The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories Part IV

by David Marcum

  Holmes nodded, and I stretched for my notebook. The young Derwent took a sip of coffee and furrowed his brow.

  “My father had been in to work at the bank’s premises in Ave Maria Lane. On a normal day, as I believe yesterday was due to have been, he would put in some hours’ concentrated labour and then repair to a club for relaxation in the middle of the afternoon, returning to Highgate for half-past-five. He has always been in the regular habit of bathing during the early evening before dining, and yesterday was no exception. Being Thursday, it was the servants’ regular day off, and I was out of town visiting a former acquaintance from University.”

  “You live with your father, then?” Holmes interposed.

  “I do. Since my mother’s death two years ago, and because I have no personal ties, it has been both convenient and satisfying to reside in Highgate, for myself and my father.” Jocelyn Derwent paused and brushed an eye.

  “Continue, if you please,” came Holmes’s rejoinder.

  “I had told my father that I should be present for dinner in time for eight o’clock. The valet and cook, between whom there is an understanding, were to have returned in time to prepare the meal. I arrived at about half-past-seven, to find the house in chaos. Amy, the cook, was in tears, and Mitchelson was seated in the hallway with his head in his hands, and uniformed constables and Scotland Yard detectives were everywhere.”

  “Who is in charge of the investigation, if such it is?” queried Holmes.

  “His name is Gregson, I think, although, as you suggest, the word seems hardly relevant, since it has been cursory in the extreme. That is why the newspaper reports carry no hint of a crime having been committed, as assuredly it has.”

  Holmes looked across at me, as I continued to note the conversation.

  “I think you would agree, Watson, that Inspector Gregson is passably good at his work?” There was a rhetorical intonation to his words. I smiled and Derwent continued.

  “That is as may be, Mr. Holmes, but I should say that last night’s experience was such that I would not put too much trust in his carrying out a serious investigation, as this must be.

  “Nevertheless, Mitchelson found my father in the bath. The water in which he lay was still warm, as indeed was the bath chamber, when I myself returned. Mitchelson’s first thought was indeed that my father had suffered a heart attack and he had attempted to resuscitate him, but to no avail. It was then that he sent for the police.”

  “So there were no signs of violence?”

  “None that the police reported, nor any that I saw, for I must have returned less than an hour after death. My father’s face appeared calm and unruffled. And he had not inadvertently drowned, as inevitably occurred to us: no bathwater was found in his lungs when first he was examined.”

  Holmes acknowledged our visitor’s comment with a half-smile.

  “Presumably your father had drawn the water himself?”

  Derwent paused, as if he had not considered the matter.

  “I suppose he must have: as I have mentioned, on Thursdays my father often returns to an empty house, as Mitchelson, being off duty, is unavailable to prepare his toilet.”

  “How did the bathroom appear when you saw it? No obvious sign of forced entry, I presume, else you would have told us of it?”

  “No, Mr. Holmes. The windows look out upon the grounds at the back of the house, but they were closed, and the catches are upon the inside. There was some condensation on the walls, but that is to be expected after someone has been bathing in hot water. The door to the room, I was told, had been closed but not locked.”

  Holmes stood up and paced about our room, his chin in his hands. He dragged some tobacco from the slipper at the fireplace and plunged it into the narrow bowl of his morning pipe. When he turned to face us, it was clear that he had reached a decision.

  “I trust that your father’s body has not yet been taken away from your home?”

  “No, Mr. Holmes. I was sufficiently sure that I wished to consult you that I asked for my father to remain in the house. Will you come to Highgate?”

  “I shall, and so too will Watson, as his medical knowledge, such as it is,” Holmes gratified me with a slight but deliberate smile, “might be of use. At this stage, Mr. Derwent, I think that nothing that you have told me suggests anything other than cardiac arrest. But I am intrigued by the temperature of the bathwater. Watson, call a growler.”

  It was clear to me that Holmes, unusually, was operating close to the professional boundaries he habitually set himself: this affair sounded far from an obvious case of murder, and I allowed myself to wonder if he was embracing this offer of activity merely to stave off lassitude. I was down on the pavement of Baker Street within moments, and was joined by Holmes and our client as a growler was conveniently travelling northwards.

  It cannot have been thirty-five minutes before we were deposited at the end of a short driveway to an imposing building set in its own grounds which lay back from the main road climbing towards the top of Highgate Hill. A police constable stood outside the thick oaken front door, the only sign that anything might be amiss within. Recognising Sherlock Holmes, he stood smartly aside as we entered.

  Jocelyn Derwent led us through a hall that demonstrated his late father’s wealth, and called out for the valet. A middle-aged man appeared at the top of the sweeping marble staircase.

  “Master Jocelyn, your father now lies in his bedroom. The inspector is in there as well.”

  Derwent bounded up the stairs. “Thank you, Mitchelson. This way, gentlemen.”

  A corridor ran to the right upon the first floor, and another policeman stood at the door of the second chamber along. The son opened the door and the three of us entered, to see the body of his father lain upon the bed, a sheet thrown across the torso. Inspector Gregson was seated at a window table, then rose in no great humour as we came in.

  “Ah, Gregson,” said Holmes, smiling archly. “How kind of you to wait for me.” The Scotland Yarder grimaced.

  “It is always a pleasure, of course, Mr. Holmes. But I should have had the body away from here hours ago if Mr. Derwent had not insisted it stay while he went to Baker Street. If ever there were a case that required no investigation, this is it.” He sat down again and twisted a pencil between his fingers. Holmes went to kneel at the edge of the bed and called me over to join him.

  “I should be grateful for your opinion, Watson.”

  The face of Thornton Derwent was as peaceful in feature as his son had described. Some rigidity of body had begun to make itself apparent, but it took me but three minutes of examination to permit me to announce that I spotted nothing untoward.

  “I cannot say otherwise, Holmes: it would appear to be a death by natural causes.” Holmes nodded, and then shook his head, as if he simply could not make up his mind.

  “Mr. Derwent, what precise manner of financial deal was your father involved in? The papers speak of something little short of sensational, and you mentioned a sum of one-hundred-thousand pounds. When was that due to be obtained?” he asked, looking closely at the corpse. The young man seemed surprised.

  “Frankly, Mr. Holmes, my father did not keep me informed each day about the details of his business, and thus I am not exactly sure of the details. But I do know that the bank was about to improve its holdings by that sum in a takeover of Cromley’s, the merchant financiers of Bleeding Heart Yard in the City. I do not, however, see how his affairs might bear upon his death.”

  “If, as you believe, your father has been murdered, then no element in his life should be discounted. Do you perhaps know if there to be particular gains for the individuals concerned, your father and his partners, beyond the benefit for the bank as a whole?”

  “I have no idea, Mr. Holmes,” Derwent shrugged. “I presume that there are always financial incentives in matters o
f this sort, but I have never been attracted to the lure of money as an end in itself. Happiness is achievable in other ways.”

  “So you disapproved of your father’s activities?”

  “No indeed. That is - was - the line of life he chose to take, and I cannot but admit that my mother and I benefited from the practicalities that wealth afforded. But, Mr. Holmes, what can you guess from his body?” Holmes stiffened, but he refrained from the predictable response.

  “A one-hundred-thousand pound takeover is far from negligible,” he mused. “As to your father’s body, I am slightly perplexed. Gregson, I should like to inspect the bathroom, and talk to the valet.”

  The inspector rose, shaking his head in some bewilderment.

  “Mr. Holmes, even you will not see anything that my colleagues and I have not. It is now some seventeen hours since Thornton Derwent was found in his bath.”

  Holmes arose from the bed and crossed to the door. “I shall observe what I observe,” he murmured as he passed the inspector. Derwent accompanied him, calling out for Mitchelson. We crossed to a landing and entered the bathroom where Thornton Derwent had perished. Holmes motioned me to hold the son and Gregson back at the doorway; the servant had also by now joined us.

  We were then granted one of those dramatic examinations by Sherlock Holmes of a possible murder site with which my readers are perhaps familiar. He touched the taps of the bath tub, which stood next to the water geyser, and examined them all most closely with his lens. The catches of the windows called for especial attention, and he studied the walls at length, letting out something akin to a snort at the towel rail. He called the valet into the bathroom.

  “Mitchelson, what made you check on your master during his bath yesterday evening?” The servant did not hesitate to reply.

  “I had told him through the door, sir, that the cook and I had returned and that dinner would be served as usual at eight o’clock. I think I heard a response, but then, some ten minutes later, having heard nothing, nor having been asked to attend him in his bedroom, I tapped on the door once more. There was no answer, sir, and so I entered.”

  “And you saw exactly what?” queried Holmes, staring hard at the man.

  “He was lying quietly back in the tub, sir, with his eyes closed, as if he had no worries in this world.”

  “Yet he had departed this world?”

  Mitchelson flinched. “It is a tragedy, Mr. Holmes.”

  “How did you find the bathroom when you entered?” The servant looked at my friend as if he did not understand the question.

  “Well, sir, I suppose a bathroom is a bathroom. My master had had a bath and was lying dead of a heart attack in the tub. There appeared nothing untoward.”

  “Was Mr. Derwent a healthy man, so far as you would be privy to details?” Mitchelson shrugged once more.

  “I should say so, sir,” he replied. Holmes persisted.

  “Was there ever a breaking of a leg?”

  At first, the servant clearly was at a loss, but then he reacted. “There was an incident two years ago, when he fainted on the day of Mrs. Derwent’s funeral. He did indeed break his leg, but it set quickly, sir.”

  Sherlock Holmes cast his eyes once more around the bathroom, then stepped out, motioning us to follow. The Scotland Yarder spoke first.

  “Enough, Mr. Holmes?” My friend winked.

  “I am entirely sure of what has happened here, Gregson, although I need to satisfy myself on a few final and specific details. The body can go. Mr. Derwent, your father was murdered. Watson, let us depart.” The brusqueness of Holmes’s statement surprised us all, and as we descended the stair, we heard muffled conversations behind us.

  We walked the short distance to the top of Highgate Hill, looking for a cab, but none appeared. Holmes halted beside what appeared to be a bus stop. “It is the cable car,” he said. “The village of Highgate has the only public service of this nature in Europe; we shall take it to the railway station, whence you will be able to return to Baker Street.”

  It was a curious vehicle, open sided and dragged up the hill by steel wires beneath the surface of the road. On the way down it was powered by the force of gravity. Holmes and I paid a single penny each for our ride.

  There was a busy cab rank at the station upon our arrival. I had, of course, been bursting with a series of questions to ask, but Holmes placed his hand on my arm. “We are nearly there, Watson, but I need to take more hansoms on the journey to resolve its final complexities in this case, and I shall do this, if I may, without your aid. Rest assured, you will know all very soon.” He signalled to a cab and climbed in, leaving me to find the ticket office.

  I was briefly annoyed that Holmes was cutting me out of the chase; but, of course, it had been only a very few hours since we had first discussed the Thornton Derwent matter, and that the case was providing Sherlock Holmes with exactly that excitement whose absence he had been bemoaning. At such times, I could quite see that my presence was not always necessary

  It came as a surprise to me that church clocks were sounding only the second hour after midday as I arrived back at Baker Street. So much seemed to have taken place in north London, and yet Sherlock Holmes had decreed that the case was all but over.

  “So, will you tell me where you have been?” I asked when Holmes strode in at six.

  “Hither and yon, Watson. Well, to be precise, to a newspaper office, the City, and thence to your alma mater, Barts. I think we may celebrate with a brandy and soda, as the minute hand has passed the vertical.” I hastened to the glasses.

  “A telegraph form, Watson, if I may.” Holmes brought the gasogene to bear on his drink, then sank back in his familiar fireside chair, clearly intending to speak no further upon the matter in hand.

  I saw that there was no point in pushing Holmes: he was clearly in such command of the situation, and wanting to play it out in dramatic form, that I was prepared to leave him to wallow in his own pool of satisfaction and await the outcome. Holmes scribbled a message on the form and, calling for Mrs. Hudson, asked her to give it to the buttons.

  “We may expect visitors tomorrow morning at ten, Watson; it is all very medical,” he confided, and turned again to the chemical table.

  The remainder of the evening passed in silence, with my attempting to identify what I had clearly missed in the case, pushed especially by his gibe about the medical background to the affair. I failed and bade Holmes goodnight.

  I was up betimes in the morning, and came down to find Sherlock Holmes already at breakfast.

  “Holmes,” I pointed out, “it is exactly twenty-four hours since we were at this table and you were moaning in boredom. But I still cannot fathom your thoughts on Thornton Derwent and his bath. To whom did you send that notice last night?”

  “To his son Jocelyn, asking him to bring some guests here after breakfast.”

  “And they are?”

  “How often, Watson, have I extolled the value of patience?” Holmes replied, infuriatingly.

  Immersed in a fog of ignorance, I fretted around in our sitting-room, wandering to and from the windows which overlooked the drab buildings upon the eastern side of Baker Street. Holmes tediously turned the pages of newspapers, a half-smile ever upon his lips.

  At length, I saw two cabs stop at the pavement beneath. A man, who I recognised as Jocelyn Derwent, stepped down from one, and two other well-dressed men from the other. The bell rang and in a moment, Mrs. Hudson opened the door to our sitting room.

  “Three gentlemen to see you, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Derwent again, as yesterday, and Mr. Basil Chalmers and Mr. Nigel Thorpe.”

  “Ah, the senior Mr. Derwent’s erstwhile partners. Welcome, gentlemen,” said Holmes quietly. “I am glad that Mr. Derwent was able to persuade you to come here with him. The both of you must be desolate at the death of your senior part
ner at the bank.”

  Thorpe looked drawn. “It is a tragedy, Mr. Holmes, and it has been a privilege for us to work with this young man’s father for so many years. It will take time to get over his passing.” Chalmers nodded sadly, in mute assent.

  “Yes, indeed,” spoke Holmes with, I noted, a glint of something akin to excitement in his eyes. “You will be glad to know that Mitchelson is in custody.”

  The two visitors exchanged sharp looks and stood rigid. Derwent appeared mystified. Holmes made a sign for them to move to the centre of our room.

  “Watson, could you stand guard at the door? How much?” Thorpe and Chalmers looked askance.

  “Come now, what was the valet to receive? I do know all.”

  Chalmers swayed as if he were about to fall, and then his features set. “I knew it was a stupid idea, but Mitchelson said no-one could possibly tell.”

  Holmes spoke silkily as if he were a counsel leading a witness. “Tell what?”

  “How he died.”

  Thorpe rounded on his partner. “Shut up you fool. Say nothing. You and Mitchelson will hang both of us!”

  Braced as I was for some possible retaliatory action, I was pleased to see the two men subside as if gas had been taken from balloons. Chalmers spoke.

  “Five hundred.”

  “To clarify,” said Holmes, “this was to murder Thornton Derwent?” The banker wilted and affirmed. Holmes raised his voice.

  “I am obliged to you, Mr. Holmes,” came words from outside and a moment later the door to the adjoining room opened and Inspector Gregson stood there, backed by two constables. Holmes reacted to my look of surprise.

  “My dear Watson, I sent more than one telegraph instruction last night. It seemed to me advisable to have Gregson and his cohorts here at 221b, if for no other reason than to save time. I settled them in my room while you were still abed: they had to be present, if for some reason our guests had arrived early.”