“So one would assume, Mr. Holmes. So one would assume.” Here Steele paused - almost as if to draw keener attention to his next few words.
Holmes did, in fact, lean forward. “I sense that you’re suggesting some impediment to the investigation.”
Steele laughed again. “Indeed I am,” said he. “You see, Bill Taylor, the soon-to-be deposed Kentucky governor, was paralyzed by fear. I should explain that with the arrival of Taylor’s mountain men, Goebel’s people had also been marching around with guns. Now, seething with anger at the assault on their leader, they began screaming about killing Taylor in return. Fearing for his safety, not to mention that of his family, Taylor ordered in the state militia. Within minutes of the shooting, five-hundred strong of the Louisville Legion and the 2nd Regiment filled the square. Their bayonets at the ready, the fully uniformed militiamen stood positioned to prevent anyone from entering the area, which obviously included the scene of the crime. ‘Anyone’, of course, meant the police as well.”
“Preposterous!” I ejaculated. The thought of soldiers hindering a criminal investigation - let alone blocking the state’s elected representatives from convening in the Capitol Building - seemed unworthy of a democratic nation.
Steele merely shrugged. “The local authorities got no help at all from the Republicans. In fact, to the best of my knowledge, Taylor and his crew are still holed up in the Executive Building. By my count, it’s been some three weeks now. Taylor told the Republican legislators to meet in the town of London - London, Kentucky, that is - and the Democrats are gathering in the Capital Hotel in Frankfort. It’s like the state has two governments.”
Holmes offered a single, sarcastic clap of his hands. “Wonderful!” he cried. “A regular comedy of errors.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Holmes,” countered Steele. “Plenty of arrests were made. In fact, some twenty-seven people were rounded up at the start - clerks, politicians, even a state-police officer. But from what I’ve been hearing lately, suspicion has focused on three: Caleb Powers, the Secretary of State-”
“From whose office the bullet was fired,” I interrupted.
“Might have been fired,” Steele corrected. “Powers was thought to be the mastermind. A stenographer and notary public named Henry Youtsey, was charged with being the go-between. He worked in the state auditor’s office just down the hall from Powers. Youtsey’s the one they think hid a pair of rifles - a Marlin .38-55 and a Winchester .38-56 - behind a loose wooden plank in Powers’ office. The last of the three, a Republican county assessor named Jim Howard, had previously been charged with some other murder. Apparently, he is now considered the gunman. I should add that Powers himself had conveniently arranged to be out of town at the time of the shooting.”
Holmes nodded. “It sounds like the authorities have constructed a logical case, Mr. Steele. But you still seem to harbour doubts?”
“I do, Mr. Holmes - to a point. All these charges against Powers and the others may, in fact, be true, but I have to believe there’s more. A full ten days after the shooting, the police discovered a .38 calibre bullet in the trunk of a hackberry tree, not far behind where Goebel had been hit. The bullet matched one of the rifles found in Powers’ office. As a consequence, the police employed an engineer to show that one end of a taut string held at the bullet hole in the tree and the other end at Powers’ corner-window would have passed directly through the point where Goebel had been standing, thus proving the origin of the shot.”
“One moment,” said Holmes. “How high was the bullet hole in the tree?”
“About four-and-a-half feet from the ground.”
“And the distance between the ground and the bottom of Powers’ window?”
“About the same.”
“Hah!” Holmes cried. “Earlier you said that the bullet which struck Goebel had travelled downward.”
“Exactly.” Steele grinned. “You’re an excellent listener, Mr. Holmes. What’s more, you’re also giving voice to the same thoughts I have.”
Sherlock Holmes cocked an eyebrow.
“You see, I couldn’t forget the witnesses - more than a dozen, actually - who’d mentioned a third-floor window. They all agreed the shots had come from somewhere between the Capitol and the office building, which I took to mean from the office building’s west side, not from a front-corner window like Powers’. For that matter, I’m told that Howard, the alleged shooter, didn’t seem a calm-enough type to have lain in wait and done the deed. Oh, some people did swear they’d seen him on the Capitol grounds near the time of the shooting, but he produced his own witnesses to say he was elsewhere.
“Assuming you’re the sort of investigator I perceive you to be,” said Holmes, “I imagine that you tried to confirm your doubts.”
Steele smiled again. “On the second day of the occupation by the militia, I was able to check that third-floor office myself. I bribed one of the men - twenty dollars of L&N money was quite a sum to convince him to lend me his uniform for an hour or two.”
“Excellent!” cried Holmes.
“Disguised as a soldier, I entered the Executive Building, climbed the stairs, and visited the room in question.”
“What did you find?” Holmes asked, his grey eyes blazing.
“The room itself had been swept clean. And yet in front of the window stood two boxes, one on top of the other, reaching to the level of the windowsill. Need I say, a perfect place to rest a rifle? But there’s more. The floor revealed scuffmarks in front of the boxes that suggested a person had been moving around at that spot. And that’s not all. You see, there was something strange about the markings.”
“Strange?” Holmes repeated. “In what manner were they ‘strange’?”
Steele consulted his notes again. “Most were long, sweeps - as if a foot had been dragged along the floor rather than simply having stepped upon it - as if whoever made the marks had a bad leg.”
“Well done, Mr. Steele!” cried Holmes. “At long last. Anything else?”
“One more thing, Mr. Holmes. I found this! It must have been brushed into a corner.” As he spoke, he drew from inside his coat a long, white envelope, which he handed to my friend.
Like a starving man reaching for food, Holmes shot out his hand to receive it. Carefully opening the flap, he slowly drew from the envelope what looked to be a short, metal rod. It had a small wooden handle at one end and a tiny, round, bolt-like device at the other. Only after scrutinizing the entire piece, did he roll the thing between his thumb and forefinger.
“Ein Hebel,” he murmured.
“What’s that, Holmes?” I asked.
“Hebel is German for lever.”
“You recognise it then?” asked Steele. “I figured it must be important, but I didn’t know what it was.”
“It is the lever,” Holmes said, holding the rod vertically so Steele and I could examine it as he spoke, “used for priming the bellows within an air rifle. You’ll remember, Watson, that back in ’94, Sebastian Moran employed such a weapon - what the Germans call a Bolzenbüchse-for shooting at me - though in Moran’s case, it had been modified by that tinker von Herder. I told you that this case offered familiar echoes.”
Who could forget the horrible night when the dummy-likeness of Holmes that he had placed in our Baker Street window had taken the bullet meant for the man himself? It seemed like yesterday, though almost six years had passed.
“If I understand you correctly,” Wyatt Steele addressed my friend, “you’re suggesting that the assassin was, in fact, at the third-floor window of the Executive Building with an air-rifle.”
“Quite so. I shouldn’t doubt that, as you yourself have described, there were also shooters in the office of the Secretary of State. Let’s not forget that there were gunmen running rampant throughout the city. Still, I’m willing to wager that the shooters in Pow
ers’ office were meant to be diversions. Oh, I have no doubt that they fired upon Goebel - one even hit a tree! - but whoever wanted him dead had put his true faith in the shooter with the silent weapon on the third floor. He’s the gunman we’re really after.”
“A gunman with a gamy leg,” I said.
“Exactly, Watson. And unless I am very much mistaken, I believe it is the same conclusion that has compelled Mr. Steele to continue his investigation.”
“Indeed, Mr. Holmes. But not with the assuredness that your confirmation provides. While I was still in uniform, I asked some of the soldiers nearby if they’d seen anyone limping about.”
“And?”
“‘Now that you mention it,’ said one, ‘I do remember a beggar hanging around. A cripple he was. He had a bad back and twisted leg. He was wearing a pea coat and bell-bottomed trousers - you know, the kind that sailors wear. I remember his sea-faring clothes because I thought they looked pretty strange out here in the middle of Kentuck.’
“‘And another thing,’ a second soldier chimed in, ‘even though he looked young, he walked with a cane. I guess ’cause he was all hunched over.’”
“A walking stick, Watson,” said Holmes. “Do you mark that?”
I did, though I failed to make anything of it. That a deformed man required a walking stick did not seem unusual to me.
“Where was he seen?” Holmes asked.
“On Broadway in front of the Capitol grounds. Apparently, he was holding out a tin cup for money, but in all the commotion, he started hobbling east towards Ann Street. You should know, Mr. Holmes, that just past the corner of the square is the L&N railroad depot. It’s quite close by actually - only a couple of blocks away. Once I got back into my regular clothes, I checked there myself. A ticket agent told me he’d seen a cripple begging out in Elk Alley next to the station. As far as I could tell, no one actually saw him get on a train, but you know how it is - once word gets around about a shooting, people start running every which way worrying about their own safety. I don’t imagine they’d pay any mind to a beggar, not even a deformed one.”
“You’re suggesting,” I said to Steele, “that this cripple boarded a train at the railway station and got out of town.”
“I am,” said the Pinkerton agent. “And depending on time and destination, he could have made connections to most anywhere. Say he got to Cincinnati. Then he could travel north.”
“Or west,” I suggested, images of frontier gunslingers springing to mind.
“I wagered on New York,” offered Steele. “The pea coat and flared trousers made me think of a seaport, and New York is the major point of departure-”
“-For ships sailing to London,” said Holmes, completing the sentence.
“I figured it was worth looking into. I notified the agency to get some people out to the New York docks and keep an eye peeled for the twisted man.”
“Excellent work, Mr. Steele,” said Holmes. “I can only assume that someone saw him board a ship for London, which is why you are here.”
“That’s right. The Pinkerton Agency has had many dealings with the Metropolitan Police, and I cabled Scotland Yard to be on the lookout at the London docks for the suspect. An Inspector Lestrade was put in charge, but I guess that our man somehow managed to elude him.”
“Fancy that,” said Holmes drily, “someone eluding Lestrade.” He allowed himself a brief chuckle and then said to the two of us, “Well, gentlemen, I suppose it will be up to us to track down the fugitive.”
Steele’s eyes widened. “Do you actually have someone in mind, Mr. Holmes?” he asked.
“By itself, I grant you that the naval attire doesn’t tell us much. But when I match it to a deformed young man with the intent to kill, a certain profile most certainly comes to mind. What say you, friend Watson?”
There was indeed a ring of familiarity in the description, yet I could not place the figure in question.
“And if I tell you,” Holmes continued, “that a trip to Sussex might be in order - to Cheeseman’s in Lamberley just south of Horsham?”
“Bob Ferguson!” I cried.
“More properly, Bob Ferguson’s son, Master Jacky.”
Steele knotted his eyebrows. His confusion could well be understood, since I had not yet made public the case I planned to title “The Sussex Vampire”. The narrative would dramatise for the reading public the young man to whom Holmes was referring.
“Jacky Ferguson is the son of an old friend of mine,” I explained. “In our rugby days, the boy’s father was known as ‘Big Bob’.
Holmes cleared his throat to remind me to stick to salient facts.
“By 1896,” I continued, “Bob’s wife - that is to say, Jacky’s mother - had died, Fergusson remarried, and soon they had a new son.”
“Not long thereafter,” said Holmes, “the trouble started.”
“In November of that year,” I went on, “Ferguson came to Holmes seeking an explanation for the apparently murderous intentions of his second wife towards the baby. As it turned out, however, it was not Bob’s wife but the pampered older boy Jacky - I called him boy, he must be close to twenty by now - who had attempted to poison his tiny half-brother. His was a decidedly murderous plan intended to prevent the baby from coming between himself and his father. After revealing the crime, Holmes suggested that Jacky spend a year at sea.”
The Pinkerton agent furrowed his brow. “I don’t understand how-”
“Sorry,” I said. “I failed to mention that the boy Jacky had suffered a terrible fall during his childhood. The result was-”
“Let me guess,” Steele interrupted. “A twisted spine.”
“Quite so,” said Holmes. “Now, Watson, wire Ferguson with the news that we’re coming to visit. We can catch an afternoon train at Victoria. No need to mention Master Jacky until we actually get there. Mr. Steele, I’m afraid we’ll have to leave you to your own devices until we return. Three people descending on poor Robert Ferguson would be too many.”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Holmes. I’m in your hands. I never expected to have identified a suspect so quickly. Birdy Edwards certainly had you pegged correctly.”
A brief smile flashed across Holmes’s face. He was never one to ignore a compliment.
II
As he had proposed, Sherlock Holmes and I took the afternoon train from Victoria to Horsham. Ashen clouds continued to bedevil the usually enticing Sussex countryside where one generally expects a floral palette rich with colour. Yet on this trip I had no desire to gaze out of the carriage window, and my lack of interest had nothing to do with the neutral tones provided by the greying skies. No, I preferred keeping my eyes riveted on Holmes as he revealed to me the various actions that had been going on directly under my nose, but about which I clearly knew nothing.
“Surely, Watson, once we discovered Master Jacky’s vile role in that vampire business, you didn’t imagine I’d let him go off into the world unobserved? One doesn’t expect a sour temper to sweeten overnight. On the contrary, I requested your friend Ferguson to notify me as soon as a berth on some ship had been found for the boy. It took a few weeks, but the shipping agents at the father’s firm, tea brokers Ferguson and Muirhead of Mincing Lane, were finally able to complete the task. A position ‘before the mast’, as it were, was secured for young Jack on the S.S Heraldic, a tea-carrying steamer in the Merchant Navy. What’s more, from all reports, the boy appeared ready, if a bit reluctant, to perform his tasks to the extent that his physical abilities allowed.”
“Most admirable,” I said, pleased that my friend’s son seemed to be falling into line.
“And yet, Watson, I needed to be certain. No sooner did I learn that Jacky would be setting out to sea from Gravesend than I put Sammy Trout and the other Baker Street Irregulars on his scent. With comrades all along the river, I knew that t
he Irregulars would have little difficulty keeping track of a flaxen-haired youth that exhibited a decided limp. I instructed Sam to inform me when they actually saw him boarding.
“Once Jacky had set sail, it was a simple matter to chart the Heraldic’s comings and goings in the daily newspapers’ accounts of commercial ship movements. My various contacts in European and American ports served to confirm what I had already learned, and such has been the case for the past three years.”
Three years!-During which I had suspected nothing. The railway carriage swayed back and forth, and under ordinary circumstances the movement might have lulled me to sleep. Yet so intent was I upon hearing Holmes’s story that drowsiness never threatened.
“How did young Jack fare as a sailor then?” I asked.
“As one might expect, Watson: He viewed anything required of him as punishment. Let’s not forget that Master Jacky regarded his attempts to kill the baby as perfectly logical. As a result, his exile to shipboard labour must have seemed very unjust punishment indeed.”
“And yet a moment ago, you described him as resigned to facing his sea adventure.”
“Ah, Watson,” Holmes sighed, “it only gets worse. As a not-too surprising consequence, the boy began to cultivate undesirable associates among his shipmates. One imagines that it took little effort on their part to interest him in firearms, and Jack soon extended his so-called ‘tour of duty’ aboard the Heraldic. Guns, you see, made no demands on his deformity - indeed, here were weapons that allowed him to gain the strength that he’d always felt he was lacking.”
“Surely, Holmes, you didn’t learn all this from the Baker Street Irregulars? Good watchdogs, so to speak, but mere children lacking the psychological insights you are reporting.”
“Hah, Watson! Sharp as ever. No, the Irregulars merely presented the facts. I supplied the inferences. As it turned out, Jack had returned to Gravesend with an unsavoury group of friends. One of our lads followed them to the marshlands outside of town and watched them shoot at bottles and the like. Jack, it seems, had become quite proficient.
The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories - Part X Page 29