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

by Steven Ehrman

  “We have also yet to meet the son of Mr. Highlander and the son’s wife,” I reminded Holmes. “It is possible they can shed some light on this dark mystery.”

  “It is true that the cast is not yet complete, Doctor. However, I believe the development of which we await is now at hand. I hear footsteps upon the stairs. Will you attend at the door, please?”

  I was no sooner out of my chair than the door was thrust open and our page admitted Inspector Hopkins. The Inspector was dressed nattily in a grey suit and hat. His eyes were bright and his manner betrayed an eagerness to share some new information. He greeted Holmes and myself and was quickly shown to a seat. He refused the offer of a cigarette or pipe from Holmes.

  “Well, Hopkins, you are certainly out with the morning dew,” stated Holmes. “Is there news you wish to share on the Benton case?”

  “The case has been solved, sir,” said Hopkins.

  “Solved, you say. How has this been accomplished in so short a period of time?”

  “A confession takes little time, sir,” replied the Inspector.

  “Indeed, so Harold Highlander has confessed,” said Holmes calmly.

  Hopkins nearly jumped from his seat and, I confess, I nearly came to my feet as well in surprise.

  “How has this news reached you, Mr. Holmes?” asked the astonished man. “He walked into my office only one hour ago and turned himself in. Did he come here first? He made no mention of that fact.”

  “He made no mention of the fact because he did not come here first,” said Holmes.

  “I can attest to that, Inspector,” said I. “Holmes and I have had no visitors this day save yourself. I must confess that I am much surprised, even if Holmes is not. Please, tell us all.”

  “Of course, Doctor,” said Hopkins, as he regained both his composure and his good humour. “The tale is a simple one,” he said, removing his notebook from his pocket for perusal. “Harold Highlander came into the Yard this morning and confessed that he had struck the lady with the candlestick in self-defense and she attacked him with the knife. In disarming her, he accidentally, according to his account, stabbed her in the chest, thus delivering the fatal blow.”

  “My word,” said I. “So it was as simple as all that. This is a feather in your cap, surely, Hopkins.”

  “Not that there was much detective work, I am afraid,” he observed wryly. “If only every criminal had the good manners to confess, then I might be home for my dinner on a more regular basis.”

  I laughed at the small joke of the man and noticed that Holmes did not join in the merriment.

  “My only regret, of course, is pulling you into this, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “Had I known the case was going to be this simple, I would not have bothered you. It was the note that threw me. It caused me to believe that the case was more complicated than it actually was.”

  Holmes merely waved a hand, but I rose to his defense.

  “I say, Hopkins,” I said with some heat. “Surely, Holmes played a role in this confession. It was he who demonstrated that the note was written in the cottage, and it was he who raised the question of why it was supposedly delivered to Harold Highlander in the first place. It must have been these points that drove Mr. Highlander to confess. Without Holmes, the case would still lie in darkness.”

  “I did not mean to minimize your part in this, sir,” said Hopkins contritely. “As the good doctor says, you certainly played an important role. It is possible that I placed too much importance on Harold Highlander’s word.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “Well, the gentleman says that the killing was an accident, but that he got the wind up and dreamed up the business of the note to throw off suspicion. He claims he regretted it almost immediately and, that upon reflection, he decided this morning to do the correct thing and confess.”

  “So it was a question of morals,” I said.

  “That’s just it, Doctor,” cried Hopkins. “He says he realized that by denying his own guilt, he was putting others in jeopardy.”

  “What of the buttons in the fireplace?” asked Holmes quietly.

  “Highlander made no mention of that, Holmes,” returned Hopkins. “I admit it is a loose end, but with his confession, it does not seem important.”

  “Has the brother been located? And what of the alibi of the son and the daughter-in-law? What of the evidence of the footprints? What of the candlestick?”

  The rapid-fire questions had Hopkins at somewhat of a loss, and he stuttered as he replied to his mentor.

  “Well, sir…you see…it is just that…none of that seemed necessary anymore. I do not understand, sir. We have our man. What is this talk of side issues?”

  “As you find them superfluous, there is no need for further discussion of the matter,” said Holmes briskly. “I will admit I am disappointed in your lack of method, but that is as it is. Since the case is finished, I will bid you good day.”

  Hopkins’s face fell as Holmes finished and I saw the hurt and befuddlement in his eyes. He looked to me as if pleading for an ally, but he found none in me. After several desultory attempts to apologize to Holmes, he finally exited our rooms. I heard his heavy footsteps upon the stairs and felt a slight bit of empathy for his obviously crushed spirits. I walked to the window facing the street and observed him coming onto the sidewalk. He called for no cab and began a solitary plod down the street. I returned to my chair and found Holmes puffing at his pipe in agitation.

  A promising student,” he muttered under his breath. “It is a pity, but the best lessons are often the ones that hurt the most. He will learn in time.”

  “It would appear that the Yard sees this matter as a closed one, Holmes,” I said. “Do you have a plan of action as to how to proceed? It is obvious that you are not satisfied.”

  “My action will depend upon events, but fear not, Doctor; my waiting is at an end, for action I will take.”

  I was pleased to see that Holmes had regained his good spirits following the uncomfortable ending with Hopkins. He went to his desk and dashed off several telegrams. I did not bother to ask for their contents. Any attempt would surely be futile. Holmes called for our page and gave him instructions to have them dispatched at once.

  We sat in silence for several minutes. I had nearly decided that I would essay a few questions upon the case, when I heard a knock at the door. The page could not have returned by this time, and I was about to answer the knock myself when the door opened, and a man strode in. He was a gentleman of some fifty years and was dressed in the finery of the city. His clothes were almost those of a dandy, but I dare say they complimented him. He was over average height and clean-shaven. He carried his hat in his hand and looked from Holmes to myself. He settled his eyes finally upon my friend.

  “Do I have the honor of addressing Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” he asked.

  “I am Sherlock Holmes,” he answered. “Allow me to introduce my companion, Dr. Watson.”

  “I am Samuel Johnson,” he said, with a short bow. He returned his focus solely to Holmes. “Sir, I have been told you are the greatest detective in all of England. Is that correct?”

  “That is a bit like asking the cook if the roast is good, Mr. Johnson,” said Holmes. “The answer is an easy one, but the truth is found only in the eating. Would you accept my mere word?”

  “I thought that perhaps you could demonstrate your powers,” said the man, as he pulled a revolver from inside his coat. He pointed it directly at Holmes. I saw that the hammer was down, but his finger was on the trigger. I was poised to throw myself upon him as his attention was all on my friend, but I feared the weapon may discharge anyway.

  “What demonstration did you have in mind?” asked Holmes stifling a yawn.

  “Just this, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “What will happen if I pull this trigger?”

  Chapter Eight

  Holmes seemed blissfully unconcerned about the implied threat, but I felt as though my heart would leap from my chest.

 
; My dear Mr. Johnson,” said Holmes calmly. “Nothing will happen if you pull the trigger.”

  “The weapon is loaded, Mr. Holmes, I assure you,” returned the man.

  “Oh, I do not doubt that. An unloaded weapon would lessen the impact of the demonstration.”

  “Then why will nothing happen if I pull the trigger, sir?”

  “Because you hold in your hands a Colt Dragoon Revolver,” said Holmes. “An 1860 model unless I am very much mistaken. This weapon is a single action revolver and cannot be fired unless the hammer is pulled back to the locked position. The trigger merely releases the hammer to fall upon the firing pin. Pulling the trigger with the hammer down will result in a very unsatisfactory outcome, if you wish to do me bodily harm.”

  The man stood for a moment with the revolver still pointed towards Holmes, when he suddenly burst into laughter.

  “You, are the very man for me, Mr. Holmes,” he said with admiration. “Nerves of steel, and you most certainly have proven to my satisfaction that you are a great detective. Please, forgive my somewhat dramatic test of your powers.”

  I was not inclined to forgive this ungentlemanly display, but Holmes evinced no irritation and waved the man to a seat.

  “And what may I do for you, Mr. Johnson? I cannot believe that the performance you have conducted was only for your amusement.”

  “Indeed it was not, Mr. Holmes,” said the man heartily. “And Dr. Watson, I can see that you found the display distasteful. Perhaps it was, but I am in desperate straits, and I needed to know the measure of the man whom I ask for aid.”

  I nodded my head. I was still somewhat raw over the theatrics that the man had employed, but Holmes was in fine temperament, so I decided to acquiesce with him in conduct toward Mr. Johnson.

  “Mr. Holmes, I come here today to speak with you on the matter of Harold Highlander. He has been arrested in the murder of a young woman leasing a cottage from him.”

  “I am aware of the matter, sir,” replied Holmes.

  “How is this?” Johnson asked, clearly taken aback.

  Holmes quickly explained that he had been on the scene himself and knew the relevant facts of the case.

  “What I do not know, Mr. Johnson, is why you are here and what your interest in the case is.”

  “That is easily answered, sir,” responded Johnson. “I am a stockbroker, and I am an old friend of Harold’s. Our families go back in association several generations. I received a note from the gentleman last evening, very late. It was a message written in, what seemed to me to be, great agitation. He said that he had killed the girl, and that he was going to confess to the crime.”

  “And this surprised you,” said Holmes.

  “In a word I was flabbergasted, sir,” said Johnson. “Mr. Holmes, I have known the man my entire life. It is beyond comprehension that he would take a life.”

  “Do you know the details of the crime?” asked my friend.

  “The penny press is efficient, if not genteel,” said Johnson with a grimace. “I have read all that has made it into print and I am even more convinced than ever that something is amiss.”

  “Why have the details caused you to further doubt the confession?”

  “Simply because Harold is incapable of such violence. The very idea that he could bludgeon and stab a defenseless woman in cold blood is ludicrous.”

  “Men do many things of which they are not thought capable, Mr. Johnson, in cold blood,” observed Holmes sagely. “Dr. Watson and I have seen many such examples of the degradation of the human animal from formerly pious and moral men, but from my understanding, the confession is one of the nature of a crime committed in hot blood.”

  “Is the difference that great?” asked Samuel Johnson.

  “In execution perhaps not; but in planning, most certainly,” said Holmes.

  “Holmes,” I cried. “Do you mean to imply that the crime was one of premeditation made to appear as if it were committed in the heat of the moment?”

  “Or perhaps the other way around, Doctor. I only make the point that Harold Highlander claims the crime was one of hot blood. In doing so it may be claimed by the police, and the courts, that previous behavior is not indicative in this matter. In other words, though a gentle man may not plan a murder, such a man may strike out violently if in danger, or even if he senses danger. The fight or flight pattern is well established within the animal kingdom.”

  I was not certain that observations of wild animals were predictive upon human beings, but I did not argue the overall point, which, I did not doubt, was sound.

  “In any event, as a friend of the man, you would testify to his gentle nature and his inability to be hard, or even ruthless, when necessary,” said Holmes.

  “I see your trap there, Mr. Holmes, and I am certain that in business Harold has made many a decision that weighed against the other man,” said he. “I admit that in matters of money he could be a harsh and flinty opponent, but he was a dedicated family man and a true gentleman. He was completely devoted to his late wife, and, though he had no daughters, I simply cannot see him striking down a woman of age to have been his daughter.”

  I could see that Holmes was weighing the words of Johnson. I could see nothing in his story other than that of a devoted friend trying to help another friend in a time of great need.

  “I take it that you are acquainted with the son and the son’s wife, Mr. Johnson.”

  “Of course,” replied he. “David and Sylvia are friends as well. We do not run in the same circles of society, but I count them as dear friends nevertheless.”

  “What does Mr. David Highlander do for a living, if anything?” asked Holmes.

  “He sees to the family shipping concerns.”

  “Then the senior Highlander is a man of retirement.”

  “Yes, in the main, but it is a titular position really. The company board runs the business, with David as a mere figurehead, which suits him very well. David is a man interested in cards and horses above all else. A day riding and an evening of bridge is his idea of Eden.”

  “And the wife?”

  “Sylvia runs the household in the absence of Harold’s wife. They have a devoted staff and when not at that, I assume she is much like every other woman of means. To my knowledge, she spends most of her afternoons, and a good deal of the Highlander money, in the shops of London.”

  “Have you, yourself, ever met the deceased, Mr. Johnson?”

  “I have never seen the lady in life or in death.”

  “What of the brother, Mr. William Benton?”

  “I have never met the man.”

  “What of the neighbors? Do you know Mr. Simon Langston?”

  “I am not acquainted with him either, but I have heard the name. He was a tailor of some note when I was young. I have heard that he has had some financial setbacks in his declining years.”

  “Do you know Miss Elizabeth Woodbury?”

  “Yes, but chiefly through her father. I was his stockbroker. I am Harold Highlander’s broker as well. I had the occasion to meet Miss Woodbury when her father passed. She was his sole beneficiary, and his stocks were duly transferred to her. A very tidy sum, I might add.”

  “Do you remain her broker?”

  “I am afraid she changed houses immediately upon the transfer. That is not unusual, and should not be taken as a indication of unhappiness with my firm.”

  Johnson made his last statement with some vigor. I wondered if he was unsettled by rumours of malfeasance and was thus sensitive to the implication.

  “I believe that I have a full grasp of your relationship to those involved, Mr. Johnson, but one item remains.”

  “What is that, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Just what is it that you expect me to do, sir?”

  “Why, clear the name of a man falsely accused, of course,” cried Johnson, nearly rising from his seat.

  “Mr. Highlander does not stand accused, falsely or otherwise, sir,” explained Holmes patiently. “He ha
s confessed. Inspector Hopkins was here this very morning. Scotland Yard is satisfied of his guilt. As long as Harold Highlander professes his culpability, I see little that can be done.”

  Johnson was running his fingers through his hair, as does one in great agitation of mind.

  “But do you not see, Mr. Holmes, that he must be in the throes of a sort of madness? Are you yourself satisfied with the explanation he has given? You were on the scene, as you say. Is the great Sherlock Holmes satisfied?”

  Holmes did not reply at once, but he rose to his feet and crossed over to the unlit fireplace. He turned his back to us, and Samuel Johnson looked to me for guidance. Before I could respond, Holmes spoke.

  “I am not satisfied, Mr. Johnson,” he said. “I am not satisfied in the least.”

  Chapter Nine

  A smile of satisfaction crossed the face of Samuel Johnson.

  “So you will take the case, Mr. Holmes?” he asked hopefully. “I can assure you a handsome sum as a retainer and a generous fee upon completion. What is your first move?”

  “I have already undertaken the first move before you arrived, Mr. Johnson,” said Holmes with a smile.

  Johnson plainly showed his surprise.

  “Yes, it is true,” said Holmes. “I am afraid that any reluctance on my part that you observed was in part an affectation. It was your intentions that I wished to be assured of. Now that I am, we can begin.”

  As Holmes was speaking, I heard the bell from the downstairs entrance. Within a matter of moments the door was opened by our page, who had apparently returned from his errand, and he ushered in three people, all of whom were unknown to me.

  “Ah,” cried Holmes. “Mr. Johnson, I believe we are about to meet some of the players we have been discussing.”

  In the lead of the small group were a man and a woman who were, obviously, man and wife. The one bringing up the rear, with his hat in hand, was a very dark man, solidly built, and of middle height. The man in the lead strode forward.