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

by Steven Ehrman

  Hopkins sat and declined an offer of a cigarette.

  “Is Mr. Holmes about, Doctor?” he asked, glancing around.

  “He is not,” said I.

  “I understand from David Highlander that Mr. Holmes has undertaken to investigate the murder of Anne Benton. Has he uncovered anything that would undercut Harold Highlander’s confession?”

  “I am sorry, Inspector, but even as Holmes’s companion I am not in his confidences as to his thinking. When last we spoke, he was confident that he would be able to solve all questions on the morrow.”

  “Then his conversation with me was not mere pique.”

  I remembered the crestfallen face of the young Inspector when Holmes had chastised him for his failure, as Holmes saw it, to follow up the investigation once the elder Highlander had confessed.

  “Inspector, I do not believe Holmes is capable of acting from pique. The case simply does not seem complete to him. At least it did not upon hearing of the confession.”

  “And yet, Mr. Holmes had expected it. Why is it that Mr. Holmes cannot share his doubts and suspicions with the Yard? It is maddening, even considering the respect I have for him.”

  I shared the exasperation of Inspector Hopkins. At times, I too had felt the sting of my friend’s refusal to share with me his inner feelings.

  “Inspector, I am certain that you will hear from Holmes in the morning, if not sooner,” I said, so as to soothe him.

  “Where is he now, Doctor? Can you at least tell me that?”

  “I can honestly say I do not know. I can only relate to you his own words. He warned me not to expect him back before the small hours, and possibly not until morning.”

  The Inspector was running his hands through his hair as I spoke. As I finished, he rose from his chair.

  “That being the case, I will take my leave of you, Doctor,” he said. “I hope to hear from Mr. Holmes, but in any event, you will likely see me tomorrow. Good evening.”

  The Inspector, more composed than when he had arrived, quickly exited the room and I was again left with my thoughts. I studied the notes that I had taken on the case carefully over the next few hours. Only two people had solid alibis for the time of the murder of Anne Benton. Her brother, William Benton, was far away, according to his own testimony, and could not have been on Lambs Lane, if he was being truthful. Sylvia Highlander was likewise out of the mix of suspects unless her alibi could be shaken. For the rest, opportunity was there for the taking. Neither of the Highlander men had anyone who could vouchsafe their whereabouts at the time. And even though they seemed unlikely killers, Elizabeth Woodbury and Simon Langston were virtually on the spot of the murder. Holmes had even intimated that our client, Samuel Johnson, was not above suspicion.

  Once I had disposed of opportunity, I proceeded to motive. As far as I could ascertain, no motive for murder had been uncovered. The murdered lady was a relative stranger to all involved. She and her brother had been only recent transplants and they had lived, seemingly, unsullied lives. What the Inspector had said was true. Holmes had certainly expected Harold Highlander to confess, but why? It was all too baffling to me. Were it not for Holmes’s doubts, I would have thought the case closed with the confession.

  I realized that I was no closer to the truth than when I began, so I put away thoughts of the crime and turned to a biography of William the Conqueror. It was a weighty tome and by the time I had gotten to the Battle of Hastings, I felt my eyes grow heavy. Putting the book aside, I decided to take Holmes’s advice to heart. I retired to my bed and hoped that the dawn would bring new answers.

  The morning brought bright sunshine and I felt renewed energy. After performing my morning toilet, I arrived in the dining room to find that my breakfast was awaiting me, thanks to Mrs. Hudson, but that Sherlock Holmes had not returned from his odyssey. I felt sure that he would arrive in his own good time, so I decided that I would not wait breakfast. I hungrily began my meal and made short work of the larder provided.

  One-half hour later, I was in the sitting room enjoying a pipe and a cup of steaming coffee, when my friend finally made his return. Instead of the livery costume that I had seen him in last, he was now dressed as a common street idler. His face was dirtied with soot and he had a bandage on one hand. He nodded silently to me and went directly to his room. I found myself eager to hear the news of his investigation, but I remained in the sitting room awaiting his return. It was not long in coming. In less than fifteen minutes my friend rejoined me and sat in his normal chair. He was once again the respectable detective that I knew well, and it was hard to believe that the creature who had passed through the room only minutes ago was the same person. Only the bandage on his hand remained from his former self. Such was the power of Holmes to conceal himself within a character. Holmes languidly packed his pipe, lit it, and leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

  “I see that you have injured yourself, Holmes,” said I. “How did it come about?”

  “The places I have been in the last twelve hours, Doctor, are not always conducive to good health.”

  “Was such physical discomfort worth the information that you obtained? I take it that you were successful.”

  “You would be correct in that assumption, Doctor,” he replied. “The case is complete. All that remains is to send a message to Hopkins and set the wheels of justice in motion.”

  “Do you plan to share your newfound knowledge with me, Holmes?”

  Holmes looked at me and I saw a small grin play about his lips.

  “You must allow me my small vanity, Watson. It is my habit to keep the cards close to the vest until the proper time, but I assure you that you will be there at the moment.”

  “As you will, Holmes,” I said. “I know you well enough not to argue the point, but surely Hopkins will want more than your word that the case is solved.”

  “Of course, Doctor. I do not expect the Yard to rely upon my word alone, but there will be proof and the matter will be settled beyond all doubt. I have had answers to my cables and last night’s investigation provided me with the motive for the actions that have puzzled me. The crime itself was quite simple, but I could not understand why everyone has acted as they have until last night. It cost me a gash upon my knuckles in a skirmish with a lout, but I am quite fit and it is over.”

  “You seem very self-satisfied I must say, Holmes.”

  “The case would not have been solved correctly without me, Doctor.”

  “That is an immodest statement, Holmes.”

  “False modesty is a form of self-deception, Watson. I speak only the truth.”

  I was considering that last statement, when the door opened and our page admitted Inspector Stanley Hopkins. Holmes waved him to a seat in an airy manner.

  “You have saved me the trouble of sending for you, Inspector,” said Holmes. “Your arrival is really most fortuitous.”

  The Inspector did not immediately reply and he had a grim expression.

  “Come, Inspector, chin up,” Holmes continued. “I have news that will cheer you.”

  “I hope so, Mr. Holmes. I could use good news.”

  “Why? What has happened?” asked Holmes, suddenly concerned.

  “It may have nothing to do with the case, but I determined to question all concerned with the Benton murder again this morning. I sent men around to speak with everyone, but Mr. William Benton cannot be found and Mr. Simon Langston is…”

  He left the statement unfinished and I felt myself leaning forward in my chair.

  “Well, what of Langston?” Holmes demanded.

  “He is dead, sir,” replied Hopkins grimly.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Dead,” I repeated woodenly.

  “Yes, Doctor,” said Hopkins. “When my men knocked at his door they received no reply, so they had a look through the front window and saw him slumped in his sitting room chair. They forced the door and found he was dead.”

  “Do you suspect foul play, Inspector?”
I asked.

  “Well, he was an old man, Doctor, but under the circumstances it is odd timing at least. Of course, there is no coroner’s report as yet. For that matter, we do not have the report on Miss Benton as yet, but it hardly seems necessary in her case.”

  “How was Mr. Langston dressed, Inspector?” asked Holmes.

  “Very much as we saw him at the Benton cottage, sir. He had on trousers, shirt, jacket, and tie. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Was the body cold upon discovery?”

  “It was, sir. There has been no determination as to time of death, but it was certainly many hours before he was found.”

  ‘And do you not find that instructive?”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “Just this, Hopkins. Simon Langston was not one to stay up late. He told us that himself. Since he was fully dressed, and was cold this morning, it certainly follows that he did not die in the night, but rather the day before.”

  “I follow your reasoning there, sir. He died sometime yesterday before he had the chance to turn in.”

  “I think we can come closer than that, Inspector,” said Holmes. “We can state with a certainty that he was alive up until approximately 4:30 yesterday afternoon.”

  “How can you be so precise, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Because the good doctor had tea with the gentleman yesterday and he left him in good health, I assure you.”

  “You, Doctor?” Hopkins said, looking to me. “Why, whatever reason did you have to do such a thing?”

  “He did so at my bidding, Inspector,” said Holmes in answer. “I asked Watson to have a cup of tea with Langston and he did so. Was the sitting-room table still set for tea at the time of the body’s discovery?”

  “Why, yes it was, sir.”

  “And were the cups filled with tea or merely the remnants?”

  “I made a special note of that, sir,” replied Hopkins. “Both cups were completely clean. It would appear that Mr. Langston had not yet served the tea after making it.”

  “That is certainly one explanation, “ said Holmes vaguely. “You say that Benton has disappeared?”

  “That is so, sir. He apparently left his home last evening and has not returned.”

  “Watson actually saw the man leaving yesterday.”

  “Is that so, Doctor?” asked Hopkins

  I told the Inspector that it was so, and quickly related the conversation that I had had with Benton the previous day.

  “That certainly tightens the timeline,” said Hopkins, as he furiously scribbled in his notepad. “Now that we know it was Mr. Benton’s intention to return home, his disappearance looks bad for him, I must say. I now wonder if he too has had some misfortune fall upon him.”

  “I think not, Hopkins,” said Holmes. “I believe that you will find that Mr. Benton’s disappearance and the death of Mr. Langston are not related.”

  “How can you be certain, Holmes?” I asked.

  “Now, there you have me, Doctor,” he replied. “I cannot be certain, as you say, but I believe that I can comfortably make that assumption based upon the evidence I have gathered.”

  “But do you believe that Simon Langston has been murdered?” challenged Inspector Hopkins.

  After a short pause Holmes replied.

  “I think it very likely that Mr. Simon Langston was murdered, though proving it might be beyond our means.”

  “Well, Harold Highlander, at least, is not a suspect,” said I. “He was in gaol. A firmer alibi I cannot recall.”

  “That is true, Doctor. You have employed the power of deduction,” said Holmes.

  “Then it follows that Harold Highlander did not murder Anne Benton,” I said firmly.

  “Ah, my friend, now you move from deduction to supposition,” said he. “One does not necessarily follow the other.”

  “I suppose, Holmes, but if you are correct and Simon Langston was murdered, then we still have a killer about.”

  “That is so,” said Holmes gravely. “I admit that I underestimated the danger. Indeed, I might have exposed you to unnecessary risk, Doctor. For that, I apologize.”

  “Never mind the risk to me, Holmes. What of the death of a harmless old tailor?”

  Holmes made no reply. He simply relit his pipe and leaned back in his chair. Hopkins shot me a glance, but I merely shrugged my shoulders in answer. The Inspector seemed uncomfortable, but waited for Holmes to finish his pipe. Finally Holmes gave his attention to the young Inspector.

  “Well, Hopkins, you seem to have something else on your mind. Out with it, man.”

  “You’re correct, sir. I do have other news. Mr. Harold Highlander became ill during the night and a doctor was sent for. He reports that Highlander is in an advanced state of cancer. He may not live to face trial.”

  “Of course,” said Holmes dreamily. “That again, speaks to motive.”

  I thought much the same, Mr. Holmes,” said Hopkins. “Highlander will answer no questions on the subject of his illness, or anything else for that matter, but it defies logic to think he was not aware of his illness. With the end of his life in sight, he may have decided to settle an old score. After all, he has already been given a death sentence. Such a man has little to lose.”

  “Too true, Inspector,” mused Holmes.

  “Mr. Holmes, I confess I am not certain of what step to take next,” said the Inspector. “How would you advise me to proceed?”

  “Inspector, if you will be guided by me, I suggest that you bring Mr. Harold Highlander to this flat at eight o’clock tonight.”

  “To what end, Mr. Holmes?” Hopkins asked. “It can be done, of course, but it will certainly raise questions.”

  “I shall answer all questions at the appointed hour, Inspector.”

  “You are certain of this, Mr. Holmes?” asked the Inspector. “Is Mr. Highlander to be the only guest?”

  “Certainly not,” replied Holmes. “All the players of the company will be here.”

  “How, sir? I have no power at this time to compel their attendance.”

  “I will take care of the matter. Anything else?”

  “Shall I continue to send inquiries looking for William Benton or will he be here as well?”

  “By all means continue to energetically pursue Mr. Benton, but I think you will find that he has disappeared entirely.”

  “Just disappeared?” asked a skeptical Hopkins. “Surely, sir, you can tell me more than that.”

  “At the proper time I will, Inspector,” said Holmes. “If you had made your inquiries when I advised you to, you would not be groping in the dark now.”

  “It is true that I had thought the case finished upon the confession of Harold Highlander,” admitted the Inspector ruefully. “It is a mistake I shall not repeat, I assure you, sir.”

  “See that you do not, Inspector,” said Holmes coldly.

  With those hard words Hopkins departed, promising to return at the appointed hour. He was obviously deflated from the stern scolding from Holmes. When the Inspector’s footsteps faded away, I confronted Holmes on his behavior towards his young protégé. The great man, however, blithely dismissed my concerns.

  “So, you think that I have dashed his spirits, Doctor?”

  “In my opinion, yes, Holmes.”

  “It is possible that you are right, of course, but I believe there is a time to hold a hand and a time to slap it. I judge that Hopkins will carry this memory forward with him and not repeat his error.”

  “It is your business, Holmes,” I said. “Whom else should I expect at this evening’s gathering?”

  “David and Sylvia Highlander, Elizabeth Woodbury, and our client, Mr. Samuel Johnson will all be in attendance.”

  Holmes began writing out telegrams at his table. He finished them quickly and rang for our page. The young boy quickly answered, and scurried away with his task. Once he was gone I turned to Holmes again.

  “Then, am I to understand that you were in earnest with the Inspector, and
that William Benton is not expected?”

  “I think it most unlikely that he will be here.”

  “You seem to be very blasé in your attitude towards his disappearance,” said I. “Has he nothing to do with the matter we are investigating?”

  “Oh, he played a role in the events, Doctor. Of that, do not doubt,” said Holmes.

  With those words Holmes lapsed into silence. Knowing full well the character of my friend, I did not press him further. Morning advanced into afternoon, and after our midday meal, we were relaxing over cigarettes in the sitting room when Samuel Johnson burst into the room unannounced. He was holding a telegram in one hand, and he seemed quite agitated.

  “What is the meaning of this, Mr. Holmes?” he demanded, thrusting the paper towards the detective.

  “The message speaks for itself, Mr. Johnson,” said Holmes calmly. “Is it really that difficult to discern my intent?”

  “I hired you to clear my friend and now you jape with me? I am not a man accustomed to being treated in such a manner.”

  “Calm yourself, Mr. Johnson, and pray be seated.”

  The stockbroker looked as if he wanted to argue further whilst still on his feet, but he acceded to Holmes’s request and slowly sank into a chair.

  “I must apologize for my entrance,” said the man, after a few moments of silence. “This entire matter has been a strain upon me, and I am not myself.”

  “There is no apology necessary, Mr. Johnson, I assure you,” said Holmes. “The Doctor and I have seen many such entrances from clients and the authorities. Is that not so, Watson?”

  I nodded my agreement to Holmes and our guest. Holmes was right, of course, that our humble rooms had seen more than one dramatic entrance. My thoughts immediately went back to our visit from Dr. Grimesby Roylott. Compared to that day, Mr. Johnson’s entrance was quite sedate. I was roused from my memories by the voice of Samuel Johnson.

  “I understand your need for a free hand, Mr. Holmes, but as your client, am I not entitled to some knowledge of what your thinking is on the investigation?”

  “I am afraid not, sir,” replied Holmes. “If the case were at a dead end I would assuredly inform you, but as it is not, you must allow my small eccentricity in presenting the solution.”