The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part IV

by David Marcum

  “The local police, headed by a man named Sergeant White, investigated the case. However, their research has failed to throw the least glimmer of light upon the matter. White could find no trace of the murderer, nor does he appear to possess sufficient ingenuity to imagine a reason which would have induced someone to commit the deed. By all reports, Dr. Ackroyd was a man so consumed by his own studies and pursuits that he lived much apart from the world. As far as the police can tell, he never raised the slightest acrimony in any human heart.”

  “Then it must have been some brute, some savage, who loved blood for its own sake, who struck that cruel blow,” I concluded.

  Holmes shook his head. “Not necessarily, Watson. It is far too soon to postulate the existence of a random lunatic. Simply because the local police force has failed to turn up a raison for this crime, does not denote that one fails to exist. However, since the local police were completely dumfounded as to both means and motive, they called for assistance from Scotland Yard. They in turn sent up the good Inspector Lestrade, who you likely recall from the little matters of Brixton Road and the Holloway forgery case.”[8]

  “Of course.”

  “Not surprisingly, given his own limitations, Lestrade was also unable to come to any conclusions upon the matter. As his note informed me, an anonymous letter has cast suspicion upon the janitor’s friend, Walton. However, Lestrade has been unable to locate the tiniest morsel of evidence against him, so no arrest has been made. Fortunately, Lestrade has made the wise choice of promptly requesting my assistance with the investigation and here we are.” He waved out the window to the passing bucolic scenery of the Essex countryside.

  The lean, ferret-like form of Inspector Lestrade was waiting for us when the train arrived at the Cambridge railway station. He held out his hand for a quick greeting, but the look on his face was grave.

  “I take it that you have made no further progress, Lestrade?” asked Holmes mildly.

  “It’s worse than that, Mr. Holmes,” replied the inspector morosely. “There’s been another killing.”

  “Another?” exclaimed Holmes, his right eyebrow arched and his eyes gleaming with interest. “Pray tell. Spare no details, Lestrade.”

  “Was it Professor Sidney?” I asked. For I had, during the remainder of the train ride, begun to construct a theory in which Dr. Ackroyd had been targeted because of his academic affiliation.

  Lestrade eyed me and shook his head. “No, Doctor. It’s Walton, the laborer. He was found this morning lying in the northwestern corner of the yard at King’s College Chapel. He was so mutilated that he was hardly recognizable. His head was hacked open in very much the same way as that of Dr. Ackroyd, and his body exhibited numerous deep gashes, as if the murderer had been so possessed with fury that he had continued to hack at the body long after all life had fled.”

  Holmes frowned at this horrific news. “Have you disturbed the body, Lestrade? Snow fell heavily yesterday and through the night. If we go at once, we may be able to read traces in the prints of the assassin.”

  Lestrade shook his head. “The body was in plain sight of the road, so we were forced to remove it to the local mortuary. We can examine the scene if you like, Mr. Holmes, but knowing your methods I am afraid it won’t make you very happy. You are correct that there is snow, almost a foot deep in places, and when the body was discovered there was a thin layer coating the man. However, Walton’s body was discovered by a passing coal heaver, who in turn called for help. A number of folk rushed over to discover the source of the commotion, and by the time the local constables thought to make a cordon around the body, I am afraid the scene became a blurry mess of footprints. I think that it is nigh impossible to draw any trustworthy evidence from them.”

  “I will look at them all the same.” Holmes scowled in evident frustration at this potentially wasted clue. “But you simply must instruct these local men in the proper respect for a crime scene. They should attempt to emulate a solitary statue rather than a herd of buffaloes. Now, Lestrade, have you discerned a motive to the attack?”

  “That’s just the thing, Mr. Holmes,” cried Lestrade in despair. “We have the same impenetrable mystery and absence of motive as with the murder of Dr. Ackroyd. In Walton’s pocket, we found a notebook which contained a considerable sum in gold and several fifty pound bills from the Bank of England.”

  “The attacker left behind all of that money!” I exclaimed.

  “Yes, Doctor,” replied Lestrade. “Of course, it is hardly conceivable that anyone in their right mind would leave such a spoil untouched. Therefore, the town-folk have concluded that a madman walks the streets.”

  “Yes, well, perhaps we should start with the scene of the most recent attack?” suggested Holmes.

  “As you wish, Mr. Holmes,” nodded Lestrade, waving towards a row of waiting hansoms.

  A quarter-of-a-mile ride down Regent Street soon brought us to the site in question, in the snowy corner of the yard surrounding the city’s most magnificent structure. The gothic spires soaring into the crisp blue sky proved to be a stark contrast to the sad scene below, where a red-splattered area still bore witness to the gruesome crime. The area remained under the guard of a tall and thin man, whom Lestrade introduced as Sergeant White. His official uniform was crisp and neat, and he had an expression of alertness. At his side were two stalwart constables armed with large whisk brooms.

  “What are you doing, man?” Holmes asked, a note of alarm in his voice.

  “We are about to sweep the area,” said White, mildly.

  “Whatever for?”

  “There was no sign of the murder weapon next to the body, so we thought it might have been discarded in the snowdrifts nearby.”

  Holmes shook his head. “You are as likely to find the crown jewels in that snow pile as you are the murder weapon. The assassin would never be so foolish. He would either maintain possession of it, or if he wished to dispose of it, the presence of the nearby River Cam would be much more amenable than a drift of snow which may melt away in a few days’ time.”

  “That’s an excellent idea, Mr. Holmes,” exclaimed Lestrade. “White, have your men drag the river.”

  “Hold a minute, Lestrade. Let us see if we can determine the whereabouts of the weapon with rather less effort.” Holmes proceeded to nonchalantly stroll up and down the blood-soaked area where the body had been found. He gazed fixedly upon the ground and at one point he stopped, his eyes betraying a glimmer of satisfaction. He knelt down and pulled a large magnifying glass from his pocket in order to more closely inspect one particular area. Finally, he rose, brushed some snow off of his pant-legs, and replaced his glass. Glancing over at us, he shook his head. “Well, Lestrade. I can see why you determined that the ground is far too trodden over to make anything of it. But there are one or two peculiarities of note.”

  Lestrade frowned. “What? Where?”

  “They may be nothing, only further investigation will say for certain. I suggest we commence with a trip to examine Mr. Walton’s chambers.”

  Lestrade pulled out a notebook and consulted it. “He boarded with the widow Green at 25 Victoria Street. But I am not certain, Mr. Holmes, what we might find there that could possibly tell us anything? Surely this was a random attack.”

  “We shall see,” replied Holmes evasively. “Sergeant White, if I may request that you and your men refrain from demolishing the area for a few minutes longer, I shall attempt to locate your murder weapon in another locale altogether.” He then set off briskly for the street in question, with the two of us close upon his heels, our breaths curling in the crisp, frosty air. As we walked, Holmes questioned the inspector. “Tell me, Lestrade, what is your theory as to the sum of money in Mr. Walton’s pocket?”

  “Well, Sergeant White supposes that Walton may have lent money to someone, and when he went to collect, the assassin utilized this m
ethod as a means of evading his debt.”

  “So you have discounted the madman hypothesis?”

  “Not at all. I was just telling you the competing notion. I, for one, favor the rogue lunatic. But I don’t know how to identify him before his next attack.”

  “Hmmm,” murmured Holmes.

  “You don’t agree, Mr. Holmes?” said the inspector irritably.

  “I have yet to form a complete theory, Lestrade. It is far too premature, as we are not yet in possession of all of the facts. But in my experience, there is often a method to madness.”

  Number 25 Victoria Street proved to be a modest dun-colored brick row-home tucked behind one of the colleges, where resided the common folk who maintained the apparatus of the great university. The street was exceedingly narrow, such that the houses crowded right up to the sidewalks, while Mrs. Green’s house was marked by an appropriately-painted front door. The widow herself was a mousy-faced woman of some thirty-odd years. Over the course of the next few minutes, we discovered that her husband had died two years prior from diphtheria, and so she had opened three of her rooms to boarders. Walton had been with her from the start and was considered an affable man with little ambition other than enjoying a pint at the local pub.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Green,” asked Holmes, “what was the source of Mr. Walton’s income?”

  She shrugged. “He did odd jobs around the town. Nothing steady. His friend Ramsey often turned him on to work.”

  “So you are acquainted with Mr. Ramsey?”

  “Oh yes, he would come by often to have a smoke with Mr. Walton.”

  “Do you know the nature of their friendship?”

  She shrugged. “From what I could tell by their conversations, they were once soldiers together. Bengal Army, I think.”[9]

  “So Mr. Walton was not a wealthy man?”

  She scoffed. “Quite the contrary. It was a rare month that he paid his rent on time.”

  “You may have heard that Mr. Walton was found with a considerable sum of money upon him. Do you have any idea where it would have come from?”

  “I heard it all right, but can hardly credit it. The man seldom had two pence to rub together.”

  “And what exactly did Mr. Walton do on the day of his demise?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t rightly know. He was shut up in his room most of the day. He seemed deeply downhearted about the suspicion that has been affixed upon him.”

  “But he eventually went out?”

  “Oh, yes. It was around eleven o’clock in the evening when I heard him depart.”

  “Surely that is a late time to go for a stroll?”

  She shrugged. “He had said earlier he didn’t want to show his face on the streets. Possibly he thought that there would be fewer folks about at that hour and he might be able to pass unrecognized?”

  “Perhaps. You did not wait up for him to return?”

  “Oh, no! He had a latchkey and could let himself in at any time. I went to bed and by the time I realized that he had not come down for breakfast, Sergeant White was already knocking at my door to tell me that poor Mr. Walton was dead.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Green. You have been most helpful. Would you mind if we took a quick look at Mr. Walton’s room?”

  She shrugged. “A couple of constables have already been over it and said there was nothing to be seen.”

  “Hmm, yes,” murmured Holmes non-committedly. “My methods are, shall we say, slightly different from those employed by the local aid.”

  Mrs. Green nodded her assent, and Holmes spent the next ten minutes carefully inspecting the small area while Lestrade and I watched from the doorway. If the room had once been tidy, the onslaught of the searching constables had certainly altered that. Holmes puttered around, shaking his head in dismay at the disorder that had been inflicted upon the space. He only paused to contemplate the ashes in a small tray, even bending over so as to sniff at its contents.

  Knowing his especial expertise in such matters, I called out, “Something interesting about the man’s tobacco, Holmes?”

  “The man primarily smoked a cheap Trichinopoly, Watson, but the most recent ashes are the far more expensive Cavendish. This confirms Mrs. Green’s observation that Walton was poor, at least until the last day of his life, when he suddenly felt capable of splurging upon something finer.”

  “And how does that advance us?” I asked.

  Holmes smiled. “There are but a few ways for a poor laborer to suddenly come into wealth, Watson. It provides a reasonable frame-work for a motive to his slaying.” However, per his usual reticence, Holmes refused to say anything more upon the matter.

  It was going on four o’clock when we left the former quarters of Mr. Walton. “What do you suggest now, Mr. Holmes?” asked the inspector.

  “We must interview the remaining witnesses to the pivotal moment.”

  Lestrade frowned in incomprehension. “What are you talking about, Mr. Holmes?”

  “Come now, Lestrade. Surely it must be evident that the two attacks are connected? The resemblances between the cases of Ackroyd and Walton are far too great to be a simple coincidence.” He began to count off on his long fingers. “One: the absence of motive and robbery. Two: the lack of any clue to the identity of the assassin. Three: the nature of the wounds, evidently inflicted by the same or, at least similar, weapon. This all points in one direction - that the meeting at the museum of the four men, including Professor Sidney and Mr. Walton, somehow precipitated these murders. Since there are only two men left, we must speak with them before they too are struck down.”

  “But surely, Holmes,” I interjected, “if another is killed, then the assassin must be the remaining man?”

  He smiled wryly. “That is a reasonable hypothesis, Watson, but perhaps not one we wish to put to the test. In an ideal world, the goal would be to identify the guilty party before he has time to take a third life.”

  “Well, yes, of course,” I muttered.

  “Let us start with Professor Sidney, shall we? I expect at this hour we shall find him at the Fitzwilliam.”

  The white marble of that fabled institution gleamed in the rapidly dropping red rays of the sun. As classes were out of session and the museum closed for the evening, the nearby lantern-illuminated pubs were crowded with students roaring drinking songs at the tops of their lungs. As we strode through the Corinthian capitals onto the museum’s portico, we stopped to knock some of the snow from our boots.

  “Stop, Watson!” Holmes suddenly exclaimed. “Don’t move a muscle!”

  I froze with my right foot in the air. “Whatever is it, Holmes?” I said, tightly.

  Instead of answering, Holmes moved over to my side and inspected the snow beneath my feet. All I could see was a jumble of prints and I was mystified what precisely Holmes could possibly conclude from it. Finally, his face satisfied, he motioned for me to proceed with placing down my step, before he himself strode into the museum.

  On the first floor we located the eclectically-decorated office belonging to Professor Sidney. He proved to be a man of medium-height and he looked even older than his supposed seventy years, with great lines of care etched upon his face and his grey hair much thinned. His temperament was far more tense and excitable than I would have typically expected from a man of letters, though some of those nerves could easily be attributable to the recent death of his friend, and perhaps concerns that his own life may be in danger.

  As Holmes introduced the three of us, Sidney rose from behind his desk and came around to half-heartedly shake our hands. “Professor Sidney,” said Holmes, “I am most sorry for the loss of your friend. On the night in question, what exactly did you do after Dr. Ackroyd departed?”

  The man shrugged. “I took a last look into the store-room to reassure myself that all was right wi
th our new acquisitions and then also went off to my chambers.”

  “What about Walton and Ramsey?”

  “I recall that they were sitting in the janitor’s room drinking a pot of coffee.”

  “Did you ever consider the possibility that one of them was responsible for the attack on Dr. Ackroyd?”

  Professor Sidney shook his head vigorously. “Never. I have heard the rumors that Walton was involved, but I thought that impossible even before the man was killed.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because Ramsey declared solemnly that Walton was with him until the moment that they heard the commissionaire’s startled cries, which caused both of them to run out to the scene of the tragedy.”

  “And you have no reason to doubt his truthfulness? Walton was his friend. Old friendships may induce one man to tell a falsehood in order to screen his compatriot.”

  “No, I don’t believe that to be the case, Mr. Holmes. Ramsey has been part of Cambridge for longer than anyone can remember. He has been here since shortly after I came up, and I am no young man. The stones of this college are his bones, and the river Cam, his lifeblood. Ramsey would not lie, especially not if it endangered the college. In any case, Walton’s innocence is now sadly proven beyond a doubt.”

  “Why do you say that?” inquired Holmes.

  Professor Sidney frowned at Holmes as if he were daft. “The man is dead, sir!”

  “As far as I am concerned, that only exonerates him from the second murder. He is still very much a suspect for the first.”

  The professor looked astonished by this statement. “Surely there are not two men running about Cambridge killing men with hatchets?”

  “Until disproven, it must be on the list of possibilities,” said Holmes, mildly. “However, even if Walton was responsible for the murder of Dr. Ackroyd, we no longer need concern ourselves about two murderers on the loose. We must only determine the final link in the chain.”

  “If you say so,” replied Sidney uncertainly.

  “Tell me, Professor Sidney, about the collection of weapons from the Earl of Chesterfield. Where precisely did they originate?”