Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, Volume 7

by Marvin Kaye

  “Who is the attending physician to your family?” Watson asked.

  “Dr Sheridan, but …”

  “Charles Sheridan,” Watson interjected. “Good man. Top notch. But surely he would have requested an autopsy in so sudden a death in a young man.”

  “I believe you were about to add something, Mrs Emmet-Jones,” I stated.

  “Yes. While Doctor Sheridan has been our physician for many years, it was Dr Knox who made the pronouncement and ordered the swift burial.”

  “And where did this Knox come from?”

  “He was a friend of my husband’s from the service. He must have been on his way to visit because he appeared before we had time to send for Dr Sheridan.” She then lost composure and it took us several minutes and a bit more of the brandied tea until she was able to continue.

  Once she had gathered strength I asked, “Clearly the misadventure did not end with the funeral?”

  “No. It was after that the real horror began. At Sidney’s funeral my father had occasion to discuss events with Dr Sheridan.”

  “Good man,” Watson reiterated.

  “So,” I continued, referring to the account in the paper, “it was Dr Sheridan who ordered the body, and excuse my lack of a better word, exhumed?”

  “Yes, that is correct. The process took several days, what with the legal paperwork required. Some days later, we were obliged to assemble again at the graveside to relive the ordeal. A smaller group this time. Just my father, Dr Sheridan and the inspector from Scotland Yard.”

  “Was this Dr Knox not in attendance?” Watson inquired.

  “No, Doctor. He could not be located. Sidney never left his address and no residence or address of his surgery could be found. Perhaps he had not time to set one up since his return from South Africa.”

  I paced the room, anticipating what was to come next. “And what did you find upon opening the grave?”

  “Nothing, sir,” she replied quietly. “Sidney was gone.”

  The blood ran from Watson’s face. Aghast, all he could do was echo the word, “Gone.”

  “Yes. He was apparently the victim of grave robbers. The inspector said that this happens, not infrequently, to graves of the Upper Classes. Robbers looking for booty buried with the deceased. He said that with no body and no evidence, there was nothing left to investigate. There were no clues.”

  “Grave robbing, indeed,” I said. ‘You no doubt fainted at the revelation from the grave and sustained an injury to your ankle. The inspector’s name would not have been Lestrade?”

  “Why, yes on both counts, Mr Holmes. You astonish me.”

  “We are well acquainted with the inspector’s credentials,” I let slip with a measure of sarcastic contempt. “No clues? Why your story today is nothing if not a cornucopia of clues.” I helped her from her chair and again rang for Mrs Hudson and escorted her to the door. “Do not fret. I feel we will be able to shed some light on this dark business. We should like to pay you and your father a visit at Dunmore and have a look about. We should also wish to visit the gravesite.”

  “I would be most grateful to you both. I shall make the arrangements for your arrival.”

  After she had been escorted from our rooms by Mrs Hudson and we were sure she was out of earshot, I asked, “Well, Watson, what do you make of it?”

  “Dastardly, Holmes. Grave robbers? In these modern times? But what can we do? The body has been snatched.”

  “Maybe. I fear, however, that there may be more to this story than a simple robbery. I ask you, would mere ruffians, intent on gaining some quick profit from the spoils of a newly interred occupant, take the time to replace the dirt from the disturbed grave and leave the site tidy enough so as to avoid the arousal of suspicion until the grave was re-opened by the authorities?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that, Holmes.”

  “No, this was no mere crime of opportunity. This goes deeper and speaks of some motive more sinister. Gather your kit for traveling, Watson. Some sturdy boots and slicker, a torch and a stiff walking staff. Your revolver, too, I should think.” He stared at me for a moment while I consulted my Beekman’s timetable to check on the next train from Waterloo station to Surrey. I took a final draw on my pipe and through the smoke I confirmed his suspicion, “Yes, Watson, the game is afoot.”

  * * * *

  I remained silent for most of the trip to Dunmore. I smoked quietly and watched the damp countryside pass by as I contemplated the facts of the case. Watson, having worked long enough at my side by then, knew to keep his council at such times, respecting the need for introspection. As we had booked the last private car from Waterloo Station, he passed the time cleaning his service revolver, which had not seen action in some time. We arrived at our destination southwest of the city, in the late afternoon. Lord Hemming, the father of the widow Emmet-Jones, had sent his coach ahead to convey us to Dunmore.

  Phelps, his butler, received us at the hall. “Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,” he said. “Lord Hemming is expecting you and requests your presence to tea in the study.” He took our overcoats and escorted us through the lavish estate.

  “Phelps,” I asked, “could I trouble you to arrange an interview with the servant who discovered Captain Emmet-Jones’s body?”

  “It would be no trouble, sir. However, the young woman is no longer in our employ.”

  “I suspected as much. Have you any idea where she may be found?”

  “I do not. Nelly was a young Irish girl who was personally selected by the Captain upon his arrival. He had not taken a manservant as yet. The shock of discovery of the body was apparently too much for the woman and she fled the same day. I must say that she did not seem very well suited to her duties.”

  “Perhaps not. Would you say she was a comely woman?”

  The question seemed to startle Phelps and it was clear that he had not considered the matter before. “Well, yes, she would have been considered quite attractive.”

  “Thank you, Phelps. You may escort us to his Lordship now.”

  We soon made the acquaintance of Lord Hemming, a jovial yet stately gentleman. Hemming was seated to tea laid out on a table in the corner of a cluttered room, even by our Baker Street standards. This seemed odd for such a large house, but as we were seated he explained. “Forgive the surroundings, gentlemen, but I thought it best not to waste time, therefore I had tea set in Captain Emmet-Jones’s study so that you could immediately begin your investigations. My daughter begs pardon as she was quite exhausted from her journey and recent events and repaired directly to her rooms for repose.”

  “Very perceptive, your Lordship.” I instantly admired his candour and preparation. Watson took a small notebook from his vest and recorded various points of our interview with notes of the surroundings. I fear he also recorded more than a bit of jam from the scones he seemed to enjoy as well. “It would seem that the Captain had yet to unpack all of his belongings.”

  “Yes, this is so,” Hemming replied. “In fact, he insisted on almost absolute privacy in the task. He took many meals here. He hired a servant for assistance and took no visitors here other than his friend, Dr Knox.”

  “You would therefore not know if any items were missing.”

  “Correct. The maid, I am afraid, has also taken her leave.”

  “So we are told,” Watson added, balancing his teacup, notebook and the pastry.

  After the polite repast we commenced inspection of the room. I made my way carefully about the place and settled near an area in front of a great oak desk. I knelt to inspect the area with my glass. “I take it, owing to this discolouration on the rug, which appears to be of recent origin, that the body was discovered here.”

  “Yes it was, Mr Holmes,” Hemming affirmed.

  “Note the fading in the pattern, Watson. Join me if you please.” With effort, owing to his wound suffered in India, Watson made his way down to the carpet. “What else do you notice?”

  “Well,” he replied, “a stain of some sor
t but certainly not blood. Some caustic agent or solvent, I should think.”

  “Excellent, my good man.” The snack clearly had sharpened his powers of observation. “Do you note the peculiar odour?”

  I hid my amusement as I was reminded of a walrus in the zoological gardens, as my friend lay prostrate on the rug with his whiskers hovering just above the nap, while he repeatedly sniffed the area in question. “Quite distinct. Unpleasant, yet somehow familiar.”

  I produced a small scissors and gestured for permission from Lord Hemming. He nodded his assent and I took a sample of the weave, brushing the clippings into an envelope. I assisted Watson to his feet and turned attention to examination of the desk. All drawers were curiously empty except a bottom drawer, which was locked. As there was no one able to produce a key and the oak was thick, I asked Watson to draw his revolver. “Would you do the honours, Doctor?” We covered our ears, yet the rapport from the weapon shattered not only the lock, but also the silence of the sedate home. This sent servants scrambling to the room, no doubt in anticipation of some further tragedy. We assured Phelps that all was under control and he ushered the throng from the room.

  The contents of the drawer were few. An envelope addressed to Emmet-Jones in a female hand, the missive having been removed, a small photograph, as one might place in a locket, along with a ledger book. Inspection of the book revealed a recent deposit of account for a rather large sum drawn at Goslings & Sharp, Fleet Street. I showed the balance to Watson, who raised an eyebrow acknowledging the substantial sum.

  “Lord Hemming,” I asked, “do you know these bankers?”

  “Of course. They have been managing my accounts for years.”

  “I take it, and by no means do I wish to intrude on your privacy, that Captain Emmet-Jones’s recent deposit of this large sum was the result of your personal generosity?”

  “Quite so. The man had little means and, I admit, was not the sort I would have selected for my daughter. She did, however, profess a deep love for the chap, and since I would be alone had she married a man of more means, I confess I welcomed the prospect of keeping her here, in my company, with the wish of one day having grandchildren about. I made the bequest so that the Captain should have the capital to start a business venture of his choosing.”

  “I understand. I fear that we are losing daylight and Watson and I would like to inspect the Captain’s gravesite. We have taken too much of your time.”

  “Nonsense. If there is anything I can do to provide further assistance, I am at your disposal,” the gentleman kindly offered.

  “There is one thing for now. I would kindly ask you to contact your agents at Goslings & Sharp. Ask them to quote you the current balance of the account we have just discussed.” He heartily agreed and I gave him my card as Phelps returned with our accoutrements. “Come, Watson, we have business at Brookwood.”

  * * * *

  With darkness descending, we made our way to Brookwood Cemetery in Woking. I instructed the driver to wait, as the prospect of finding a cab later in this lonely corner of the city seemed slim. Watson lit his torch as we made our way to the caretaker’s house near the main gate. I rapped with my cane repeatedly until the untidy little man answered. When we told him our business, he seemed not to have been forewarned of our arrival and in no way hid his displeasure at being interrupted at his evening meal. With the invocation of Lord Hemming’s name as well as the proffering of a half-crown for his trouble, he seemed to regain his memory and summoned a measure of enthusiasm for our enterprise.

  We lit additional lanterns and made our way through the maze of memorials, some simple, others ornate sculptures honouring the dead. The wings of marbled angels cast long shadows on the winding path. The gloom, combined with the damp smell of earth seemed to enhance the deepening chill. A slow fog soon settled in the lower grounds and swirled around the various headstones.

  “Shadowy place,” Watson, induced into a whisper by the surroundings, remarked.

  “Yes, Watson, but I should think rather peaceful on a clear afternoon.” I stopped abruptly, fancying I heard some noise not far off, but the lamps did not have great depth of penetration. Reflections off the mist made visibility null at any

  great distance.

  We pressed on and soon found ourselves at the gravesite. The grave remained open, a dark hole in the floor marked for a young Captain who had yet to accept this final invitation. The coffin rested nearby. “How is it,” I asked our attendant, “that the grave remains open?”

  “Rains, sir. Ground’s too ’eavy to lift that muck back in. And, if I may say so, we’ve already dug that plot twice and judging from the looks of the two of you, gov’, youda had me diggin’ it up again tonight. As to the casket, nobody’d claimed it and seems a shame to bury it unoccupied. ”

  I had to admit that he had a point. We examined the grave but found nothing of interest in the empty hole.

  “The casket,” Watson suggested, “might that not be a source for those finger marks you’ve been working on?”

  “Fingerprints, Watson. Sadly, no. No telling how many hands have touched the thing and, no doubt, this weather would have rendered any marks unrecoverable by now.” We turned our attention to the interior of the box. The two men helped me pry open the lid. The lining was a bit soiled from the unusual amount of activity for the object. I probed the quilted lining with my cane and struck an object. “Hello. What do we have here? Bring the beam closer, Watson.”

  Using the stick I lifted the metallic object from the coffin. We had no time to examine it as we were abruptly interrupted by the sharp snap of a branch. We were not alone. I reacted instinctively by grabbing my friend’s lamp, tossing it into the open grave while yelling, “Down, Watson!”

  The caretaker was, unfortunately, frozen in his surprise. He made an easy target standing with his lantern stretched before him. We saw the muzzle flash just before we heard the crack of the rifle. The missile struck the caretaker in the chest, killing him instantly, we would soon learn, and knocked him back, and I am sad to say, ironically, into the gaping coffin. Watson fired a shot in the general direction of the attacker to let him know we had not come unarmed. With our lights extinguished there was no hope of pursuing the assassin through the darkened cemetery. I lit a match, allowing the Doctor a brief examination of the victim, but it was immediately clear that there was nothing that could be done for him. We closed the lid and picked our way carefully back toward the main gate.

  * * * *

  The police were summoned to Brookwood and, when his men had finished their business, Lestrade escorted us back to Baker Street, our driver having fled at the first sign of commotion. Mrs Hudson had thoughtfully laid on a cold supper. I laid out the details of our investigation.

  “Well, Mr Holmes, it shows how we investigators think alike. All along I suspected foul doings that went beyond a mere grave robbery.” Lestrade sipped his ale as Watson and I exchanged knowing glances, all too familiar with the inspector’s willingness to incorporate our work to his benefit. “Still, that does not answer the question of who is behind this?” Lestrade stating the obvious.

  Mrs Hudson cleared the meal as we retired to review our information. “I almost forgot, Mr Holmes,” she said, pulling an envelope from her apron. “This telegram came for you earlier.”

  “Thank you, dear lady. Try to get some rest now.”

  “I gave up on that long ago, knowing what these rooms are like once you and the Doctor get going on one of your romps. Victoria Station would be quieter.” She took her leave.

  I read the telegram to my guests, which confirmed my suspicions that Emmet-Jones’s bank account had been emptied the day before his death. “Seems an unlikely coincidence that he would withdraw all of his funds the day before his death.”

  “How about blackmail?” Lestrade offered an unusually insightful suggestion.

  “Yes, that is possible, Lestrade, yet who would have known he had any money? Clearly his means of support was de
rived through his marriage. No, there is something more. I cannot quite grasp the significance of the strange object we found in the coffin.”

  “Looks like some implement for cooking eggs,” Lestrade commented.

  “More like an odd fencing mask, I should think.” I had to admit that I had reached a standstill in my deductions. The device, for it clearly had some purpose in its manufacture, was an oblong metallic structure seemingly like the frame of a handheld mirror without the glass. Attached to it by means of a hinge was a wire basket. It was then that Watson proved his worth as my able companion. “What do you make of it, Watson?” I called across the room as I held the object aloft.

  Watson had left us and had been working at my chemistry bench for some time, so quietly that we had almost forgotten he was there. He had a text open in one hand and was mixing something over a flame. Nearby was the envelope that held the carpet samples extracted at Dunmore. Soon a noxious smoke began to emit from his experiment. This quickly began filling the room, forcing us to thrust open the windows to expel the foul cloud.

  The stench and commotion drew another visit from our irate landlady. “What on earth are you men doing now?” she cried. “I shall never be able to get this odour out of these rooms.”

  We held kerchiefs over our mouths. It was some time before we were able to converse. “I think I used a bit too much alcoholic potash,” Watson eventually explained, coughing and referring back to his text.