasels in my master’s menagerie.
“Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,” said he, “I trust this is not going to be a waste of my time and that of these two constables with me.”
“Very much not, Inspector,” said Mr Holmes. “I fully anticipate an arrest.”
“But Farnaby-Coutt is as slippery as an eel. We’ve never been able to lay so much as a finger on the fellow. We’re not even sure where and to whom he fences his stolen goods.”
“I doubt he does. I imagine he keeps them all for his own pleasure, perhaps even on these very premises. Farnaby-Coutt does not steal for a living. He is comfortably well off as it is. He steals for the sake of stealing. It is more a hobby to him than a profession.”
“We have nothing on him that would furnish us with a warrant to search his house. No grounds on which to nab him other than hearsay.”
“Give me ten minutes, Lestrade, and I will rectify that situation.”
* * *
Eighth Instalment: Corner of Upper Thames Street and Southwark Bridge Road
Mr Holmes knocked on the front door, which was opened by a frosty-faced manservant. Mr Holmes presented his card, saying that Mr Farnaby-Coutt would surely agree to see him, if only to exonerate himself once and for all from guilt for the robbery last night at Sir Reginald Theakswood’s.
He was playing on Farnaby-Coutt’s pride and egotism, and sure enough it worked. Farnaby-Coutt instructed the servant to invite us in, and soon we were in a handsomely furnished drawing room with Farnaby-Coutt dancing attendance on us as though we were honoured guests.
He uttered a few unflattering words about me, I must confess. “What the deuce is that!” he ejaculated as I loped into view. “I have never seen a dog so ugly.”
“Don’t let Toby’s homely appearance fool you,” said Mr Holmes. “He is deceptive in his plainness. Unlike you, who are deceptive in your sophist
ication.”
“You do me a disservice.”
“On the contrary, I am paying you the highest of compliments. You have succeeded in hoodwinking some of the best and brightest this country can boast.”
“But obviously not you, the great Sherlock Holmes.”
“That remains to be seen. What I would like to do, if I may, is conduct a quick test.”
“I cannot see the harm.”
“It will determine once and for all if you are the perpetrator of a crime or entirely blameless.”
“I am quite certain I know the outcome already. I will be exculpated.”
“Very good.” From his pocket Mr Holmes produced a wadded-up handkerchief. He unfolded it to reveal specks of human blood soaked into the fabric. He held it before me and I duly took a long, hearty sniff. “Good boy, Toby,” he said. “Now, would you care to perform the same function upon Mr Farnaby-Coutt?”
He led me over to the aristocrat who, with something of a haughty sneer on his face, permitted himself to be thoroughly examined by me. I ran my nose up and down his leg, gleaning all the data I could about him.
Then I looked up at Mr Holmes in puzzlement.
“So, Toby,” said he, “what is the verdict?”
“Yes, Toby,” said Farnaby-Coutt. “The verdict.”
I made it perfectly clear that the blood on the handkerchief did not come from the man in front of me. My eyes were wide, my head cocked to one side. I could not fathom why Mr Holmes had thought the two – the bloodstains and Farnaby-Coutt – were connected. The bloodstains had a meagreness about them, redolent of a poor diet and too much gin, whereas Farnaby-Coutt exuded ripeness and refinement, like banknotes and lavender.
“Shouldn’t this canine monstrosity be barking, or lifting a paw, or something?” said Farnaby-Coutt smugly. “Isn’t that the result you were hoping for, Mr Holmes?”
“Far from it. Toby has confirmed what I already thought.”
“That I am not the culprit. That Sir Reginald Theakswood has falsely accused me.”
Without replying, Mr Holmes bent and offered me the handkerchief a second time. “Take another sniff, Toby. Does this scent set any bells ringing at all?”