by Marvin Kaye
They accepted his invitation and McHugh continued the narrative:
“When I left here Monday, I drove straight to the winery and persuaded my brother-in-law to seek the assistance of the authorities. After a hurried meal, I then rode to the police station late in the evening, and waited an interminable time for the officer on duty to fetch the special constable Isaac Thornburgh from his home, where he was found in his bed-clothes.
“He listened to my story and decided to ensnare one of the kidnappers on the bridge when he came to pick up the canvas sack. Thornburgh said he would then convince the offender that it was in his best interest to lead the police to where his accomplices had secreted Mrs Vamberry, because there was no escaping the gallows if she were to be killed.
“I was reticent to go along with Thornburgh’s plan, thinking my sister would have a better chance of survival if Mr Vamberry and I simply followed the instructions in the ransom note. However, Thornburgh explained that the authorities would act to intercept the transfer of money and rescue my sister regardless of my opinion, so I acceded to his wishes.
“Yesterday morning, I was committed to representing a client scheduled for a judicial hearing, so I went to the Central Criminal Court and later to the bank to withdraw the twenty thousand pounds that would complete the ransom package, just as Thornburgh had stipulated. I then returned to the winery, where my brother-in-law placed the funds in his safe with the thirty thousand pounds he had secured from his accounts.”
Throughout McHugh’s recital, Vamberry sat without uttering a word, nodding in agreement as McHugh went on:
“The rest of the day passed slowly, with hardly any conversation, except a word here and there about how much Phoebe means to each of us. A half hour before ten o’clock we took the canvas sack to my brougham and drove together to the bridge. Heathcliff here placed the sack on the walkway in the middle of the structure. Thornburgh already had positioned his men in the bushes at either end of the bridge so they could have a view of the sack from both directions.
“But to our chagrin, because of the season a dense fog settled in over the river and obscured their sight. It was a pea-souper, so thick the police were unable even to see the bridge.
“I expected to return to the winery in the morning to find our Phoebe alive and well, but instead, only my brother-in-law was there with Thornburgh, who reported that the canvas sack had disappeared during the night without the police hearing or seeing anything at all. They have bungled this affair royally, and you, Mr Holmes, are our last hope to bring my sister home safely.”
Vamberry then chimed in, speaking sheepishly. He nervously scratched his bald head and stroked his clean-shaven chin and cheeks. “My wife, Mr Holmes, is of paramount concern to me, but the loss of the money has wiped me out. My vineyard is in ruin because of the phylloxera epidemic that has spread from France to Britain, and so my business is failing for lack of good wine to sell. If you could recover the ransom as well as save Phoebe’s life, I would be eternally grateful.”
Holmes said nothing for a short time, slowly walking about the room with his hands clasped behind his back, then: “I fear the worst for Mrs Vamberry, so if I involve myself in your case, you might come to learn that I have discovered the identity of the kidnappers without having achieved her return unharmed. As for the ransom, there is a fifty-fifty chance of success.”
“Oh, I beg you to try your best, come what may,” McHugh implored humbly.
“Please do,” Vamberry added plaintively.
Holmes agreed to take up their cause, but first asked a question that seemed out of context. “From what banks did you obtain the ransom money?” he wanted to know.
“What has that to do with your inquiry?” Vamberry retorted.
“It might very well be that someone at one of the banks was aware of what assets you had available and conjured up the scheme to relieve you of them,” Holmes told him.
“I withdrew the funds from the National Bank of England,” McHugh revealed, and Vamberry named Forsythe & Company at Newmarket Heath.
With that, Holmes bade our visitors goodbye and mentioned a word of encouragement. “Possibly by the time you reach the winery Mrs Vamberry will be awaiting you at home. Do not lose hope for her.” He also said he would see them in a day or so in Hampshire, “for I shall begin my investigation in London and proceed to the outskirts in due course.”
After they had departed, Holmes volunteered that the matter was particularly perplexing because there was scant physical evidence upon which to rely. He didn’t rule out the potential that Mrs Vamberry was unhappy in her marriage and had arranged for her own disappearance, as well as for the opportunity to flee with a tidy sum. “There is one other possibility, but it is too premature to theorise,” he said cryptically, without explaining further.
Holmes excused himself and went up to his bedroom to change into his back-alley uniform, a shabby turtle-neck shirt, brown dungarees, and a lint-marked sweater. “We have time before dinner for me to consult my informants to see if they have noticed any ne’er-do-wells spending an exorbitant amount of cash that could be part of the ransom money—if indeed it is in circulation,” he remarked as he hustled toward the stairwell.
I had a need for some fresh air myself, so I donned my derby and grabbed my walking stick for a pleasant jaunt around the park. I noticed geese on the pond, an indication that the coming winter was still a month or more away, but the gathering clouds were a sign of impending rain, so I hurried back to 221-B before I got a good soaking. I had been gone for about two hours, but Holmes remained out on his excursion. He came through the doorway at nearly six o’clock and was in a talkative mood.
“All the known hoodlums are as poor as church mice,” he proclaimed, “except for Archie Stamford, the forger, who recently inherited ten thousand pounds from his dear mother, a forever tolerant woman who bailed him out of trouble a number of times when she was vibrant. Her generosity was for certain an inducement for Archie to continue his criminal behaviour. She saw it differently, though, as only a devoted mother could.”
Holmes changed into his more dignified clothes and we ate pasta with shrimp and scallops at Carbone’s Italian Restaurant on Miles Street, sharing a carafe of Chianti while Holmes plotted his next move. “I shall make inquiries at the two banks and develop a better picture of this complicated puzzle,” he postulated, then turned the conversation to the repercussions of the phylloxera plague, the performance of Genevieve Masters in a drama we attended at the Lyceum Theatre, and the effects on society in the future with the advent of electric lights.
No sooner than Holmes had left Thursday morning, Bascomb McHugh and Heathcliff Vamberry arrived to bring him an urgent request. They refused to wait for Holmes to get back, saying only that they wanted him to cease his investigation immediately. They asked me to convey the message because it was a matter of life and death for Mrs Vamberry. I told them I would relay the information but that Holmes would want to know why they were so intent upon removing him from the case.
“We shall return this afternoon with the explanation, but by all means do not allow Mr Holmes to proceed,” McHugh demanded before he abruptly turned and marched down the stairs in a rush, Vamberry following briskly to keep up.
I was perplexed by the sudden change of attitude, and I expressed my misgivings to Holmes when he came through the door about an hour after lunchtime. “Curious,” he said, “although it is consistent with what I have determined thus far.” He didn’t go into detail; rather, he mumbled something about Mrs Hudson’s kindness and made a sandwich with the leftover slices of roast beef and horseradish she had brought up for us earlier.
It was nearly three-thirty before McHugh and Vamberry passed through our doorway to confront Holmes standing at the sitting-room window, looking out at the endless parade of pedestrians and horse-drawn traffic. “I understand you gentlemen wish me to disengage myself from your service,” he offered as a greeting, with his straight and narrow back still towar
d them.
“It is imperative that you do so,” McHugh affirmed. “You see, Mr Holmes, we have been alerted by the kidnappers that if you persist, our Phoebe will be destroyed.” He shoved a sheet of paper under Holmes’s hawk-like nose as Holmes turned to face them.
The note contained more pasted words and letters cut out from a newspaper.
“We told you no coppers, and that includes Holmes,” the first line read.
“I found this today attached to my front door with a dagger,” Vamberry interjected, pointing a quivering finger at the sheet of paper.
“Unless you were followed to my address, there is no way anyone could have known of my entanglement in your concern,” Holmes insisted.
“That is immaterial, Mr Holmes,” Bascomb McHugh continued, “because the fact is they do know, and we must obey their instructions for Phoebe’s sake.”
Holmes took the note from McHugh and scanned the entire contents. It ordered Vamberry to place another fifty thousand pounds on the walkway of the bridge at ten o’clock that night. “And come alone this time,” it warned.
“I am going to take it myself and catch whoever comes to retrieve it,” McHugh advised. “I’ll make him tell where they’ve hidden my sister, by God.”
“You are making a foolish mistake,” said Holmes, objecting, “but you are my client, and I cannot go contrary to your desires.”
“Bascomb and I disagree on most issues,” Vamberry said boldly, to conclude the conversation, “but not on this. He will accomplish what you and the police were unable to.”
After they were gone, Holmes sank into one of his reveries, stretching out on the sofa and plunking the strings of his violin with melancholy refrains. He declined my invitation to buy his dinner at Simpson’s, saying he had no appetite, so I walked to the establishment alone and found him still on the sofa in the doldrums when I returned. “Look here, Holmes,” I scolded, “it is not a failure of your professional status to be dismissed from the employment of a fool and his relative.”
“No, but it is a setback, especially since I was on the verge of a breakthrough,” he responded.
Holmes’s depression continued into the next afternoon until a development shook us to the core. I hastily entered our rooms, huffing and puffing from a trip to the newsstand for a copy of The Daily Gazette. The headline on the front page of the Friday evening edition screamed out about the violent death of McHugh.
“A Singular Tragedy,” it read, and below it: “Prominent Lawyer Slain on Bridge in Hampshire.”
The accompanying story revealed that Bascomb McHugh had been stabbed repeatedly in the chest and throat, his body having been discovered slouched on the seat of his carriage by a brother-in-law, Heathcliff Vamberry, late the night before. The article did not specify why McHugh was crossing the river at such an hour, or why he was in Hampshire instead of at home in London. Special Constable Isaac Thornburgh was quoted as saying the police were following up undisclosed leads and suspected a gangster was responsible for the murder. Constable Thornburgh mentioned nothing of the kidnapping of Phoebe Vamberry or the fifty thousand pounds McHugh was carrying. The special constable merely told the reporter that robbery appeared to be the motive for the vicious attack.
“Such is the consequence when an amateur takes matters into his own hands,” Holmes commented with coolness after reading the account. “I have an obligation to my client now to find a solution to this grisly mystery. If the killing of Mr McHugh is solved, so will be the case of his sister.”
Holmes was still in his mouse-coloured dressing-gown, so he quickly changed to his traveling clothes and soon we were on an Underground train to Oxford Circus Station on the far western edge of London, connecting there to a rented surrey at a livery stable, then into picturesque and affluent Hampshire County. Holmes rode with his tight-fitting cloth cap pulled down over his bushy eyebrows as we went past one stately stone house after another, with well-manicured lawns and impeccable flower gardens, then a polo field with players and ponies making practice runs, and lastly a patch of woods where a wild boar stood munching acorns—until we halted finally at the constabulary headquarters to meet Special Constable Thornburgh.
He was a short, thin man of about thirty-five years in age, with a thick black moustache that matched his wavy hair.
“I have heard of your participation in some of Scotland Yard’s investigations, Mr Holmes,” he said by way of introduction, “but there is nothing you can contribute to this one. We have several suspects in mind and are narrowing the field through the process of elimination.” He spoke with confidence and authority, his pointy chin and wide-set grey eyes aiming toward the ceiling in a gesture of aloofness. Holmes, not offended, nonetheless offered his assistance and asked for some details of the crime scene.
“Mr Vamberry discovered the blood-soaked body on the seat of Mr McHugh’s brougham, his hands holding the reins in a death grip and his face contorted, as if surprised,” Constable Thornburgh disclosed. “Mr Vamberry told us that he anxiously waited at home for his brother-in-law to return from his mission, but when Mr McHugh failed to appear by two o’clock in the morning, Mr Vamberry walked toward the bridge. He went along the same route the brougham would have taken, hoping he would encounter Mr McHugh on the way. Mr Vamberry reached the bridge and saw the carriage in the middle, his brother-in-law obviously dead, and the money sack gone. It won’t be but a day or so before we have the perpetrators locked up and learn the whereabouts of Mrs Vamberry.”
Holmes then posed a rhetorical question: “Does not the position of the corpse with its multiple wounds suggest a direction different from your theory?”
“What do you mean by that—do you have a better one?” the officer shot back, glaring at Holmes with irritation.
“I shall pursue other avenues and concentrate on my direction, then I shall reveal all when I have reached a conclusion,” Holmes answered ambiguously before walking away. “His demeanour reminds me of Inspector Lestrade’s,” Holmes confided to me in private as we climbed into the surrey, referring to the beady-eyed Scotland Yard official who usually was obstinate after crossing paths with the empire’s only indefatigable consulting detective.
We drove toward the bridge above the River Avon after first asking guidance to its location from a woman strolling with her clipped and trimmed French poodle. “Be vigilant,” she cautioned, “it is a dangerous place for such a peaceful neighborhood—there was a robbery and murder there just yesterday.”
At the bridge, Holmes scrupulously examined the surrounding areas on both sides, determining that a footpath at either end could have concealed a person from the police hiding in the bushes along the road in the dense fog Tuesday night. “They expected a conveyance and neglected to cover the more devious approach,” he gathered. “Come, Watson, there is nothing more to see here. Let us pay a visit to Mr Vamberry.”
We gained information from another passerby on how to best reach the winery, which was twenty minutes away. It was set back from the road almost out of view, with tall oak and elm trees lining the circular drive. Halfway along, we glimpsed a sprawling stucco and brick structure of two stories with bay windows on both levels. At the far end was a small grassy plot with a walkway paved by cobblestones leading to the residence. Behind the well-appointed brick home was a vast vineyard of at least ten hectares, showing mostly stems practically bare of leaves or grapes.
Sherlock Holmes led the way through the main entrance to the winery, which was absent of any aroma one might expect—due to the lack of production. The walls were covered with bottles on racks, the majority of the stock bearing labels from California and New York in the United States, plus from La Rioja in Spain, and the upper banks of the Douro River in Portugal. In a larger adjoining room were huge vats, empty presses, and row after row of barrels stacked on their sides. Holmes studied the collection, sniffed the rims of some, and scraped from one a residue of a white powdery substance into a vial he carried in a leather case in his jacket pocket.
There was no sign of Vamberry, so Holmes beckoned me to follow him to locate the proprietor. Just as we reached the exit, Vamberry stepped out of the privy at the corner of the building and gave a start.
“Mr Holmes! What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“We came to buy a bottle of wine for our table this evening,” Holmes answered coyly. “And to make inquiries into the death of my client, Bascomb McHugh.”
“But you were removed from our case,” Vamberry replied, impatient, it seemed, to see us leave.
“That was prior to his demise,” Holmes contradicted. “I have since re-engaged myself, apparently not to your liking.”
“I should think the police are handling matters satisfactorily, and your involvement is totally unnecessary,” Vamberry shouted, strutting past us and through the door to conclude the discussion.
Undeterred, Holmes followed him in, I at his heels.
“I believe a medium-bodied dry white would do nicely,” Holmes continued. “Which do you recommend?”
“What?” Vamberry sputtered with an edge to his voice.
“For our table tonight,” Holmes responded in a friendly manner.
“Oh, but of course, you came for a bottle of wine, as you said,” Vamberry remarked, losing his combative posture. “I would choose the Vidal Blanc from a California vineyard—two sovereigns and four shillings, a bit pricey, but that’s because it is imported.” He escorted Holmes to the appropriate rack and raised the label for him to read.
Holmes nodded in approval and paid the man.
We left and headed for the livery stable to return the horse and buggy. On the way, Holmes said he found it odd that Vamberry had failed to bring up the topic of his missing spouse. “Out of sight, out of mind, I suppose,” Holmes commented wistfully, twirling his hand above his cranium.
Once we were back at Baker Street, Holmes was eager to analyse the white powdery substance to determine its chemical composition. He arranged his assortment of liquid compounds on the deal-topped table and began his experiments. “I have only a minute sample of the residue, so I must make every test count,” he noted with a serious expression as he ignited the Bunsen lamp. “I shall start with the presumption that the substance is potassium hydroxide.”