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

by Steven Ehrman

  “But there is obviously a truth that remains untold in your mind, Mr. Holmes,” said Inspector Hopkins. “What is the truth? I remind you that you did gather us here to explain this riddle.”

  “Quite right, Inspector,” said Holmes. “I shall draw this out no longer than necessary. This is what really happened to Anne Benton.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The room was as silent as a graveyard as Holmes began to speak.

  “Before I tell you who the murderer is, it is vital that you understand who Anne Benton was. The next morning after the tragedy, but before I ever spoke to Samuel Johnson, I sent off two telegrams. The first I will speak of later, but the second was to look into the background of Anne and William Benton. I was intrigued by the couple. Later that morning, I had the opportunity to meet Mr. William Benton, and my curiosity was further spurred. Watson, please describe Anne Benton.”

  “Well, let me see, Holmes. She was a slender woman of some thirty years. She was of medium height, very pretty, and very fair.”

  “Correct on all accounts. Now describe William Benton.”

  “He is a man, also of thirty years or so. I should think slightly older than his sister. He is a bit stout with very dark features.”

  “Precisely,” said Holmes. “William Benton could even be described as swarthy. Do these two people thus described appear to be brother and sister?”

  There was no answer, so Holmes continued.

  “From what I have been able to discover through my sources, in actuality the Bentons are a husband and wife team of confidence swindlers who have changed their names countless times. They move into an area, fleece their victims, and then move on. That is why William Benton has disappeared. He could not stand any close scrutiny of his life, or the life of his so-called sister.”

  “But, Holmes, how could a man in the army live such a life?” I asked.

  “Watson, one of the first things I learned upon meeting Mr. Benton, and one of the first things to stir my interest, was that he was not a soldier.”

  “How could you tell that, Mr. Holmes, just from a short meeting?” asked Inspector Hopkins.

  “During that meeting, Mrs. Highlander became overcome with grief. Watson gallantly reached for his handkerchief, but Mr. Benton was quicker, and gave the lady his own. Watson, where do you keep you handkerchief?”

  “Why, in my sleeve, Holmes, as you well know.”

  “And where was Mr. Benton’s handkerchief kept?”

  Before I could answer, Sylvia Highlander broke in.

  “It was from his jacket pocket, Mr. Holmes. I remember distinctly. But what does that prove?”

  “Only that a recently mustered out soldier would not have his handkerchief in his jacket, but rather in his sleeve. I have chided my friend Dr. Watson on more than one occasion, that he will never be taken as a true civilian as long as he maintains that practice. Now, the Highlanders have no military tradition, so they were completely taken in. Anne Benton romanced David Highlander, with a probable blackmail angle, while William Benton surveyed the area for other victims. There was one person in the area, however, who was likely not taken in by William Benton’s deception. Simon Langston had a sharp eye and knew how a soldier carried himself from his son’s experience. I believe that once he failed in his attempt to blackmail Harold Highlander, Langston turned his attention to other areas. Once he had taken the first step towards extortion, the next was easy. Perhaps he hinted to William Benton that he knew that his bona fides were not true.”

  “Then at that point, he murders Simon Langston and flees,” said the Inspector.

  “That does not fit with the character of William Benton, Inspector. He is a man of long criminal experience, but to my knowledge he has never ventured into murder. No, Mr. Benton knows his best chance at avoiding arrest is simply to flee and begin a new identity somewhere. That is his modus operandi.

  “So now we know the character of the murder victim. She is an unscrupulous woman who will not hesitate to use any information she discovers to her advantage. Let us imagine that she moves into the cottage and gives a sympathetic ear to a neighbor who is in some distress. That neighbor’s father has recently passed away. He was in much pain towards the end and the neighbor confesses that she aided his death with an overdose of morphine. Such a woman might bleed said neighbor dry. Does this sound familiar to you, Miss Woodbury?”

  All eyes turned to Elizabeth Woodbury. She faced Holmes, and I saw anger in her eyes. She was still heavily powdered, so it was impossible to tell if her cheeks were flushed.

  “You go too far, Mr. Holmes,” she said evenly. “You openly accuse me of the murder of my father and the death of Miss Benton? I suppose next you will say that I murdered Simon Langston, as well.”

  “That is exactly what I was going to say next, my dear. However, I believe that the death of your father was a mercy killing. It is common knowledge that he was terminal. Even the death of Anne Benton is somewhat understandable. She has tormented you and drained your resources. Those same resources that you had hoped to use to continue your travels. You saw an opportunity and you struck. It was not an action of cold blood, but a reflex against an evil woman. The death of Simon Langston is harder to forgive, but every murder makes the next one less difficult.”

  “You can prove nothing against me, sir,” said the lady.

  “We shall see,” said Holmes. “Here is what actually happened that evening from your point of view. You see David Highlander flee from the house in agitation. Your curiosity is aroused. You go over through the side door of the cottage facing your own house, which was open. You find Anne Benton bloodied on the floor. You think for a minute that she is dead. You are free, you think, but upon closer inspection you discover that she is merely unconscious. She should be dead, she must be dead. You begin to strangle her, but she awakens and fights back. However, she is in a weakened condition and you prevail.”

  “Strangulation?” said Hopkins. “This is the first I am hearing of it.”

  “Had you examined the body more closely, you would have noticed what I did,” said Holmes. “The eyes of the victim were shot through with blood. This is a common symptom of strangulation and certainly not of stabbing or bludgeoning.”

  “Of course,” I muttered. I recalled Holmes pulling back the eyelids and seeing the bloodshot eyes.

  “I cannot believe that I missed that, Mr. Holmes,” said the Inspector glumly.

  “Do not take it too badly, Hopkins,” said Holmes. “The scene that was presented was a powerful one. It was designed to make onlookers believe that the murder happened a certain way. It was a compelling misdirection. Now where was I? Oh yes, Miss Woodbury, once the murder is done, you leave by the same way you entered and are careful to rake the ground surrounding the small patio to cover your footprints, but to leave the footprint of David Highlander, so as to incriminate him. This is the print Harold Highlander nearly obliterates later.”

  “How are you certain of that, Holmes?” I asked.

  “Because the gardener had not been at the work for several days, yet the rake was leaning against the house next to the door. There were also only the two sets footprints of Harold Highlander and Miss Woodbury in the sand later, and the single print of David Highlander. Surely there would have been other prints if she had not smoothed the area. In any case, she awaits the discovery of the body. She has likely decided to tell the police that she saw David Highlander fleeing the scene, hoping for his arrest. However, her plans are upset by Harold Highlander. When she enters the room with him, she is prepared to pretend to be shocked by the death of her neighbor, but she finds herself genuinely surprised at the murder scene Harold Highlander has constructed, and the tale of the note that he says he received. She wisely decides to remain silent and await developments. She must have been thrilled when, to her surprise, Harold Highlander confessed.

  “There is however, one last loose end, Miss Woodbury. You must also have realized the import of Simon Langston’s word
s that night in the cottage when he spoke of how he would have seen all, if only he had been awake. He was trying to send a message to Mr. Highlander, but it must have chilled your bones, as well. I believe that yesterday you visited Mr. Langston for tea. At the first opportunity you drugged his beverage and caused his death in the same manner that you had done with your father. All those who can injure you are now dead, and you can relax for the first time in an age. That is, if you can live with your conscience.”

  “That is a very pretty tale, Mr. Holmes,” Miss Woodbury replied, “but a tale with little evidence that I can see.”

  “It is true that your involvement in the death of your father and of Mr. Langston will be difficult to prove, but I believe that I can demonstrate that you strangled Anne Benton,” said Holmes evenly.

  “How, Mr. Holmes?” asked Inspector Hopkins. “I believe that you have accurately described what has occurred, but as the lady says, much of it is supposition. Can you even prove the ongoing blackmail of Miss Woodbury by Miss Benton?”

  “Only by following a logical train of facts. Miss Woodbury stated that her father left her very little, to her surprise, she said. However, Samuel Johnson, who was stockbroker for Miss Woodbury’s father, states he left her a tidy sum. One of these statements is incorrect. One of the wires I sent out the day after the murder was an inquiry into Miss Woodbury’s finances. I am told that they have been steadily drained since a date that is curiously close to the date on which the Bentons became her neighbors. If the bank account of Anne Benton shows deposits that match those withdrawals, then we can establish motive.”

  “But what of the murder itself, Holmes?” I asked. “Even if the coroner’s report states that strangulation is the cause of death, how can you tie Miss Woodbury to it?”

  In answer, Holmes turned to the Inspector.

  “Hopkins, in your experience, how does a person react to being strangled?”

  “It has been my observation that they flail at their attacker, Mr. Holmes.”

  “It is my observation as well,” said Holmes. “With that in mind, I closely examined the fingernails of the victim. The nails were clean and finely shaped, though very short. You observed it as well, I think, Doctor.”

  “It is as you say, Holmes. It seemed distinctly unstylish for such a beautiful woman, I remember thinking.”

  “I deduced from the length of the nails of the victim that she had scratched her assailant and that there had been tissue under her nails from this. The killer realized her dilemma at once and took steps so that no one would ever associate scratches with the crime. She cut the nails short and shaped them as only another woman could. With that evidence gone, even if someone suspected strangulation, they would not be on the lookout for someone who displayed scratches.”

  Suddenly it occurred to me what Holmes was driving at. I looked over at Elizabeth Woodbury and noted again how heavily powdered her face was.

  “Miss Woodbury, if we were to remove your make-up would we find fresh scratch marks beneath it?” asked Holmes.

  The lady sat for some time, saying nothing. She had her hands folded primly on her lap with her eyes down. She finally lifted her chin and met the gaze of Sherlock Holmes.

  “It proves nothing, Mr. Holmes,” she said with authority. “I merely scratched my face on a rose bush while gardening. It is vanity to hide it, of course, but it means nothing.”

  “That is well parried, Miss Woodbury, but the scratches you are hiding along with the evidence of the blackmail payments will surely be enough to convict you of murder. Besides, now that the police know to look for morphine as a cause of death for Simon Langston, I am confident that they will find it. I remind you that you told of your access to morphine when you related the story of your father’s death.”

  “I have heard enough,” said Inspector Hopkins. He took the lady by the arm. “Miss Woodbury, I must ask you to accompany me to Scotland Yard.”

  “Of course, Inspector,” she said. She stood in a dignified manner.

  As the Inspector was walking her to the door, they passed closely by Holmes. The lady paused and spoke softly to him.

  “I loved my father a great deal, Mr. Holmes. For some reason, it is very important to me that you believe that.”

  “Why, I do, my dear, I assure you,” he replied graciously.

  Chapter Seventeen

  After the room had cleared, Holmes resumed his customary chair and lit a pipe. We sat in silence for some minutes. Holmes had come through again where the authorities had failed, but there were still some lingering questions in my mind.

  “I say, Holmes,” I began, “you made it sound as if you suspected Miss Woodbury from the start. Is that so?”

  “Quite so, Watson. I saw at once that the murdered woman had been strangled, and when I saw the nails of Anne Benton and the heavy powdered make-up on Miss Woodbury I felt sure that I had identified the culprit.”

  “But why not accuse her at that point? You could have solved the case that night.”

  “It is true that I could have determined that Miss Woodbury had murdered Miss Benton, but that would not have explained why she did. I also wanted to know why Harold Highlander rearranged the murder scene to disguise the culprit. At first I thought it possible that they were in the murder together, but, of course, I later realized that the father was covering for the son. I have an orderly mind, Doctor, and I prefer an orderly solution. I believe that answers your question.”

  “It does, Holmes,” I replied. “But you must realize that your orderly process came at a cost.”

  “What cost would that be, Doctor?”

  “Why, the death of Simon Langston,” I cried.

  “Ah, yes. Very unfortunate,” said Holmes blandly.

  “I must say, Holmes, that you do not express much regret for the death of the old tailor.”

  “Why should I feel regret?”

  “Holmes, this is a callous attitude. Have you no feeling for your fellow man?”

  “Doctor, this a wearying conversation. Simon Langston, however spotless his life was up until that point, was engaged in the blackmail of not just one, but two, and possibly three people. He certainly extorted Harold Highlander, I believe he did so with Miss Woodbury as well, and I believe that his next target was William Benton. In addition, he gave false evidence to the authorities and helped to cover up a murder. Does this sound like the life of a good and moral man?”

  “I see your point, Holmes, but the sentence for blackmail is not death.”

  “That is very true, of course, Doctor, but Simon Langston was playing a very dangerous game and he has paid. Recall what happens to those who sow the wind.”

  “They reap the whirlwind,” I murmured. Holmes had a point, of course. Langston had engineered the events that led to his death, yet I still felt for the lonely old man. How many nights, I wondered, had he nursed the memory of his son’s death until it blackened his soul? I had an involuntary shiver at the thought of creeping evil.

  “You seem very pensive, Doctor,” said Holmes. “I take it that you find my arguments unpersuasive as to Langston.”

  “It is done, Holmes, and I am certain you did as your own conscience dictated. However, there is still one mystery that remains unanswered.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Why, the teapots, Holmes. Do not tell me that you have forgotten them.”

  “Indeed not, Watson, but I do not see the question.”

  “There are two questions actually,” said I. “What was the importance of the teapots, and why did Sylvia Highlander destroy Miss Woodbury’s pot? It seemed very incriminating to me.”

  “I confess, Watson, that the teapots were a mere device so as to give you a reason for your visit.”

  “A reason you kept hidden from me, I take it.”

  “Regretfully, yes, Doctor,” said Holmes. “Please do not take offense. I am afraid that you are quite incapable of guile.” I made as if to dispute him, but he stayed my hand. “It is only bec
ause duplicity is at war with your good and honest nature. It is not a reflection upon your intelligence, I assure you.”

  I was somewhat mollified by that explanation.

  “What I actually sent you to see that day was whether Langston was expecting a visitor, and you performed that job admirably.”

  “I made no such report, one way or the other, Holmes,” I protested.

  “But you did, Doctor. You told me that there were two teacups out that day. Langston was not a man with friends to stop by. He told us himself that he was alone in the world. What those two cups told me was that he expected a guest. That guest, I was sure, was Miss Woodbury. You confirmed that with your visit to her cottage.”

  “How? The only thing of note I can recall is that Sylvia Highlander broke the teapot.”

  “Then you do not recall all. You reported that Mrs. Highlander told you that she had insisted Miss Woodbury brew a pot of tea.”

  I gave Holmes a look of bewilderment.

  “Don’t you see, my friend? She had not made tea because she was going to Langston’s cottage for tea. He had thought she was coming to find out his demands for silence; however, she had other plans.”

  “I still find it hard to believe that she killed the old man in cold blood.”

  “Two days earlier she would not have imagined it herself, but she was a trapped animal. And as I said, once you commit the first murder, the second comes all too easily.”

  “But then why did Sylvia Highlander shatter the pot?”

  “That is the one coincidence we allowed for, Doctor. It did come at an odd time from your point of view, but pots do break.”

  I gave no answer to that, as there was no answer to give. Holmes let a smile play about his lips and seemed content with my discomfort. I resolved to give Holmes no further opportunity to have sport with me that night, and I reached for a book. At that moment the door to our rooms opened, and Mycroft Holmes strode in.