by Ashton, Hugh
He had therefore determined to take on a new identity and woo the widow, for whom, it appeared, he had or no feeling whatsoever, his affections being chiefly tied to the lawful Mrs. Richards and her children.
He had, however, found some place in the heart of the kitchen-maid Sarah, whom he had persuaded to leave her post with the family for who she was working, a neighbour of the Richards family, and take up a position in the new household into which he had married. Once she was in place, he proceeded to lure her with promises of leaving both his existing wives, and setting up a new existence with her in Canada, using the money that he was sure would come to him, following the decease of Miss Annabel Stevens, and the arrest and conviction of her step-mother.
He had somehow managed to discover the story that Annabel Stevens had been secretly writing in her memorandum book, and had noted a passage there where the heroine was describing her fear of her impending death. Whether he had his diabolical scheme already in his head, or whether he was inspired by this, he refused to say, but he had instructed Sarah to purloin the book at a suitable opportunity. The cunning of his whole plan, as Sherlock Holmes pointed out to me later, was that at all critical junctures, he was away from the house with an unshakeable alibi, while his unsuspected cat’s-paw set the snare.
The rat poison was found in the household, as Lestrade had foretold, having been purchased for its proper purpose. The only missing part of his plan was a duplicate sugar container, which he purchased and gave secretly to the kitchen-maid, instructing her to place only a thin layer of the poison over the top of the sugar after exchanging the jars, in order to make the introduction of poison into the food or drink by Mme. Montpensier, whichever presented itself as an opportunity, appear deliberate, rather than as an accident occasioned by the inadvertent substitution of rat poison for sugar.
He and Sarah Nolan were remanded for the Assizes, where eventually they were found guilty of the various crimes against them. Before that time, though, I asked Sherlock Holmes, “ Why did you decide it was not suicide ? ”
“ I knew as soon as I had seen the note discovered in the dead girl’s room. It was a case of the signature at the bottom of the note.”
I cast my mind back. “ There was no signature, Holmes,” I pointed out.
“ Precisely. Every suicide note I have ever encountered personally or of which I have heard reports has been signed by the writer. A suicide note is a final act of personal will—the most desperate act that any human being can accomplish—and we wish our names to be associated with such acts.”
“ And the innocence of Mme. Montpensier ? ”
“ I was positive of it when she came to collect her pince-nez that time. You remember that I had deduced that she played the viola, but it transpired that she played the violin ? When she visited, I invited her to play on my Stradivarius. She did so, with such an elegance of tone, and such deep feeling for the music, which was the solo from the second movement of Chaikoffski’s violin concerto in D major, that I felt convinced that a woman with such a soul could never willingly harm another. It is, as you know, one of the most haunting pieces in the repertoire, and she played it from a depth of pure passion that reached to the bottom of my heart.”
“ Really, Holmes,” I could not forbear from laughing. “ This is most unlike your usual rational self.”
“ Believe me, Watson,” he answered me with an expression of gravity on his face. “ I was never more serious in my life. Though artifice may hide a black soul, true art can never do so, and when she played to me, I knew I was in the presence of true art. True in every sense of the word, that is.”
Such was the affair of Mme. Montpensier, where the stern rationality of Sherlock Holmes gave way to a depth of feeling that it was hard to credit, even to me, who knew him as well as any man alive, and should give the lie to any who claim he was nothing more than a cold heartless reasoning machine.
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The History of John Augustus Edward Clay
As Told by Himself[2]
Editor’s notes
This packet of papers that I discovered in the second box of Dr Watson presented me with the biggest surprise so far in my researches. The paper itself was of a coarse nature, and of a size completely different from any other documents in the box. The handwriting was neither that of Dr. Watson nor of Sherlock Holmes, and was in a neat, somewhat crabbed hand. Pinned to the back of the sheaf of papers were a few pages in the now familiar writing of John Watson. As I read these, I became aware that I held in my hands the story of the notorious John Clay, whose exploits with regard to the Red-Headed League have been so vividly described.
I was, however, at a loss to explain how these memoirs of a confessed criminal came to be in the possession of Dr. Watson, an intimate friend of an upholder of the law, indeed, one who had actually been responsible for the arrest and incarceration of the author of these memoirs. Intrigued, I read on as Watson explains how he came to be in contact with John Clay, and the reasons for the inclusion of this manuscript with his accounts of the cases of Sherlock Holmes. At intervals throughout the manuscript, I came across notes on scraps of paper pinned to the original story. These were in the handwriting of John Watson, and I have included these as footnotes. I have also added some of my own notes where I feel that some additional explanation is needed.
I therefore make no apology for the inclusion of this document alongside Watson’s accounts of the adventures of Sherlock Holmes. To see one of the most famous cases of Sherlock Holmes “ from the other side” is indeed a fascinating experience, and one which I feel will be of great interest to all students of the great detective and his methods.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Dr. Watson’s introduction to John Clay’s account of his life and exploits, followed by the words of the “ fourth smartest man in London” himself.
z
Dr Watson’s introduction
Following the adventure of Sherlock Holmes which I have described in The Redheaded League, John Clay and his accomplice were sent for trial at the Assizes, Clay receiving an extended sentence of penal servitude and his confederate receiving a lesser punishment. I had been somewhat impressed, despite myself, by the demeanour of John Clay during his apprehension by the authorities, and felt that, while his sentence was deserved, there was a good chance that this young man of obvious good breeding and intelligence could nonetheless become a useful member of our society at some time in the future.
When I mentioned this to Sherlock Holmes, he scoffed at my pretensions.
“ I am afraid, Watson, that you take far too optimistic a view of human nature. As I mentioned earlier to you, I have had many skirmishes with Clay in the past. None of his actions has been in any way able to persuade me that he is anything other than a thoroughgoing villain who will never change his ways.”
I failed to be convinced by Holmes’s arguments. In John Clay’s appearance and general deportment I was reminded of a subaltern in my former regiment, who had behaved despicably and dishonourably on a number of occasions. Following some disciplinary action and subsequent light punishment for his offences, he became a model officer, and rapidly gained deserved promotion. I felt that with suitable encouragement, John Clay might also achieve similar redemption.
Without the knowledge of Sherlock Holmes, I took myself to Pentonville prison and made a request to interview Clay, which was rapidly granted, chiefly on account of my association with Holmes. Naturally, given the circumstances of our previous meeting, he regarded my visit with a good deal of suspicion, and could not at first comprehend the reason for my visit. Eventually, I was able to convince him of my good intentions towards him, and he began to speak of his early life and of some of his criminal exploits. Having viewed the criminal life of London from one side, that of Sherlock Holmes and the police, it was therefore extremely interesting for me to listen to an account from the other side, as it were. He spoke in an educated fluent voice, totally unlike that which he had used in his character of V
incent Spaulding, the pawnbroker’s clerk.
My interest obviously communicated itself to him, and he requested that I visit him once again a week later.
“ I have a scheme in mind which I think will be of interest to you,” he said to me. Noting the expression of distrust on my face, he went on, “ It is all legal. There is no need for you to pull that sort of face as if I’m asking you to rob a bank. I’ve had an interesting life, as some might say, and I think it could be an idea if I were to set down some of the features in it. You’re a literary kind of gentleman, as we know. Maybe you could approach a publisher and let the world know about John Clay.”
I was unsure of the morality of such a course of action, but I admit to having been intrigued by his proposal. “ Very good, then,” I said to him. “ If you can write the first few pages of your story, I can at the very least look them over and let you know if there may be a suitable market for them.”
Accordingly, I made arrangements with the prison governor for a visit at the same time the following week. On my keeping the appointment, Clay showed me some pages of his writing, which form the first few pages of the attached manuscript. I read them through and realised that they formed an interesting and important document, albeit one which no responsible publisher could ever consider releasing to the public.
I told Clay as much, and his face fell. “ D___ the hypocritical morality in this country ! ” he cried. “ Why should I not be allowed to talk to the world with the same sort of voice as your precious Sherlock Holmes ? ”
I informed him that it was not so much a matter of morality, as of pure necessity on the part of the publishers, who would face prosecution if they released these words,[3] but I fear that I failed to convince him of this. Nonetheless, he informed me that he found some release from the strains of his current circumstances in setting down the facts of his life, telling me that he intended to continue with his history and would present it to me when it was finished. He implored me to attempt to find a public market for it, even though I continued to insist that such a course of action would almost undoubtedly result in failure.
I left him, not at all convinced that he would have the application and persistence necessary to complete his task, but I was pleasantly surprised when three months later I received a message in his own hand inviting me to make a further application to visit him.
“ I am done with the project which we discussed some months ago,” the note informed me. “ I would be obliged if you would call upon me at my present residence, circumstances making it difficult for me to visit you at yours.” The whimsical humour and resignation to his fate displayed here, coupled with my natural interest and curiosity to see what he had written, made it impossible for me to refuse his invitation. Accordingly, the next week saw me in Pentonville prison once more, talking to John Clay.
“ It’s all here,” he told me, handing over a packet of neatly written papers. “ Now, Dr. Watson, you may not consider me as a friend, but I am sure that you realise by now that I am by no means the desperate villain and unrepentant thief that your account of me has made me out to be. I do have some contact with the outside world, you know, and I saw your wonderfully dramatic relation of the events that put me here as published in the Strand Magazine. I have given my account of this little adventure here, along with some others in which your friend also played a part, even though we actually met for the 1st time on that fateful day in Saxe-Coburg Square.” I accepted his manuscript with thanks, and he continued, “ I remember what you told me about the impossibility of these little exploits ever reaching the public eye. I would ask you, though, to make every effort to set the record straight.” He paused to cough into a handkerchief. I noted spots of blood on the cloth, and I started.
“ Yes, Doctor,” he said to me. “ The climate in these lodgings is not of the most salubrious. I fear it is consumption, and the prison doctor has recently confirmed this to me. I probably have not more than a few months left to live, and you will therefore have no fear that by helping to publish my words you are giving comfort and assistance to a desperate criminal, as I will no longer be on this earth.”
Naturally, my pity was aroused by this circumstance, and I gave him every assurance that I would attempt to honour his wishes. In the event, however, although I made approaches to my publisher and to the Strand Magazine, I was unable to achieve his desired goal of publication. Many indeed expressed their interest, but it was as I had feared. The nature of the writer and of the subject matter made it impossible for them to make the material available to the public.
Within a few months of my last meeting with John Clay, I received a message from the governor of the prison that the prisoner had indeed succumbed to the disease in the prison infirmary, and that his body now lay in the graveyard of the penitentiary. Having received no clear instructions from Clay regarding the disposition of his manuscript, I forbore from any further attempts at publication, and locked it away. The time has now come for me to deposit some of my untold cases of Sherlock Holmes in a safe location, and it occurs to me that this extraordinary story should be retained alongside those cases of my famous friend, seeing that it bears so closely on, and is at times so closely intertwined with the adventures of the great detective.
z
John Clay speaks 1: The Professor
First, I would like to set the record straight. In Dr Watson’s account of the little adventure that placed me in the predicament in which I now find myself—that is, incarcerated in Pentonville prison—he records the words of one of the Scotland Yard detectives who claimed to have been on my trail for some time. Inspector Peter Jones refers to me as “ John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher and forger”. Thief I may be, smasher I have been, and forgery is one of the crimes to which I plead guilty, but I am not a murderer. I have never taken the life of a fellow human being, nor have I ever attempted to do so. That particular crime is one of which I am guiltless, and I regard the words of Inspector Jones as a foul slander upon my name[4].
That little affair of the Red-headed League was, I can pride myself on saying, one of my better notions, but I will write about that in its due place. If it had not been for the intervention of Sherlock Holmes at that time, I would almost certainly now be a rich man, living a life of luxury, probably in the South of France or some climate more suitable to my constitution than this damp cold prison cell.
Inspector Jones was correct in some of his other points, however. My grandfather was indeed a Royal Duke, even though he was never married to my grandmother, who was nonetheless of good family. Despite the unfortunate encumbrance of my father, she managed to make a good marriage, though in her alliance with Henry Clay, a well-known manufacturer, her family considered that she had demeaned herself.
My childhood, you may be surprised to learn, was a happy one. I had the best of educations, and attended Eton College until the age of eighteen, whereupon I entered Christ Church, Oxford. At Eton and Oxford I started cultivating those acquaintances which have been of such value to me in my subsequent career. It must be said, though, that the antecedents of my father were sufficient barrier to prevent me entering the highest of circles with ease. I resented this, failing to understand at the time that, in today’s society at least, accidents of birth count for more than do natural abilities. As to the latter, I proved myself to be abundantly endowed with intelligence.
To give you an example of this quality, I had almost considered composing this memoir in Latin verse, an accomplishment for which I won prizes at both Eton and Oxford. I could likewise have written it in French or Italian, languages in which I consider myself fluent, or even in the thieves’ cant commonly use in the East End of London among the criminal classes. However, I will write my history in what has come to be my natural manner of speaking. I do not pretend to have literary leanings, but will simply set things down in such a way to inform the world, in a style that all will understand.
Now we come to an interesting distinction. I have just referre
d to “ the criminal classes”. I have also admitted to being a criminal in the eyes of the law. Do I, then, consider myself to be a member of these classes ? The answer is in my mind that I am with these criminal classes, but not of them, in the same way that an officer in our Services is with his men but not of them. I hope that that I make myself clear here.
My resentment against those whom I felt to be my natural inferiors, but preened themselves as my social superiors, increased during my time at Oxford. There was one of these, as rich as Croesus, whom I regarded as being a fowl ripe for the plucking. Lord Barrington, who was the descendant in the legitimate line of my ducal grandfather, ostentatiously flaunted his wealth and his social position. To me it was intolerable that this blockhead should enjoy all the privileges and enjoyment which seemed denied to me. I cultivated his friendship, naturally concealing the fact of our common grandfather, and rapidly became a regular attendant at his drinking parties and expeditions to the local houses of ill fame. I had many occasions to study his hand, and at night in my rooms I practised his signature and his writing. One day, while I was visiting him in his rooms, he had occasion to leave me alone there temporarily. I had previously remarked that he kept his cheque-book in an unlocked drawer of his desk, and I swiftly removed the last cheque, together with its counterfoil, from the back of the book. That evening, I wrote a cheque which was payable to “ Cash” in the amount of £1000. I fully believed that his bank account was well able to withstand such a demand.
Alas ! I was unaware that on the day previous to my little deception he had withdrawn a large sum of money in order to place a bet on the 2000 Guineas running at Newmarket. His fancy had failed to win, or even to place, and he was therefore temporarily out of pocket, with little money remaining in his bank account. When I presented the cheque at his bank in Broad Street, the matter was brought to his attention and he naturally denied ever having written such a cheque. It took little time for my guilt to be exposed, and as a result I am unable to present myself as a graduate of the University of Oxford. Perhaps I should correct myself here. It is not so much that I am unable to present myself as such, as that I am unable to present myself honestly as such. Indeed, my knowledge of the geography and the customs of the University has been of great value to me in my career. However, thanks to the wishes of the House to prevent scandal, and at the request of Lord Barrington, who seemed to retain a rather inexplicable affection for me, the police were not called in, and I was spared the complications of criminal proceedings.