The Lambs Lane Affair (A Sherlock Holmes Uncovered Tale Book 5)

by Steven Ehrman

  “I am certain that is true, and I meant to cast no aspersions, but alibis are often not what they first appear to be. Why, you yourself, Mr. Highlander, may have been here earlier in the day and yet still deny it now, even were you not guilty.”

  “Why on earth would an innocent man do such a thing?” asked Highlander incredulously.

  “Why, simply to avoid suspicion. It happens very frequently, I assure you. This has been your experience as well, has it not, Hopkins?”

  “Oh yes, sir. It is maddening, but people do not think it through and will oftentimes hold back something in a murder investigation.”

  “Not only that,” said Holmes. “But there are often maddening coincidences in a case such as this. For example, Hopkins, do you have the note Mr. Highlander received?”

  “Right here, sir.”

  “May I see it again, please?”

  Hopkins strode over to the desk where Holmes was still standing, and I followed in his wake with curiosity. Holmes held the note in his hand and examined it for a moment before he spoke.

  “Yes, it is just as I thought,” he said. “Hopkins, tell me what you see on the desk.”

  “Why, nothing out of the ordinary, sir. A blotter, an inkwell, a pen, several pencils, a notepad, and letters addressed to Mr. William Benton.”

  “I draw your attention to the fact that the notepad on the desk and the sheet of note paper with the warning on it are of the same size.”

  “Well, that is a coincidence, sir,” Hopkins conceded. “But it is a common size.”

  “Exactly,” said Holmes. “And that is the point, but what if we were to try an experiment?”

  Without waiting for an answer from Hopkins or anyone else, Holmes grabbed a pencil off of the desk. He turned the pencil at an oblique angle to the notepad, almost on its side. He carefully ran the pencil across the pad from side to side covering the sheet with markings from the lead. Gradually words began to appear in white amongst the black of the lead. The words were:

  You can’t save her. Anne Benton dies at five for her sins.

  Chapter Six

  “The words of the note, Holmes,” I gasped. The importance of this clue was not lost upon me. “Then the note was written in this very house.”

  “So it would appear, Doctor.”

  “This is monstrous, Holmes,” said I. “This means the killer was a person known to Miss Benton, and not simply a tramp or some such person.”

  “But we already knew that, Doctor.”

  “How, Holmes?”

  “By the fact that it was delivered to the home of her landlord, and also the home, I might add, of the closest friends of the deceased and her brother.”

  “There is another possibility, Mr. Holmes, which I am certain you know very well,” said Inspector Hopkins.

  “Indeed I do, Hopkins. I am pleased to see that you are able to employ my methods, at least somewhat.”

  “Well, I know your methods as well, Holmes, and I am completely befuddled. Will you illuminate the situation for me, or am I to be left in the dark?”

  I had spoken directly to my friend, but as his silence grew it was apparent to me, and everyone else in the room, that Holmes had no intention of enlightening me. I then turned my attention to the young Inspector. At length he broke the silence in the room.

  “The other obvious conclusion, Dr. Watson, is that Mr. Harold Highlander himself wrote the note and only pretended that it was delivered to his house,” said Hopkins grimly. “What have you to say to this, Mr. Highlander? This is damning evidence.”

  “Inspector, is a man in my position seriously to be suspected of murdering a young woman of whom I have a bare acquaintance?”

  “It is a question that must be asked, sir,” said Hopkins with some heat. “I must insist that you answer me.”

  “Very well then; consider it answered,” said Highlander.

  “I must insist upon a clear answer.”

  Highlander considered the words of the Inspector and finally decided that he had no other choice.

  “If you insist, I deny writing the note,” he said. “It was delivered to me as I said. How could I have written it in any case? Miss Woodbury was with me the entire time.”

  “Come now, Mr. Highlander,” said Hopkins. “You could have entered the house, written the note; and then gone back out and then made enough noise to draw Miss Woodbury from her house.”

  “At least you do not suspect me of the murder,” huffed Highlander.

  The expression on Hopkins’s face told a different story, and Highlander noted it at once.

  “So!” he cried. “You young pup, you will pay for such impertinence.”

  “All possibilities must be explored,” said Hopkins. “A case can be made that you had opportunity. Motive is another question entirely, but that may take care of itself during the investigation.”

  “Mr. Holmes, I ask you directly,” said Highlander. “As I said before, I know your reputation. I have listened to all that had been said, and I could not have committed the crime as it has been reckoned. Do you believe me guilty?”

  Holmes had sat down behind the desk and was leaning backwards in the chair. His eyes were hooded and appeared almost shut. One unfamiliar with the detective might have supposed that he was sleeping, but I knew from long experience that this meant Holmes was in a state of great mental agitation. Seeing no response from his target, Highlander switched his attention back to the Inspector.

  “Let me see if I understand your theory, Inspector Hopkins,” he began in a lecturing tone. “According to your idea of the case, I murdered Miss Benton, for reasons unknown, and splattered her blood upon my shirt. I then burned the bloody and incriminating shirt, and took, I surmise, one of Mr. William Benton’s shirts. Having accomplished this, I then wrote the note and went back outside. At this point I made certain that I am observed, and that Miss Woodbury would be able to attest that the lady was dead when I arrived. Am I fairly outlining your thinking in the matter?”

  “That is one idea, Mr. Highlander,” admitted Hopkins. “Mind you, it is only one idea. I have not said that you are a suspect, as of yet.”

  “Well, let me tell you that there is a difficulty with this scenario.”

  Highlander strode to the middle of the room and drew himself up to his full height, which was well over six feet tall. As he was so spare of frame, almost gaunt in fact, he appeared even taller.

  “I admit that I do have an advantage on you, Inspector, and that is that I have met Mr. Benton. The brother of the deceased lady is every bit of six inches shorter in height than myself, and I would wager that he outweighs me by at least a stone. I could never have appropriated one of his shirts and hoped to pass it off as one of my own. Observe that my shirt is tailored specifically to my frame.”

  At his bidding everyone save Holmes leaned forward to examine the item in question. It was certainly a fine fit, and if Highlander was right about the build of Mr. Benton, then it did not seem likely that events could have played out as the Inspector had theorized.

  “In addition,” continued the man, “my suits are all from Savile Row in Mayfair. I doubt very much whether an ex-soldier such as Mr. Benton could afford such fine fare.”

  The statement was made with all the condescension common to the class of Harold Highlander, but the point was well taken. It was certainly hard to imagine the unseen invalided serviceman shopping the tony avenues in Mayfair for his apparel.

  The Inspector was bloodied, but unbowed, and he seemed loath to relinquish his theory of the crime.

  “Miss Woodbury, can you state with a certainty that Mr. Highlander did not enter the cottage before you became aware of his presence when he began pounding on the door?” he asked sharply.

  No, I cannot, Inspector,” she said, shooting a glance at Harold Highlander. “I was otherwise occupied and was not looking out the window. Besides which, it was already quite dark. I am not certain I would have noticed even had I been looking.”

  �
��A pity I was asleep,” said Simon Langston suddenly and in a loud querulous voice. “I have mighty sharp eyes and darkness or no, I would have seen all. Me, a poor old man, with nothing better to do, I could have made this matter quite simple. At any rate, it is the height of foolishness to believe that a man of means such as Mr. Highlander could have been involved. He has a son and a family. That is something to live for. If my dear Jacob had lived, I would not be in the squalor that I find myself. He would have seen to it. And Miss Woodbury had a fine father as well. He was a good man and seeing the pain he was in at the end was awful. Lucky he had her, I say. If only I had been awake at my window!”

  The old man had worked his way into a fever pitch and was breathing heavily.

  “But you were asleep,” said Hopkins. “Hopes and prayers will not solve this crime.”

  “Aye, I was asleep,” said the old man wistfully. “But if I had not been,” he wagged a finger in the air, “I would bring this culprit to justice.”

  I smiled a bit at the injustice that the old man felt that had been done him by his inopportune afternoon nap. It was obvious he wished to play a part in the investigation. My experience has been that an elderly person in a neighborhood was often the biggest gossip of that neighborhood. I felt for the retired tailor’s missed chance at a modicum of fame as the witness for the prosecution. As I finished musing about the elderly gentleman, I heard the voice of Sherlock Holmes.

  “Miss Woodbury, how long have you resided in the cottage next door?” he asked.

  “I grew up in the cottage, but I have been away for many years. I returned just over a year ago, Mr. Holmes,” replied the startled woman.

  “So, not that much longer, in fact, than the Bentons have lived here.”

  “That is so, Mr. Holmes. I had been away in Egypt most recently, and I returned when father wrote me of his illness.”

  “And you cared for him in his infirmity. May I ask what was the illness that bedeviled him?”

  “It was consumption, Mr. Holmes. It had spread throughout his lungs, and he had few days left by the time I managed to return.”

  “It is an ugly disease, my dear, and quite painful towards the end. Mr. Langston says he was in a great deal of pain.”

  “Oh, it was agony for him, Mr. Holmes. The doctors prescribed morphine, of course, but it could not halt the march of the disease itself.”

  “As I understand it those in close proximity to patients with consumption can be in danger of infection.”

  Holmes was right, of course, and many times such poor souls were isolated from others for just that reason. Miss Woodbury’s father was fortunate to have a daughter to care for him.

  “I cared not for the danger, sir,” she said, with a sniffle and the hint of a tear, which she quickly dried. “I would have done anything for him.”

  “Of course, still I am surprised that you remain in the cottage. I would have thought that you would have resumed your travels after his death.”

  “I had planned to. I had never had to worry about money, as father paid for my travels, you see. I had thought that he had a large nest egg built up, but I found when the estate was finally settled that little was left. As such my traveling days seemed at an end, at least temporarily; and here I remain.”

  “It must have been a shock for you to help find the body of a murder victim on this sleepy lane.”

  “As you say, it is not the type of place you should expect to find murder,” she replied. “I can tell you in all candor that I was shocked to see poor Anne on the floor, stabbed as she was. It is hard for me to imagine how or why it was done.”

  I had noted a growing impatience from Inspector Hopkins as the elderly Simon Langston had rambled on. When Holmes himself seemed to careen off onto a tangent as well, he became most anxious to bring the conversation back to the pressing topic of the unsolved murder.

  “All of this is quite interesting, I am sure,” he said. “I do not wish to hold anyone any longer than necessary and I believe that we have covered all the ground we can for this evening. Is there anything else from you, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I have no more questions this night, Hopkins,” said he.

  “That is well,” said Langston. “It is nearly time for bed for an old man such as myself.”

  Harold Highlander left with a bow to Holmes and myself. He pointedly ignored Hopkins, and walked out. Simon Langston followed on his heels, and Miss Woodbury was the last to leave, bidding us a gracious goodnight.

  Hopkins made some notes for a minute or two before he addressed Holmes.

  “What do you make of it, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “I thought we were on the trail there for a moment. What is our next step?”

  “My next step is to return to Baker Street,” said Holmes. “I hope a sovereign was enough to hold the hansom.”

  “Baker Street!” cried Hopkins. “Do you mean to say you have given up?”

  “Calm yourself, Hopkins,” said Holmes with a smile. “We are not beaten, and I have given up nothing. We do, however, need to speak with the brother of the deceased and with the Highlander son, and his wife. For now we will put the assets of the Yard to good use. I ask that you have everyone’s movements for today thoroughly examined.”

  “Of course, sir. And then?”

  “Come see me at Baker Street tomorrow and I will outline our plan of advance; that is, pending new developments. Come, Watson, our carriage awaits.”

  Chapter Seven

  Although Holmes and myself had settled on Baker Street by happenstance, the great detective would never entertain the idea of leaving for larger rooms for several reasons. Not the least of which were the cooking skills of our landlady, Mrs. Hudson. Though Holmes was not thought to be a man of tastes, at the breakfast board he was an admirer of the culinary arts of the lady in question and the beauty of her breakfast table.

  The next morning found us enjoying the repast set on our sideboard. Holmes generally allowed no conversation of a case during his meals, and that day was no exception. My friend was expounding on the migratory patterns of passenger pigeons and the possible relationship of that pattern to the magnetic field of the planet. He further speculated that the clearing of wooded areas for cultivation of crops would lead to the extinction of the once-numerous bird. I was not, of course, an ornithologist, but I must admit that I doubted Holmes’s theory of the demise of the species. As a young man I had read the writings and admired the paintings of Audubon. His descriptions of the immense flocks of these birds, some millions in composition, made a mass extinction in the near future seem very unlikely. However, Holmes was quite insistent that he would sadly be proven correct. He also made an observation about the role of passenger pigeon dung in promoting forest fires, which I found most inappropriate for the dining table.

  As we moved to the sitting room for coffee and tobacco, I found my mind alive with the murder from the previous evening. Holmes was leaning back in his chair in his dressing gown and seemed oblivious to my preference in conversation. I decided that I would outwait the detective and force him to bring up the subject. Holmes liked to pretend that my curiosity was such that it did not allow me to reflect upon the evidence, but rather caused me to rush headlong into incorrect, and hasty, assumptions. I determined not to give him cause to further that theory, lit my own bowl of pipe weed and relaxed in my chair. After some time I noticed several sidelong glances from my friend. Following an hour-long silence, I was rewarded with the great man broaching the subject that was uppermost in my mind.

  “You have been uncharacteristically reticent this day, Watson,” he said, in a somewhat sullen manner. Holmes had become habituated to parceling out information on a case to me only at my pleadings. To my mind my small strike was already paying off dividends.

  “I was reluctant to pursue the matter, as you seemed to have driven it from your mind,” I said blandly. “It is perhaps the influence of Mycroft upon you.”

  “You feel that I have grown slothful, old friend?” Holmes muse
d.

  “Perhaps not quite so far as slothful, but I cannot help but think that there have been occasions when you would have already dashed off several telegrams and even put the Irregulars to employment,” said I.

  “One must not mistake energy for execution, Doctor,” he returned. “I simply await developments.”

  “You expect something of note to happen in the case?”

  “Unless I am very much mistaken, something will happen today; tomorrow at the latest. At that point, I will be ready to proceed. Indeed, I am champing at the bit, appearances to the contrary notwithstanding.”

  As he finished his small speech, I saw the familiar fire in the eyes of the man. Holmes was not one to let grass grow beneath his feet; my small jibes at him aside. I wondered just what it was that he was expecting.

  “Perhaps the brother has been found,” I essayed. “If one of his shirts is missing, then we will know the gender of the culprit, at least.”

  “That is so,” said he. “I am certain that Scotland Yard has employed their army of men in the effort to track Mr. Benton down. Though lacking somewhat in able men of detection, they have the numbers to search the whole of England. However, Watson, I believe that the quality race belongs to myself, with you included, of course.”

  I smiled at Holmes’s inclusion of me in his compliment to himself, but in the main I was forced to agree with his assertion. The detectives of the Yard, though energetic, did not, save perhaps Gregson and Hopkins, employ the proven methods of Sherlock Holmes. Some of this refusal could be laid at the feet of institutional lethargy to embrace change. However, much, if not all of it, was in response to the small rivalry that was undoubtedly felt by the detectives of the Yard in relation to my friend. His every victory was a stab to the heart of that great English police force. Holmes himself largely deflected public credit for the cases he solved in conjunction with the Yard, but my published stories had created a much different picture that illuminated, correctly in my mind, the true nature of the collaboration.