The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part IV

by David Marcum

  “According to what I was able to pick up from the lads I worked with while I was there, Mr. Wargrave was married to a beautiful woman called Sophia, but there were no children. He was a very tidy man, I do remember that, always dressed in immaculate clothes, and from the one time I saw Mrs. Sophia Wargrave, it seemed to me that she shared her husband’s preference for beautiful and expensive clothes. I suppose when you have made your own money, you don’t feel ashamed to show off the fact, and maybe some people like to let it be known how successful they have been as soon as they are seen. Be that as it may, Mr. Holmes, it’s not the way I look at life. As long as my belly is full and my mouth watered, I reckon I’m as lucky as I need to be.

  “I left Wargrave Publishing as soon as the building job was done, for I had no reason to stay and another opportunity had come my way by that time. So, I took my wages and I moved on. That was nigh on four years ago, and in that time I’ve only heard the name Wargrave on two occasions. The first piece of news was that he had sold his company, apparently for a huge sum of money, but that means nothing to me or my story. The second piece of news is more pertinent to my experience this morning.

  “To bring matters up to date, I am currently working down at the Victoria Docks. To get to work, I have to walk down the old Merchant Road in Whitechapel. Going down Merchant Road saves me a good ten minutes’ walk to the docks, so I have taken to using it as a cut-through. Do you know the area, Mr. Holmes? If so, you will know that there are several lodging houses down that particular road which offer modest rooms at what they might consider to be a reasonable price.

  “This very morning, I saw something outside one of those lodging houses which gave me such a start, I doubted my own senses. Walking towards me was a man who seemed to be in something of a hurry. He was muffled against the brisk wind which had started to rise at that hour, but when he stopped outside one of the lodging houses and opened his coat to get his key from his inside pocket, I saw something of his face. Mr. Holmes, the man I saw walking into that grim tenement in that vile corner of Whitechapel was none other than Theodore Wargrave himself. You may think nothing of it, but you will better understand my confusion and anxiety at seeing Theodore Wargrave walk into that Whitechapel apartment this morning, Mr. Holmes, when I tell you that three years ago that same man took a revolver and shot himself in the head.”

  A heavy silence fell over us and for a moment, the three of us were like a painting of the scene, motionless and caught in time by the thrill of the matter. For myself, I was both amazed and enthralled by the turn of events; but Holmes, who was somehow immune to such amazement by years of over-stimulation, betrayed only a sense of his excitement under the controlled and composed attitude of a specialist who observes a particularly sensitive and complicated experiment come to fruition. I broke the silence with the tinkle of glass against glass as I poured another whisky for our simple but terrified client.

  “You are sure it was him?” said Holmes at last, his grey eyes searching for any trace of uncertainty in the labourer’s expression.

  “It has been four years since I saw him last, admittedly, but I am as sure as I can be.”

  “How frequently did you see him during your tenure at his company?”

  “Perhaps once or twice every other day.”

  “That is not sufficient exposure for you to be certain, surely.”

  Henry Collins looked at Sherlock Holmes with the defiant air of a man who is sure of his own mind. “I am convinced it was him. I have seen a dead man walking the streets of London, Mr. Holmes, and though I don’t pretend to be able to explain it, I shan’t have my word doubted on it.”

  Sherlock Holmes contemplated the older man for some long minutes before he spoke once more. “Leaving aside the question of whether or not you might have deceived yourself, I must confess that the incident is a remarkable starting point for an enquiry. What number lodging house was it?”

  “Number 38.”

  “Did you make no enquiry there?”

  “I daren’t, Mr. Holmes. I was too shaken to knock on that door.”

  Holmes thought for a moment. “Do you know what became of Mrs. Sophia Wargrave?”

  Collins shrugged his shoulders. “I have no clue, Mr. Holmes.”

  “It is of no matter. I have at least seven means of tracing her without undue exertion. Thank you, Mr. Collins, it is a fascinating problem and I shall be happy to look into it for you. Good day, and we shall advise you of any progress which we make in a day or so.”

  When the elderly man had left us, Holmes sat curled in his armchair, wrapped in his dressing gown, the smoke from his pipe creating a dense cloud of acrid fumes around his form. He remained in this position for such a long time that I began to wonder whether he had forgotten my presence in the room. At last, he laid down his pipe and leaned forward in his armchair, his grey eyes gleaming and fixing themselves on me.

  “A pretty little problem, is it not, Watson? What do you make of it?”

  “I should think your first priority is to visit the house on Merchant Road to see this man of whom we have heard.”

  “My dear fellow, a man could walk into these very rooms in the next few seconds and we would be no better placed to know if he is Wargrave or not, having never met the fellow. No, Merchant Road will yield nothing to us at this stage. I think there is only one course of action open to us and that is to examine the facts of the man’s suicide. In order to do that, we must trace Mrs. Wargrave and talk to her in some detail. I shall consult the back files of The Times and see what I can ascertain from the reports at the time. The death of a well-known publisher will have made some headlines, particularly in view of the particular method of his demise. You can stay here, Watson, I shall not need you. It is in the moment of action, not research, that I call for your support and courage.”

  It was a little after twelve when Holmes returned. He was eager, bright, and in an excellent mood, far different from that black depression which had begun to descend upon his over the past few days. He held in his hands a piece of paper which he threw towards me. On it was an address in Kensington.

  “Mrs. Sophia Wargrave is now Lady Sophia Galsworthy,” said Holmes. “She married a man by the name of Sir Benjamin Galsworthy last year. Galsworthy is a successful financier, so the lady would appear to have kept true to form in her choice of spouse.”

  “Did you learn anything about the Wargrave business other than tracing the wife?”

  Holmes shrugged. “Very little of any substance. There seemed to be no explanation for the man taking his own life, which is a curious point in itself, one supposes, but there can be no doubt that the man was discovered with a gunshot wound to the right temple.”

  “Were the features of the body disfigured by the gunshot wound?”

  Sherlock Holmes chuckled at the suggestion. “I see where your mind is taking you, my dear Watson, but you must look elsewhere for a solution. No, the features were not mutilated and it was Mrs. Wargrave, now Lady Sophia, herself, who discovered the body and identified it. I think we cannot do better than to call on her at once and see what we can learn of this matter from the lady in question.”

  We had a pleasant drive through London on that afternoon, alighting at Kensington Park Gate. The bells of St. Mary Abbot’s church chimed the half hour as we arrived outside an attractive town house set back from the main road. Steps led up to the front door which was framed with two austere pillars, and the small stretch of lawn under the ground floor bow window displayed its first green shoots of the year. As soon as we had turned to corner to approach the house, however, I felt Holmes’s fingers close around my forearm. I knew what it was which had caused his concern. Standing by one of the pillars which I have mentioned formed to the entrance to the property, there was the familiar blue figure of authority of the class known as a London constable.

  “There has been some de
vilry here, it would appear, Watson,” said Holmes.

  My friend’s name was sufficient to get us into the house and within moments we were in consultation with our old friend, Lestrade of Scotland Yard. The little official was surprised to see us, so much was evident, and he expressed as much to Sherlock Holmes.

  “The crime was only committed in the early hours of the morning, Mr. Holmes,” said he; “how did you hear of it so soon?”

  “You are under a misapprehension, Lestrade,” said my companion. “We are here on a private errand in the course of a small enquiry. I have reason to speak to the lady of the house.”

  “Lady Sophia? I am sorry, Mr. Holmes, you may have to wait for a long while before you can speak to her.”

  “May I ask why?”

  Lestrade shook his head in bewilderment. “Do you mean to say that you are not here in connection with the events of last night?”

  Holmes’s eyes narrowed. “I know nothing of them.”

  “Then I shall tell you. Early this morning, Lady Sophia woke to find her husband was not in bed. She went in search of him and she found him in his study.” Lestrade paused for a moment, his eyes flicking from one to the other of us. “Sir Benjamin Galsworthy had been stabbed to death.”

  I stared at Sherlock Holmes and sought to gauge his reaction. There was a flush of colour on his ascetic cheeks and his brows were creased over his intense eyes. It had been a morning of startling revelations for us and my concerns at the lethargy which had threatened to seize my comrade had evaporated entirely.

  “Fascinating,” said he. “Would you have any objection to some interference in the case on my part, Lestrade?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Holmes, although it is so early on in the enquiry that I have made nothing more than scant progress. Come this way.”

  The room into which we were shown was on the ground floor to the right of the main entrance. It was large and expensively furnished, with a high oak ceiling and panelling. There were two massive, glass-fronted cases, each containing leatherbound volumes on such diverse topics as the fall of the Roman Empire, the history of taxidermy, and the memoirs of a surgeon of a whaling ship. In the far corner there was a sturdy oak desk, topped with crimson velvet. Behind the desk there were three small windows which looked out onto the street outside. Splinters of glass were scattered around the floor beneath one of the windows, in which there was a jagged hole. A modest fire place was set into the panels of the right hand wall and in front of it was a bearskin hearthrug. The pureness of the white of the fur was tinged with that sickening scarlet intrusion which we knew too well.

  The body which lay sprawled on the rug was that of a well-made man of about fifty years of age. He lay on his stomach, his face half buried in the pile of the rug. One eye glared up at us in painful defiance, as though our presence was an unwelcome one, and the arms were outstretched over the head, in a sort of paroxysm of rage. Between his broad shoulders there was the result of the blade’s attack which had been the cause of his death. There was a subtlety about the thin wound, almost an understated elegance about the piercing of the skin and tissue, which made the violence of the attack even more terrible than it already was.

  “A burglary gone wrong, apparently,” observed Lestrade. “You see those shards of glass from the window behind the desk?”

  “I observed them as I entered the room,” said Holmes. “You think the murderer came in that way?”

  “I think it is probable.”

  “The lady of the house discovered the body, you say?”

  “Yes. She raised the alarm at once.”

  Holmes walked to the broken window. “Rather a public place for an illegal entry. Why did the burglar not try to gain access to the house from the back, where there is less chance of him being observed?”

  “The street may well have been empty,” countered Lestrade. “The doctors say that the murder occurred in the early hours of this morning, so there would not have been very many people about.”

  “It still seems to me to be an unnecessary risk,” said Holmes.

  Any further debate on the subject was prohibited by the entrance of one of the most remarkable women I had ever seen. She was tall, stately, with a proud expression upon her noble but rather haughty features. Her cheeks were sallow, so much so that her eyes seemed so dark as to be almost black, glinting out at us like small onyx pearls. She was undeniably attractive, but there seemed to me to be a cruelty about her features, a subtle slyness which it was impossible to ignore.

  “What is the meaning of this, Inspector?” she said in a voice which betrayed sadness, as well as a certain degree of scorn. “Who are these gentlemen?”

  My friend stepped forward. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, madam. I am here to assist in any way I can.”

  “I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes, and I know something of your reputation. I fear you can do nothing to assist here.”

  “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Lady Sophia Galsworthy?”

  The lady bowed her head in response. “As I have told the inspector, Mr. Holmes, nothing has been stolen, although this was clearly an attempt to rob us which my husband foiled. He lost his life attempting to protect us. I suppose the chances of catching whoever did it are slim.”

  I saw Holmes’s eyes harden with suspicion. “You must have more faith in our skills, Lady Sophia. The matter may not be as bleak as you suggest.”

  “I am glad to have your opinion, sir.”

  “I wonder if I might ask you one or two questions,” said Holmes.

  “About the events of this morning? The inspector can enlighten you, since I have told him all I know.”

  Sherlock Holmes gave a curt smile. “My presence here is connected to another matter with which you might be able to assist me.”

  Lady Sophia assessed my companion for a moment and then demurred. “Very well, but I should prefer to be interrogated away from this room.”

  We followed her through the hallway and into the drawing room. The lady showed us to two comfortable armchairs in which we sat. She sat staring at us, patiently waiting for my companion to speak. Holmes remained motionless, composing his thoughts, and I waited in anxious silence for one or other of them to break the tense antagonism which it seemed to have settled between us.

  “I imagine the events of this morning have been difficult for you, Lady Sophia,” said Holmes, at last.

  “Finding one’s husband murdered is hardly likely to have been anything else.”

  “It must have been twice the tragedy for you,” pressed Holmes. “A question of the past repeating itself.”

  For a moment, the lady’s dark eyes flickered, as though she were startled by the extent of my friend’s knowledge of her life. “I have had the misfortune to lose both my husbands, if that is what you mean.”

  “You discovered the body of your first husband, Theodore Wargrave.”

  “Yes.” Her eyes lowered, but I could see no tears in them. “But that tragic part of my life has no bearing on my present grief. Why do you recall it to my memory in this crude fashion?”

  Holmes placed his hand on his heart. “You must forgive me, madam, but a strange circumstance has brought me to your door.”

  “What strange circumstance?”

  For the moment, Holmes deflected the question. “There is no doubt, I suppose, that Mr. Wargrave took his own life.”

  “None whatsoever. It was his own revolver and he had taken it to his own temple.”

  “And there is no doubt that it was your husband’s body.”

  Lady Sophia glared at my companion. “None at all. Why do you ask such a thing?”

  “What would you say, madam, if I told you that an acquaintance of your first husband swears that he saw Mr. Wargrave alive and well, only this morning?”

  “I would say that the a
cquaintance is mistaken. He must be. Who is it?”

  “A man by the name of Henry Collins.”

  “The name means nothing to me.”

  “He once worked for your husband.”

  “Then he did not know Theodore personally. There is no doubt that this man Collins is in error. Mr. Holmes, I can assure you that my first husband is dead. I discovered his body myself. I think I should know my own husband, even in death.”

  Sherlock Holmes rose from his chair and paced to the window. He spent a few moments staring out into the street, and I knew from his demeanour that he was turning over in his head each fact of the matter which he had learned. At last, he turned round and stood behind Lady Sophia.

  “One last question, if I may,” said he; “what reason would your husband have for taking his own life?”

  Lady Sophia shook her head. “I can think of none.”

  “He had no financial troubles?”

  “No. He had sold his publishing company for a sizeable fortune.”

  “Which you inherited on his death?”

  Her eyes became fierce and her lips parted in an angry snarl as she turned back to my friend. “Do you wish to make some accusation, Mr. Holmes?”

  “I bring no indictment, madam. I merely seek the truth.”

  “I shall answer your question and, in doing so, I shall excuse your impertinence. In return, I must ask you to leave my house.”

  Holmes’s eyes were no less aggressive. “I shall be honoured to keep that bargain.”

  Lady Sophia Galsworthy rose from her seat and glided across the room with a graceful but purposeful step. At the fireplace, she turned back to face us with an expression of controlled defiance. “I inherited the Wargrave fortune in the event of my first husband’s death. Now, with the present tragedy which has befallen me, the Galsworthy estate and its own fortune will pass into my hands.”

  Sherlock Holmes contemplated the woman, his eyes darkened by distrust and suspicion. I could see that he was moved and I expected him to make some parting remark which would betray his emotions, but he said no further words. Instead, he gave a brusque bow of farewell and ushered me from the room. A few words of little significance were said to Lestrade before we left the house and it was not until we were some way distant that Holmes’s demeanour changed. His controlled mask of austere composure fell away and when he looked at me, his expression was one of savage outrage.