by Ted Riccardi
The station master directed us to Fulham Road. Number 41 was a cottage at the end of the cul de sac. There was a note tacked to the front door which was addressed to Holmes. It read:
Dear Mr. Holmes,
Do enter. I am not here of course, and shall not be again. I shall be elsewhere.
Holmes smiled, but I could see a certain anger in his eyes. The door was locked. Holmes broke the glass, put his hand in, and turned the knob.
What greeted us can only remain indescribable. Every sense, every sensitivity was assaulted by the horror that faced us: dead dogs were everywhere, some stuffed, some hanging on ropes from the ceiling. Overcome by the stench, we raced outside. Holmes broke several windows and the ensuing draft was enough to allow us to re-enter.
“Good Lord, Holmes. What is this?”
“The work of a madman, whatever else it is. Look, mixed with the dogs are some true exotica: a mongoose there, two bandicoots in the corner, a panda . . . and look over there, Watson, look.”
My eyes reluctantly followed Holmes outstretched arm to a corner of the room where there were three black masks shining, dancing in the wind. I entered the only other room, which contained a bed and chest of drawers. The walls, however, were covered with masks and wooden crosses hung alternately in neat rows.
“Come, Watson, back to London as fast as we can make it. I suspect that we shall be too late no matter what. McMillan unfortunately has the jump on us.”
We almost ran to the station. Holmes barely had time to ask the station master to call the police when our train arrived.
Holmes was silent, but wrought. When he finally spoke, it was with a rueful sigh.
“I should have seen through it all at the very beginning. But I didn’t. Perhaps it doesn’t matter at this point.”
It was about five p.m. when we reached London. Holmes hailed a cab and directed the driver to Hyde Park. There we walked to where Harry had initially taken us, to the dingy end of the park. From a tall pile of moist oak leaves there emerged, perpendicular to the earth, a human leg naked to the knee. The foot wore a white sock and a black chupple, attached to which was a green woollen hat that fluttered every so often like the flag of some faraway country, mysterious and unknown. Holmes gently removed the leaves to reveal the face of John McMillan and that of his sister, Gertrude. Brother and sister were still tied together with ropes, unable to free themselves except for McMillan’s one leg. Sister Gertrude clutched a wooden box to her breast. Holmes opened it. It was empty.
Harry found a bobby for us, who reported the deaths to Inspector Hopkins of Scotland Yard. In the morning we read the Times accounts of the fire at the convent and of the unidentified corpses in Hyde Park. At the end of each report, without any reference to the other, was written:
Mr. Sherlock Holmes is known to be working on the case.
“As of now, Watson, I regard this as one of my defeats. The man has won or at least played his game well enough for me to call it a draw at best.”
“Perhaps we will have a visit from the masked men,” said I.
“Quite possibly, but let us not wait for such an eventuality. Watson old boy, reach over to the shelf next to you and hand over the book on peerage in England. I want to know something more of Lord Fitzwilliam.”
THE CASE OF THE MISSING LODGER
OF THE MANY FRIENDSHIPS I HAVE BEEN LUCKY ENOUGH to have forged in an increasingly long life, none, with the exception of my relationship with Sherlock Holmes, was ever as strong as my friendship with Dumond Davies. His premature death was the saddest of events for all who knew him.
Davies and I had grown up in the same part of London, attended school and the university together, and finally, commenced the study of medicine at the same time at Edinburgh. It was only in 1878 when I joined our forces in Afghanistan that we were separated. We corresponded fitfully for a time until he informed me that he had met and fallen in love with a young woman of great beauty, who, he was amazed to say, agreed to marry him after the briefest of courtships. More than anything he wished for me to be present at his wedding.
As luck would have it, a Jezail bullet had hit me in the shoulder several weeks before the arrival of his letter, and the necessary papers authorizing my discharge were thus already prepared. I wrote Dumond that if he and his bride-to-be could wait until my release, I would be overjoyed to attend. My wound, though a minor one, suffered in Candahar, was thought by our commanding officer to be of sufficient gravity for me to return to England and rejoin civilian life.
The wedding took place shortly after I arrived in London, just after my initial meetings with Sherlock Holmes. Indeed, learning of my new acquaintance, Dumond and his bride immediately extended an invitation to him. In the coming months and to my great surprise, Holmes and the Davieses became good friends. Their home was often a refuge for the now famed detective during those moments when he was close to the solution of a crime, but was still unsure of his way forward. Dumond would then provide a willing ear for him when I was unavailable because of a medical or other emergency.
It was a terrible moment that particular evening, therefore, when I read Barbara’s note imploring us to come as quickly as possible, for Dumond, she thought, had accidentally electrocuted himself while mending a lamp. For a moment on the way, Holmes and I hoped that he could be revived. We knew it to be too late, however, when we heard Barbara’s grief-stricken sobs as we entered and saw the look of helplessness on the face of Tanner, the local police doctor, whom I knew quite well and for whom I had the highest respect.
”Too heavy a bolt, I would say, for him to survive,” he said quietly. “He must have tripped, and the current from the main went right through him.”
Holmes and I took a quick look at the body and nodded to Tanner in reluctant assent. A strong odor of singed cloth and hair permeated the room. We remained with Barbara and their two young daughters through the night until morning. Dumond was buried that afternoon.
It was not long after the death of her husband that Barbara felt the need to take in boarders. Dumond left neither inheritance nor pension, the large house on Lloyd Square being the only substantial asset bequeathed to her. There was no question of selling, for the square was quite rundown, with many of the houses in great need of repair. Only the most optimistic of investors would have considered purchasing any of them. Doing some of the initial work herself and thus balancing her first rental income against the repairs, she made steady progress. The Davies home in time became not unlike that comfortable residence at 221b Baker Street run by Mrs. Hudson, who generously took it upon herself to guide Barbara in the making of a boarding house.
In the days immediately after Dumond’s death, we saw Barbara with great frequency, but soon our meetings became rarer, and we kept in touch through Mrs. Hudson, who as a landlady of long experience with peculiar and often penurious tenants had become one of Barbara’s close and valued friends. It was indeed through her insistence that Holmes and I found ourselves one morning in Lloyd Square standing in front of the Davies residence, ready to help with what Mrs. Hudson saw as an unusual occurrence, one of which Sherlock Holmes at the very least, she thought, should be made aware.
When the door opened, a smiling Barbara greeted us. She had aged considerably since we saw her last. Her hair had turned almost white and she walked hesitantly before us, slightly bent, trying to hold her head straight. When she spoke, however, she showed considerable strength in her voice, and her face displayed the same vibrant spirit as before.
“Do come in, you two. It has been too long a time.”
We sat together over tea and heard the story of what had troubled Mrs. Hudson.
“I don’t think it’s anything of consequence, but your landlady thinks quite differently. And since she has lived with you two for so long, I feel that she may be right.”
“Mrs. Hudson has developed a certain acuity in these matters,” said Holmes, “a knack for perceiving irregularities in human affairs that even I at times have over
looked. Indeed, I have come to value her opinions. But let us hear directly from you what has happened.”
“Dumond’s death, as you know, was a terrible blow to me, and for a time I could barely think,” she began. “The world, however, does not stop even at the loss of one’s beloved. I found that Dumond had, to add to my sorrow, no money except what he earned as a doctor. There was nothing for me and my two young daughters to live on. I tried to find work, but all my efforts in that direction came to naught. It was at this low point in my life that I thought of taking in boarders. The house, as you know, is large, and when I examined it closely, I found that if I took in a few boarders, I would be able to survive: I could keep the house and feed my daughters and myself. I spoke to Mrs. Hudson about my plans, and she not only approved but helped me over the coming months. When the rooms were ready and Mrs. Hudson had approved the changes, I began interviewing prospective clients. It took me only a week to fill my rooms, and for the first time since Dumond’s death I thought I could go on.”
Holmes sat back and I could see his eyes running over the room and its contents, noting the stair just beyond the door, the paintings Dumond worked on during his spare moments, the large number of books neatly stored in their shelves.
“A few weeks ago,” she continued, “one of my rooms, then given to an American writer from Boston, was vacated, and I promptly advertised in The Times for a replacement. I could have rented the room twenty times over, but among the crowd of candidates was a young man, a medical student. His name was Ian Rose. He was an acquaintance of Dumond’s at the university, but I only knew him slightly. He was a Scot from Edinburgh, charming and witty, willing and able to pay an advance of six months. He knew my tragic story, since Dumond was among the occasional lecturers in surgery brought in to discuss special topics, in Dumond’s case the specialty being the knee.
“Mr. Rose turned out to be an ideal tenant, one considerate of others, neat in his habits, and extraordinarily helpful with my two daughters, whom he often took to the zoo when I was occupied. He kept irregular hours, and often was out for much of the night, but to his credit, he was as quiet as a mouse when he came in, sometimes in the early morning.”
“About three weeks ago,” she continued. “Mr. Rose came to my office to inform me that he would be returning to Edinburgh for advanced study and that he would soon be vacating his quarters. I was truly sorry to see him leave. I gave a small farewell party for him with his friends in the square, and on the morning of his last day in our house, I had a special breakfast prepared for him. At nine in the morning he came down those stairs with two suitcases. He placed them in the hall and told me that he was going to hail a cab to take him to the train station. We would then say our farewells. I nodded to him and went to my office, thinking that I would hear his familiar knock at my door momentarily. To make the story short, however, he never appeared. The valises were there in the late afternoon, and indeed are still there. I allowed no one to touch them. I called our mutual friends and his teachers at the university. No one had seen him. After two days of frantic searching for clues, I placed an advertisement in the paper and waited. There was no helpful reply, and at that moment I called the police. They were less than considerate, saying that missing persons were the greatest problem of the police in England. Their number had increased dramatically, and they, the police, hopelessly understaffed.”
“The rather typical remark of one who finds himself beyond his depth,” said Holmes with a smile. “There may be more to this disappearance than meets the eye.”
“There is one more point, dear Sherlock, that I must bring to your attention and that is this: one of our neighbors, Mr. McHugh, insists that he ran into Ian Rose as he was entering the station at Russell Square, but it was a very different Ian that he saw, if indeed it was Ian. The man was filthy, dressed in torn rags, his hair and beard unkempt. As soon as he saw Mr. McHugh, he uttered a cry of surprise, turned, and disappeared into the morning crowd.”
“Most interesting. Mr. Rose is most probably alive then. And where is Mr. McHugh? May we speak with him?”
“Yes, you may, but first have a look at Ian’s flat, and then we shall meet McHugh at his residence across the square.”
We followed Barbara up the stairs to the very top of the building. Rose’s quarters were very small and barely constituted what might be called a flat. They consisted of two small rooms, each with a small window, one large enough to take a bed, the other slightly smaller. It contained a desk and chair.
“I see that you have had the place cleaned,” said Holmes disappointedly. “A pity, since we might have found something of value to our investigation. Still, I shall have a brief look.”
I watched as he combed the floor on all fours, taking samples of dust and carpeting, anything that he could fruitfully test under the microscope. When he rose, he looked out one of the windows to the street below. He then examined the window frame and stared for a long time at one of the glass panes, which had some scratches on it. He called me over and asked whether they suggested anything.
“They appear to be curved, almost a circle, as if a round object had been repeatedly pressed and turned against it,” said I. “And there appears to be some soot and a bit of wax on the window, somewhat higher up.”
“Good, Watson. Now the question arises: what was the object employed and why was it used? Note, old boy, these holes in the window frame, recently filled with putty. There are four holes arranged, if I am correct, into a rough rectangle. Finally, look here, just to their right, a larger hole, about half an inch in diameter and also filled with putty only recently applied, since it appears to be soft, almost fresh. Let me have your pocket knife, Watson.”
Holmes extricated most of the putty. The hole went through the wall to the outside.
“Most interesting, Watson,” said he pensively, as if he were speaking to himself. There is some dark-colored soil, almost black, mixed in with the putty. Barbara,” said Holmes, “do you remember any of this being here before Mr. Rose left?”
“Yes, I forgot to mention to you that . . .” she paused.
“Mr. Rose was an amateur astronomer,” said Holmes finishing her sentence.
“Yes,” she replied in surprise, “but how on earth did you guess that?”
Holmes smiled. “I never guess. Watson can attest to that. I assume that when Rose first took the room he also took your permission to drill the holes—with the promise that he would do or pay for the necessary repairs. He said that he would need to do so in order to affix a small telescope, the implication being that in some vague sense he was indeed an astronomer.”
“You are quite correct. He filled the holes the day before he left. But what significance do they have? They are such a small detail.”
“My profession is based on such details, call them trivia if you will, but without them, the solution to many problems would never occur. And since we are only at the beginning of the case, they indeed may still prove to be of no significance whatsoever. The important thing is to observe them, however minute they might seem to be. One more look in this closet. Hello, what have we here? How did I miss that?”
Holmes had now noticed a loose board in the closet floor. He lifted it up and pulled out a small telescope.
“Ah, here we go. Let us see if it fits the holes we find there.”
The telescope had attached to it a wire from which a piece of metal about two inches square hung. The holes in it matched precisely those on the window frame. By tightening the wire, the telescope became fixed. Holmes peered through it.
“Interesting, dear Watson, have a look.”
I looked through it and saw the upper storey of a house on the corner of Wharton Street.
“Well, Holmes, I must say that I see nothing remarkable. It looks like a house—indeed, the one over there,” said I, returning the telescope.
“Well, my dear friends, whatever its purpose, it is not pointed at any known celestial body. The use of the instrument must
have been more mundane,” said Holmes.
“But why pretend to have such an interest?” I asked.
“We do not know at this point,” said Holmes. “Let us leave it for the moment.
“And now, if we may, let us pay a visit to Mr. McHugh.”
John McHugh lived directly across the square with his wife, Mary, and their two children. The family occupied a single room on the second floor of a house in almost total decay. Unlike their father, the children were thin and listless. McHugh, however, was a rough-hewn man, stout, unkempt, and out of work. His huge stomach pushed through his shirt where several buttons had popped.
He offered us a glass of ale, but we declined. He seemed incredulous at our refusal and filled his own glass. Mary McHugh, a short gray mouse of a woman, was obviously ill at ease and kept uttering apologies for the disorderly house we had entered. She repeatedly watered two wilted aspidistras in the window as we spoke. The signs of poverty—that peculiar London variety—were everywhere. Much of the furniture was broken and in tatters, and the floor of the sitting room was littered with newspapers and jagged pieces of broken glass. A filthy rug covered much of it. A young kitten sat in front of me chewing on the remains of a small mouse. The kitten was as emaciated as the children. Everything appeared to be sticky with the fingers of the two girls.
McHugh motioned us to sit and Holmes handed our host a paper left on the chair he took.
“This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his colleague, Dr. Watson,” said Barbara. “They are here to look into the disappearance of Mr. Rose. You claim to have seen him.”
McHugh spoke with assurance. “’Twas ’im I tell ya, Mr. ’olmes, no doubt of it. I’d know thet face o’ ’is anywheres. The bloody rascal popped out o’ sight as soon as ’e saw me. Poor man, ’e seems to have gone off ’is rocker.”