It was late in the month of November, and though no snow had yet fallen, the frigid blasts of winter rattled every pane and resonated in every chimney in London. During one particularly bitter morning, I arose shortly before dawn and was surprised to find my friend awake and already dressed. What was even more surprising was that, in spite of the early hour and the forbidding, slate-grey frigidity which had permeated the city, Holmes was in remarkably high spirits. He was standing in front of a roaring fire and filling his morning pipe which was comprised of all the plugs and dottles left from his smokes of the day before, all carefully dried and collected on the corner of the mantlepiece. Upon my entrance, he picked up a letter which was also on the mantelpiece and turned to greet me.
“Good morning, Watson. I am so glad you have already dressed.”
“Good morning to you, as well, Holmes, but I must say that I am surprised to see you up and dressed so early.”
“I was awakened about an hour ago by a messenger,” he said, as he handed me the letter. “Do you remember my mentioning an Inspector Nicholson of the Yard?”
“Yes. He has called you in on a couple of cases within the past year, hasn’t he?”
“Actually, he has enlisted my help on no less than three occasions. He is very young but has already made quite a name for himself in the press. He was the one who finally managed to apprehend the Spotts gang and that without my help. This time, however, he hasn’t wasted an instant in contacting me, which can only mean that he has stumbled upon something unusual.”
At a nod toward the letter from Holmes, I unfolded it and, in my customary fashion, read it aloud:
“Sherrinsthorpe, Kensington
“3:30 a.m.
“My dear Mr Holmes,
“I should be very glad of your immediate assistance in what promises to be a most remarkable case. It is something quite in your line. So far, I have been able to keep everything as I have found it, but I beg you not to lose an instant, as it is difficult to leave Lord Morris there.
“Yours faithfully,
“Geoffrey Nicholson.”
“Well, this leaves little doubt as to the result of the crime,” I remarked, “but I must confess that the name of the victim is unfamiliar to me.”
“It is to me, as well. Since Mrs Hudson has been kind enough to prepare breakfast, why don’t you have something to eat while I look him up.”
As I sat down to breakfast at the table, Holmes retrieved a red-covered volume from one of the shelves and slumped down into his armchair. When, after several minutes, he stopped flipping through the pages and re-lit his pipe, I hazarded the question: “Well, what does it say?”
“That the victim was noble … not that I doubted it. No, I am afraid we shall have to begin our investigation at the scene of the crime.”
With that, I hurriedly finished Mrs Hudson’s excellent breakfast, and in no time, we had abandoned the comfort of Baker Street for a west-bound cab. Holmes, obviously excited over the prospect of an interesting case, talked animatedly of music and the theatre, but I, uncharacteristically, became withdrawn once our growler entered High Street and the precincts of my old neighbourhood. Even Hyde Park and the Gardens looked lifeless on this relentlessly cold morning, and none but the hardiest tradesmen were out and about.
Within an hour, we passed through a wrought iron gate and into a long drive, at the end of which stood Sherrinsthorpe Manor, a massive red-brick mansion of three floors. As we alighted and Holmes paid the driver, a moon-faced and somewhat dishevelled young man emerged from the entrance, said a couple of words to a constable posted by the door, and hurriedly walked over to us.
“Mr Holmes, I’m so glad you decided to accept my invitation!” he said smiling.
“It is good to see you, as well, Nicholson. This is my friend and colleague, Dr Watson.”
“It’s good to finally meet you, sir. I hate to rush you both, but we should probably have a look at the scene before the coroner arrives to examine the body.”
“That’s fine, but let me first congratulate you on the birth of your child,” said Holmes, causing Nicholson to suddenly turn around again.
“Thank you. Our son Adam was born a few weeks ago. Did Inspector Lestrade tell you?” asked Nicholson with a hint of expectation in his tone.
“No, there are several other indicators. In fact, when I first noticed the wrinkled condition of your suit and that you looked unusually weary, even for one aroused so early, I began to worry that your domestic fortunes had suffered a decline. However, once you turned, exposing the dried milk stain upon your left shoulder, I was glad to find that quite the opposite was true.”
“Let’s hope Mr Holmes can make such short work of this murder, Dr Watson. Follow me, gentlemen.”
And with that, we entered the main hall.
“You will probably want to keep your coats on,” warned Nicholson. “As I stated in the letter, nothing has been touched, and the French doors of the study have been open all night.”
Indeed, it was absolutely freezing in Lord Morris’s study, and I was able to feel a blast of wind the moment Nicholson opened its door, which was on the left-hand side of the hall. The French doors were directly across from the entrance, and the only other window, which was closed, was on our left and looked out upon the grounds in front of the mansion. Despite its rifled appearance, the room was neatly furnished, with some scattered Persian rugs, a few armchairs before the fireplace, and a large mahogany desk interposed between the entrance and the French doors. And it was here that Lord Morris sat with his head resting upon the desk’s bloodstained blotter. Also upon the desk lay a small pistol, directly in front of his right hand. The man’s hunched but tall form still retained its frock-coat with only a pair of black patent leather slippers indicating that his day’s exertions were coming to an end.
“Does that gun belong to Lord Morris, Inspector?”
“Yes, according to the butler, Mr Holmes. It appears to be unfired.”
Holmes leaned over and glanced into the gun’s barrel. Then, with a nod from Nicholson, he picked it up and began to examine it.
“It is a .41 rimfire, single-shot Colt derringer. How closely did you examine it, Nicholson?”
“Again, Mr Holmes, I refrained from picking it up, knowing that you would want to see the room exactly as it was.”
“That and the wind would account for the error, for it has, in fact, been fired recently. It is obviously a second round which is undischarged,” he said, handing the gun to Nicholson.
“Yes, you’re right. I can smell the powder.”
“What do you make of the wound, Watson?”
I looked down upon a middle-aged profile that had once been quite dashing but was now pale and expressionless, and replied, “It is obvious from the burns around its rim that it had to have been inflicted at very close range. In all honesty, Holmes, I would probably have taken this for a suicide, if it weren’t for the gun’s being re-loaded. Lord Morris’ death would have been instantaneous. The wound seems consistent with this pistol, but until the bullet is retrieved from the skull, it is impossible to say for sure that it is the murder weapon. I assume there is no need to infer the time of death?”
“No,” said Nicholson. “Perkins, the butler, heard the shot at approximately 12:45 a.m. and entered the room moments after.”
“He saw no intruder?”
“No, Mr Holmes.”
“What about all of these papers lying about? Is there anything of any significance?” asked Holmes, as he stooped to look at them.
“Quite possibly there is something significant which is missing, but those I have seen are nothing but household bills.”
“Yes. Here is one for coal, for gas, the green grocer’s.”
“Holmes! There’s an appointment book under this armchair,” I cried. “It appears the pages corresponding to the past four days have been torn out.”
“Excellent, Watson! Why don’t you and Nicholson examine the rest of it, while I have
a look around.”
“Good luck, Holmes. The ground is as hard as a rock out there,” replied Nicholson.
Actually, I had almost been able to forget the cold while we were busy in our investigations, but now, I was grateful when Holmes, crawling around on all fours behind the desk, finally made his way onto the patio and closed the French doors behind him. While Nicholson and I paged through Lord Morris’s appointment book, I would glance up occasionally to see how Holmes progressed in his search, crawling upon the frozen ground outside, in ever-widening semi-circles. When he returned, I could have sworn he had found some clue.
“What did you find, Holmes?” I asked.
“Nothing whatever,” he replied with an odd note of triumph in his voice. “How does your research progress?”
“I told you that you wouldn’t find anything out there,” said Nicholson. “There’s very little of interest in here—mostly Parliamentary meetings and lunch dates with his Bagatelle Club companions. It’s all rather pedestrian.”
“With whom was the last appointment?”
“His wife,” I answered, “for their anniversary dinner.”
“I see. May I have a look at it, please?”
Holmes flipped through the book for some time without expressing an interest in any of the entries and then handed it back to the inspector.
“Thank you. I think I am finished with this room for now. Would it be possible for me to interview the rest of the household, Inspector?”
“Certainly. I have already done some preliminary questioning, and it seems that, since only Lady Morris and the butler were in the central part of the house, only they heard a shot. The other servants were asleep in the wings and have been able to add nothing to the account.”
“Then it is to Lady Morris and the butler I would speak. Before we go, however, have you been able to determine who benefits directly from the lord’s death?”
“Lady Morris has already been kind enough to show me Lord Morris’s will, Holmes. She and their only daughter are the two principal heirs, but I would add that, as things stand, these two ladies are already quite well off.”
“Excellent work, Nicholson,” commented Holmes, as the inspector led us to the sitting room where Lady Morris was waiting. She was an elegant and stately woman, only just beginning to approach middle-age, and dressed in a rather simple black dress. Though she had obviously been crying, she had regained her composure enough to speak and, at Nicholson’s request, dispatched her maid in order to fetch Perkins, the butler. After the introductions, Holmes took a seat in the chair opposite the one in which she sat and assumed his most comforting tone.
“Madam, you do us a great kindness in agreeing to speak with us, and I promise I shall be as brief as possible.”
“Mr Holmes, I shall answer as many questions as you like, if they should aid you in catching my husband’s killer.”
“Thank you. Lady Morris, could you please recount the events of last night, omitting nothing, no matter how seemingly insignificant.”
“Yes. I had retired early, before my husband returned from his club, in fact, and awoke to a loud noise. I heard a door open and close in the hall below and began to hurriedly dress myself. Upon lighting the lamp beside the bed, I noticed that the time was approximately 12:45. Within a few minutes, I descended the stairs and saw Perkins stepping out of the room. I could tell from the expression on his face that something was horribly wrong. Perkins’s family has been attached to my husband for three generations, and I know him almost as well as I know anyone. He tried to stop me from entering, but I forced my way over the threshold. I saw my lifeless husband slumped over his desk and immediately fainted. After summoning the maid to take care of me, Perkins called the police from the telephone in the hall.”
“Lady Morris, are you positive that you heard only one shot?” asked Holmes.
“A loud noise woke me up, and I heard Perkins enter the study. If there were any sounds before those, I slept through them.”
“How long an interval had passed between your waking and your descending the stairs?”
“I did not look at the clock again, but it could have been no more than two minutes.”
“Did you notice anything about the state of the room when you entered it?”
“I noticed several papers lying upon the floor and that the French doors behind my husband’s desk were wide open.”
“The derringer in the study—did it belong to your husband?”
“Yes. My husband was never fond of hunting. It was the only gun in the house.”
“Which club did your husband attend that evening?”
“The only club he ever attended: the Bagatelle Club, in Regent Street. He loved both cards and billiards.”
“You have a daughter?”
“Yes, she is married to an American railroad owner and lives in San Francisco. She is pregnant with our first grandchild.”
“With your permission, Lady Morris, I would like to ask you some more general questions. Can you think of anyone who would want to kill your husband?”
“My husband’s affairs were largely his own, but no, I can think of no one. There was, however, someone unknown to me.”
“Pray, continue,” Holmes said, as he leaned forward, steepling the tips of his fingers.
“Three days ago, on Wednesday evening, I was passing my husband’s study on my way to the stairs, and I heard him speaking with another man. I could not make out what was being said, but my husband was definitely talking to someone whose voice I had never heard before. I thought this odd, as no visitor had called upon us, so I entered the dining room beside the study and kept watch at the window, waiting for the stranger to appear. I assumed he had entered the study through the French doors, since he hadn’t rung at the front door. I was confirmed in this a few minutes later when a tall man, wearing a black overcoat and a broad-brimmed hat, emerged onto the terrace. I had never seen him before, but he was about your height, with a full beard and a slight limp. I am sorry that I cannot tell you more, but it was too dark.
“After that meeting, my husband was a changed man. He did not come to bed that night or any succeeding night, for that matter. I couldn’t get more than a few words out of him at a time, and once, when I looked in upon him in his study, he looked as though he had been weeping. The only excuse he would give was that he was concerned over a friend of his at the club, Sampson, I believe, who was gravely ill. This was all he offered, and most of the time, I could barely make eye-contact with him.”
“I am sorry,” said Holmes. “I have only one more question. Do you remember at what time you came across your husband’s meeting with this stranger?”
“Yes, it was almost 9:30 when he left.”
“Thank you, Lady Morris. I shall let you know as soon as I have any information.”
“Thank you, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,” said Lady Morris, as she and her maid left the room. “Please let me know if I can provide you with anything further.”
As soon as she departed, the butler entered the sitting-room. He was slim and in his fifties, with long and greying sideburns.
“Hello, Perkins. I am Mr Sherlock Holmes and this is Dr Watson. I have just a few questions for you.”
“I shall try my best to answer them, sir,” replied the butler.
“What were you doing when you heard the shot?”
“I was at the other end of the hall, making sure all of the candles and lamps had been extinguished when I heard it.”
“You heard only one shot?”
“Yes, sir, and I hurried to the study as quickly as I could. I was sure the sound had come from there.”
“At what time had Lord Morris come home that evening?”
“Around midnight, sir. He went directly to his study without saying a word.”
“At what time did you hear the shot?”
“When I passed the longcase clock in the hall, it was 12:45.”
“When you entered the study, you found it just as it
is now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You saw no intruder?”
“None, sir, but I was slow to act, on account of the shock. It took me a moment to walk over to the French doors.”
“Perkins, why did you close the door behind you when you entered Lord Morris’s study?”
“I didn’t, Mr Holmes. The wind blew it shut.”
“Thank you, Perkins. That will be all for now.”
Perkins opened the door for us, and our trio re-entered the hall. Holmes turned once more to Perkins and asked, “Would it be possible for you to call Dr Watson and I a cab, please?”
However, Lady Morris immediately appeared at the banister and called down, “Nonsense, our driver shall convey you to your lodgings. Perkins, please get Boggis.”
After thanking Lady Morris, Holmes, Inspector Nicholson, and I discussed the case outside, while waiting for the coach.
“What do you make of it, Holmes? Was Lord Morris shot with his own gun?”
“So it would appear, Watson. You will telegraph, Inspector, when you know for certain?”
“Of course.”
“Holmes, why would the killer load a second round into the gun?” I asked.
“It is much too soon to speculate. Perhaps the killer didn’t,” said Holmes, with the faintest trace of a grin forming upon his face.
“Nonsense, who else would have done it?” shot back Nicholson. “It could be that the murderer was trying to make it appear as though a different gun had been used, in order to deflect suspicion from someone within the household. After all, only someone familiar with the house could have found the gun.”
“There is a germ of a sound theory in that statement, Inspector. The gun and the room’s appearance are definitely meant to deflect suspicion.”
“I take it you are referring to the room’s being rifled?” I asked.
“Yes, Watson. It is suggestive.”
“How so, Holmes?” asked Nicholson.
“An intruder could have had but a minute in which to work, before Perkins entered.”
“That affirms my theory that it was an inside job—the killer knew where to find the papers he wanted,” Nicholson interjected.
The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters Page 6