“Mr. Macnab said this was all confidential, sir. I hope we haven’t gone wrong in telling you. It is just that you being friends with Mr. Holmes, it did not feel right to be dishonest with you.”
I assured the young woman that she had most certainly taken the correct path and I left her with those words. Once outside the home, I thought of hailing a cab, but I decided to walk back to Baker Street and gather my thoughts.
As I walked, I wondered whether Macnab had spoken the truth to the ladies, and he and Holmes were in league with one another behind my back, or if the Scotsman had lied about his connection to the great detective.
When Macnab had first come to Baker Street looking for Holmes, the murders had not yet been committed. So how could he have any connection to the case, unless he had foreknowledge of the crime?
This would not be the first case in which Holmes had kept me in the dark about his intentions. By the time I reached our humble rooms, I had decided that I would make no mention of my adventure of the afternoon. If Holmes was deceiving me again, I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me upset by the fact, and if he knew nothing of Macnab’s involvement it would give me, for once, a leg up on Holmes in solving the case. With that matter settled, I climbed the stairs to our diggings with a jaunty step and entered.
Holmes was not in residence. Whatever business he had had was obviously still keeping him busy. As Holmes was away, I decided to play a lone hand and further investigate, utilizing the only lead I had at my disposal. I resolved to return to the home of Charles and Dora Bloomfield to see if the name Seoc Macnab meant anything to them.
I arranged for a carriage to take me to East Ham and immediately began my journey. The eight-mile trip was made in a reasonable amount of time and I found myself in front of the lonely home of Charles and Dora Bloomfield.
As the carriage halted, I saw that the lady of the house was busily working in her flower gardens pulling at the weeds that are the well-known bane of every gardener. As I alighted from the carriage, the lady gave me a friendly wave and loudly greeted me. She invited me in and we sat in the same sitting room as my last visit.
“You must excuse Charles’s absence, Doctor,” she said. “He generally naps in the afternoon these days.”
I inquired as to her husband’s health.
“I think he is feeling a bit better today,” she said cautiously, “but I wish he would follow doctor’s orders more closely and get more rest.”
“If I rest any more, Dora, I would lie in bed the entire day through,” said a voice from the staircase.
I turned and saw Charles Bloomfield descending the stairs. He had on a shabby robe that looked several sizes too big. He moved slowly, as if the effort of coming down the stairs was too much for him. I also noted that he was perspiring. I thought that perhaps that meant any fever he might have was breaking, as I noted the man had much better colour in his face than the last time I had seen him. The healthy skin tone was a marked improvement from his former ashen appearance. He finally made it down the steps and sank into his armchair. He refused an offer of tea from his wife, as did I, and fixed his eyes upon me.
“What brings you down to our little village, Doctor?” he asked. “Have you news of my brother’s killer?”
“Not exactly,” I began hesitantly, “but I had hoped to ask you both a question.”
“Well, ask it, Doctor,” he said somewhat brusquely. “I want to help in any way that I can. I am certain that I speak for Dora as well.”
“You can be sure of that,” said his wife firmly. “What is it you wish to know?”
“Are either of you acquainted with a Scotsman named Seoc Macnab?”
I saw puzzled faces from both husband and wife.
“I do not believe that I know the man,” said Charles slowly. “Of course, we have met so many people in our travels. Dora, do you recall that name?”
“Certainly not,” she said promptly.
“I see,” said I. I now worried that I had made this trip for nothing. An idea suddenly occurred to me. “Perhaps you have met him under another name. Let me describe him to you.”
I gave a detailed description of the man, but I saw no recognition in the eyes of the couple.
“The local smith is a man with a great red beard, but he is quite stout, not a slender man such as you described,” said Chares Bloomfield when I had finished.
I was a bit deflated by the news that the Bloomfields knew nothing of Macnab and it must have shown on my face. Dora Bloomfield leaned forward and spoke to me in a soothing voice.
“I can see just how much tracking this villain down means to you, Doctor Watson, and Charles and I appreciate you coming down here. I wish that we could have helped more.”
“I am sorry to have bothered you,” said I. “It was the merest chance that you knew Macnab. Still I had to ask.”
“We are grateful for callers here in the country,” she said.
“I do not suppose that you have many,” I said.
“That is quite true, Doctor,” she replied. “We have no friends in England anymore and now that Arthur and Berta are gone we have only Edward and his wife. However, today has been a busy day by our humble standards for visitors.”
“Is that so?” I asked out of politeness. I really had no interest in the visitors of the home, but the question was a perfunctory one.
“Oh, yes,” said Dora Bloomfield earnestly. “It was one of those awful reporters from the London papers.”
“I see. They must have ferreted out your address. I suppose he wanted to ask you lurid questions about the murders.”
“Well, not really,” replied the lady. “He was most interested if Arthur and Berta had sent us any packages from America.”
“What?” I cried. Now I really was interested. I recalled Holmes closely questioning the secretary Nelson about any other valuables that the Bloomfields might have. “And what was your answer?”
“They sent nothing from America save a few letters and telegrams,” she said. “Isn’t that right, Charles?”
“You are quite correct, my dear,” he said in reply. “Arthur was not a man given to extravagance, in any event. Save his wife’s jewelry, he had nothing of any great value that I know of. If he did, he most certainly did not give it to me.”
“Perhaps he gave you something before he departed for America,” I suggested. “Not even a gift, but something he gave you for safekeeping.”
“There was nothing of the sort,” said the man shaking his head slowly.
“Well, that nosey reporter certainly thought so,” said Dora Bloomfield. “He pestered me terribly until I ordered him off our property.”
“Off the property?” I repeated.
“Yes, “Doctor. I was in the flower garden working when he came down the lane. He walked right up to me and began asking his infernal questions.”
“I suppose reporters must often make themselves bothersome in order to do their jobs,” I mused.
“I suppose that is true enough,” said the lady, “but I do not see why the papers have to hire foreigners. He said his name was Robinson, but that didn’t fool me at all. Aren’t there enough proper Englishmen for the job?”
“He was a foreigner, you say?” I asked politely.
“That he was, Doctor. He was an Italian or a Spaniard. Dark and swarthy he was, with a nasty scar.”
I jolted in my seat as I recognized the description.
“Was the scar on his forehead?”
Dora Bloomfield’s eyes widened in surprise at my question.
“How did you know that, Doctor? Have you met the man?”
I quickly explained who Martinez was and the fact that he had been missing since the discovery of the bodies. Dora Bloomfield seemed almost excited that a suspect of the double murder had visited her, but her husband was beside himself with rage.
“To think that that man came to my very house.”
“Did you see him as well, sir?”
“That I d
id. I could hear Dora arguing with this fellow from my chair. I got up and walked to the door. He was just leaving, but I saw him clearly.”
“Did he simply walk away?” I asked.
“He had a dogcart,” said Dora Bloomfield.
That was little help. A dogcart meant that there was no driver and such a conveyance could be found at hundreds, if not thousands, of livery stables in and around London.
I took my leave of the couple and warned them to be alert for the return of Martinez. On the trip back to London I began to think of what I was going to tell Holmes. The fact Martinez had been to East Ham meant that leaving him completely in the dark about my activities was no longer viable.
It was early evening when my carriage arrived at 221B Baker Street. I exited the cab and paid the driver. The man attempted to increase the price that we had agreed upon before the journey. I would have none of it and he grudgingly accepted the bills I thrust at him. I entered the dwelling and hied up the steps. I opened the door and walked into the sitting room. Holmes was languidly puffing on his pipe. Before I could speak he took the pipe from his mouth and addressed me.
“So, Watson, did you enjoy your return to East Ham? I trust the Bloomfields are well.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The years I had spent with Holmes had still not accustomed me to his insights and I am afraid my mouth hung agape at his deduction.
“Calm yourself and be seated, Watson,” said Holmes, as he observed my reaction. I did as I was bid and sat in my armchair. “The deduction was a small one, I assure you. The window is open, as you will observe, and I heard you arguing with the cabbie about the fare to and from East Ham. Deducing that you visited the Bloomfields was quite a simple matter after that.”
“You are quite correct, of course,” I said. “But I doubt you know why I went.”
“I can think of no reason other than to question them about Seoc Macnab,” he said blandly.
“I see that you know all, Holmes,” I said somewhat glumly. “I thought that for once I might be ahead of you on the trail.”
“Cheer yourself, Doctor. I am anxious to hear of your trip to East Ham. Indeed, you have done me a service.”
“I am glad to hear that, but how did you divine that Seoc Macnab was the reason for my trip?”
“I too stopped by Park Lane today,” he said. “I was told that I had missed you by an hour. I was further informed by Miss Burton that Seoc Macnab had called. I am afraid that Miss Burton is not to be trusted with a secret. Tell me of your encounter with the man, Watson.”
I quickly related to Holmes of how I had observed the Scotsman leave the Bloomfield home and how I had chased him into Hyde Park. Holmes appeared bemused by my recitation of the chase.
“My, oh my, Watson,” he said with a slight chuckle. “Civilian life has turned you quite soft if you could not catch that elderly fellow.”
“He had a substantial lead on me, Holmes” I replied in protest. “One question I wish to have answered is whether or not this fellow is a confederate of yours. That is his claim.”
“I assure you, Doctor, that Seoc Macnab and I are not working together.”
He spoke the words with conviction.
“It would seem then that this Macnab person has an interest in the case separate from our own,” said I.
Holmes had no reply to this and lapsed into silence. A further question came to my mind.
“Holmes, just why did you stop by the Bloomfield home today?”
I hardly expected an answer, but Holmes surprised me by promptly replying.
“I had a question that I wished to ask Miss Burton, and I wanted to examine the murder scene again. There was a theory that I wished to test.”
“And what question was that?”
“I asked her if Mrs. Berta Bloomfield was particularly frugal on her clothing.”
“What an odd question, Holmes. Frugal how?”
“Simply that some ladies with wealthy husbands might have dozens of evening gowns, for instance.”
“What was the reply?”
“She said the lady indeed was discriminating about her clothes and talked of economy.”
I might have further questioned Holmes, but at that moment Inspector Hopkins was admitted to our rooms.
“I have news, Mr. Holmes,” said the man, as he sat down, “but I do not know what to make of it.”
“Indeed, Hopkins. Pray tell what you have discovered?”
“The diamond ring has been found, sir,” he announced.
“This is good news, Inspector,” said I. “The villain has been apprehended then.”
“Not quite, Doctor,” said Hopkins. “The ring was sold to a pawnbroker this morning. It was discovered there this afternoon by one of my men. We were on particular lookout for the ring to be sold at such an establishment. I have the ring with me.”
The Inspector produced the item from his pocket. It was a gold ring with a stunning solitary diamond inset. He handed the ring to Holmes. Holmes examined the ring closely for several minutes, bringing out his glass at one point. Finally, he handed the ring back to the Inspector.
“What does the pawnbroker have to say for himself?” asked Holmes.
“I have brought him with me, sir. I felt that you might wish to question him.”
Hopkins walked to the door and called down the stairs. In a matter of moments, a police sergeant came in with a small, furtive-looking man. I was immediately put off by the fellow. He looked to be some sixty years of age. He was kneading a battered hat that he held in his hands. He looked around the room and set his eyes upon Hopkins.
“This man wishes to question you,” said Hopkins, pointing at Holmes.
“Anything I can do, I will, sir,” he said to Holmes. “I am an honest man of business.”
“I am certain you are,” said Holmes dryly. “Now, what is your name?”
“I am Aaron Goldberg, sir.”
“Where is your business located?”
“In Whitechapel, sir.”
“Who brought in the ring for sale? Was it a man or a woman?”
“It was a man, sir.”
“A man of your acquaintance?”
“No, sir. He was a stranger. Just walked through the door off the street, you might say,” Goldberg said with a hopeful smile. He saw that the smile had no effect on those in the room and a look of fear crossed his face.
“You say you did not know this man,” said Holmes, “but can you describe him?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” said the man, visibly brightening. “He was a rather tall fellow and was a foreigner.”
“A foreigner, you say,” prompted Holmes.
“Oh, yes. A dark, swarthy man with glasses and a nasty scar on his forehead.”
I started a bit at the description, but Holmes gave no indication that he recognized the pawner.
“So, this man had a ring he wanted to sell. Is that correct?” asked Holmes.
“Yes, sir,” began the pawnbroker, “but I had no idea that it was stolen. I swear.”
“Enough of that,” snapped Hopkins. “There was a notice distributed to pawnbrokers and jewelry dealers.”
“I swear I never saw such a notice.”
“As a pawnbroker you are required to record the pawner’s name and address,” said Holmes. “What was the man’s name?”
“As to that,” said the man, with downcast eyes, “I must have forgotten to ask. I have been growing forgetful as I age.”
The pawnbroker looked hopefully from face to face, hoping to find someone willing to swallow his tale.
“What did you give this strange man for the ring?” asked Holmes.
“Why, one hundred pounds, sir. Just what he asked for it.”
I see. Thank you, Mr. Goldberg,” said Holmes. “Inspector, I have no further questions.”
Hopkins instructed the sergeant to take the man back downstairs. As soon as that was done, Hopkins turned to Holmes.
“What do you make of this, sir? The man G
oldberg describes cannot possibly be anyone else than Martinez.”
“It is not completely unexpected,” replied Holmes. “I had thought that the ring might be found in a pawnbroker’s shop.”
“I think I see what you mean, Mr. Holmes,” said Hopkins. “Martinez would want to rid himself of the evidence of his crime as quickly as possible.”
“Just so, but Martinez sold it rather cheaply,” said I.
“Excellent point, Watson,” said Holmes. “You really are coming along. However, why are you so certain the man was Martinez?”
Holmes’s question completely flabbergasted me. I exchanged a shocked look with an equally surprised Inspector Hopkins.
“But, Holmes, who else could it be?” I asked.
“Gentlemen,” began Holmes, waving his arm at both Hopkins and myself, “I would postulate that any man attempting to implicate Martinez might do so with a pair of glasses and dark make-up.”
“What of the scar, Holmes?” I asked.
“A scar is easily faked with the right type of make-up, as well.”
“But, Mr. Holmes, Martinez did flee the scene when the bodies were discovered,” said the Inspector.
“And that is what has puzzled me. If Martinez was the culprit, why did he wait until the bodies were discovered to flee?”
“What do you mean, Holmes?” I asked.
“The evidence is that the Bloombergs were killed hours before they were discovered. He could have left then and gotten a head start before the crime was even known.”
“That is a point,” conceded Hopkins. “Perhaps he thought he could brazen it out and then lost his nerve and fled.”
“But then why did he let the ring go so cheaply?” asked Holmes.
“Holmes, isn’t it possible that Martinez never meant to kill the Bloombergs?” I asked. A theory was coming together in my mind. “I suggest that Martinez meant to simply steal the ring, or even switch it with a counterfeit ring. The Bloombergs discover him in the act. He is forced to kill them. He hopes he will not be suspected, as the Inspector said, and only later does he flee when he realizes the enormity of the crime. That would cover the known facts nicely, I believe.”
The Spanish Butler (A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale Book 8) Page 5