“In any event,” I ventured, “I think suspicion rests squarely upon this man in the broad-brimmed hat. Find him, and you’ll find your killer.”
“Yes, Watson. Once we have this stranger’s identity, we shall have solved this case.”
“Well Holmes, if you have no objections, after I consult with the coroner, I am going to start questioning some of the people in this address book.”
“Very good, Nicholson. Watson and I will visit the Bagatelle Club. I shall contact you, if anything develops.”
By this time, Boggis had arrived with the coach. Before Holmes gave him directions, he asked my friend if he was Mr Sherlock Holmes. Once Holmes had affirmed this, Boggis began to draw closer and speak confidentially.
“Mr Holmes, sir, there is something that has been troubling me about the master, but I’m not sure if it’s something I should mention to the mistress.”
“Go on, Boggis.”
“You see, sir, I’m the one what always drives his lordship to the club, and sometimes, his lordship asks me to pick up some of his friends, as well. Lately, not Lord Morris, but a couple of these friends have been mentioning something peculiar—a ‘Bagatelle Shakespeare Society.’ But they always sound real oily when they say it, like lechers in a dance hall. Now I’m no better than any other bloke, but it seems to me that these two friends had some kind of corrupting influence on his lordship. Does any of this help you, Mr Holmes?”
“Yes, Boggis. Tell me, had you ever driven Lord Morris and these friends to any destination other than the Bagatelle Club?”
“No, sir. Just heard ’em talk is all.”
“Thank you, Boggis.”
Holmes said hardly a word on our drive back to Baker Street. I knew better than to interrupt my friend during such spells of silence, for he would undoubtedly reveal all at the appropriate time. Our trip was, therefore, rather monotonous, except for a quick stop at the post office, so Holmes could send a telegram. When we finally arrived at 221B, Holmes tipped Boggis most generously, and we ascended to our rooms, Holmes to await a response to his telegram and I to await the lunch which Mrs Hudson was preparing.
After I had eaten, Holmes having elected to instead consume a heroic amount of shag for lunch, I sat down in my armchair and rested my legs upon an ottoman heaped with cushions, for the cold had been bothering my old wound terribly. It was just after I had finally gotten comfortable when two telegrams arrived for Holmes.
“Ah, the first one is from Inspector Nicholson, confirming that Lord Morris’s derringer did, indeed, fire the fatal shot. The second is from the Earl of Maynooth.”
“The father of Ronald Adair? Is he back in England?”
“He has been back for some time, Watson, and has agreed to meet with us, at the Bagatelle Club. Perhaps he will be able to shed some light upon the affairs of Lord Morris.”
Once again, we hailed a four-wheeler and were soon on our way to Regent Street. It was still quite gloomy and cold, but at least the wind had finally died, making our trip somewhat more comfortable. As we approached our destination, I felt a wave of nostalgia as I gazed upon the white façade of the Criterion Bar, for it was there that I first heard mention of Holmes, an event which changed dramatically the trajectory of my life. There was little time for reminiscing, though, for we had soon reached our destination.
Upon entering the club, a small, elderly man in the most neatly pressed suit I had ever seen began leading us past table-upon-table of cigar-chewing nobility, all enjoying their games and their brandy.
“Once again, we are moving in high life, Watson,” quipped Holmes with a sly smile.
We then arrived at a comfortable, oak-paneled alcove where sat an ample-framed, florid-faced gentleman whom I took to be the Earl of Maynooth.
“Hello, Mr Holmes. And Dr Watson, it is so good to finally meet you. Too bad about Lord Morris; terrible business that. I shall do what I can to help, but I must admit that I did not know the man terribly well. Please, take a seat,” he said, indicating two sumptuous leather armchairs. After Holmes and I had accepted and lit the cigars our host offered to us, Holmes addressed the earl.
“I realise, sir, that you were not close to Lord Morris, but was it his custom to stay here until late in the evening?”
“Why Mr Holmes, I, myself, no longer keep very late hours, so I could not positively answer your question.”
“Lady Morris said her husband spent a great deal of his time here, but another source of mine intimated that he may have been here less frequently than she thought. Would you, by any chance, know anything about that?”
“Lord knows I have enough trouble keeping track of my own affairs and could not possibly be expected to keep tabs on a veritable stranger. I do know, however, that the lord and a few of his friends were rather fond of the ladies, Mr Holmes.”
“Yes, that is the very thing about which I need to know more.”
“I am afraid I do not know much more than that. Besides, it is not fitting for a man of my position to engage in such cheap gossip.”
“I understand, sir, but I am afraid that, to find out what happened to the late lord, I must press the issue. What was the Bagatelle Shakespeare Society?”
“Not so loud, man. And do not think for a moment that I would ever forget the service you and Dr Watson performed for my family in risking both of your own lives to apprehend my son’s murderer. I would not miss any opportunity to help you, but I must be discreet. Lord Morris and two of his friends, whose names I will provide to you should it become absolutely necessary, liked to prowl the theatres of the West End in search of conquests. The practice started when the lord met an actress at the Burbage Theatre by the name of Cecilia Benson. He was quite fond of her and went to see her regularly. She then introduced some of her friends to Lord Morris’s companions. Since all of the men are married, they would usually come here first and then depart for the Burbage later in the evening.”
“Thank you, sir. You have been a tremendous help. Tell me, before we go, how is Sampson getting on?”
“I am afraid I know of no one by that name. Is he a member?”
“Evidently not. Sorry, my mistake. Come, Watson. We must get to the theatre before it opens for the evening. Hopefully, we will have time for a word with Miss Benson.”
“Mrs Benson, Mr Holmes,” the earl corrected. “Cecilia Benson is married, as well.”
A short time later, Holmes and I, after another silent cab ride, found ourselves in the Strand before the Burbage Theatre. According to the signs out front, Cecilia Benson was appearing as Volumnia in Coriolanus. We made our way through the large, richly carpeted lobby, the walls of which were lined with caryatids of gilded plaster, to the manager’s office. At our knock, a small, rather high-strung man emerged, and we introduced ourselves.
“It is a pleasure meeting you, Mr Holmes. To what do I owe the honour?”
“It is imperative that I speak to one of your actresses, a Mrs Cecilia Benson.”
“Indeed, I, too, would like to speak with her, for you see, she’s been missing for the last four days.”
“Holmes, that corresponds with the missing pages of the appointment book!” I said.
“You wouldn’t happen to know who saw her last?” queried Holmes.
“Well, sir, that would probably be me. On Tuesday afternoon, I was gazing out of my window at a strange carriage I had noticed which was parked in front of the theatre. Within moments of my turning to look outside, I saw Cecilia walking towards the carriage with a man. They climbed inside, and off they went. I’ve been making do with her understudy, ever since.”
“Could you describe the man who accompanied her?”
“I didn’t get a good look at his face, but he was quite tall and walked with a pronounced limp.”
“Was he wearing a broad-brimmed hat?”
“Why yes, Dr Watson. He was.”
“What was it about the carriage that struck you as odd?” Holmes resumed.
“It was the insignia
upon the side—a cross, in front of which was something resembling a fluttering sheet of linen. Over this, were the initials ‘St V.’”
“Holmes, there was a man named St Vincent listed in the appointment book!”
“Thank you, Watson. Sir, would it be possible to see Mrs Benson’s dressing room? It might help me to find her whereabouts.”
“Certainly, Mr Holmes. Follow me.”
The dressing room was fairly small, its large dressing table taking up most of the space. Amongst the make-up and brushes littering this was a small notebook which Holmes immediately began to examine.
“Watson, there is a page missing.”
Holmes then produced a charcoal stick from his pocket and began lightly rubbing the right-hand page which would have lain beneath the missing one. In this way, he was able to reveal the following faint message:
“My Darling,
“I am to be admitted this afternoon. Please come.”
Holmes then searched the rest of the tiny room but revealed nothing further.
Finally, we took our leave, Holmes promising to contact the theatre manager if he found the missing actress. Before returning to Baker Street, Holmes dropped into a post office to send two more telegrams. In the cab, on our way home, I could remain patient no longer.
“Homes, what can it all mean?”
“Surely, Watson, a man of your background should have no problem finding our fugitive actress’s location.”
“All I can make of it is that she is to gain admittance somewhere with someone who might possibly be named St Vincent.”
“Come now, Watson. The note says nothing of ‘gaining admittance’ but of being ‘admitted’. Surely, that would suggest something to someone such as yourself.”
“Well, in my profession, one is usually ‘admitted’ to a hospital.”
“Precisely. Now, let’s assume that ‘St V’ does not stand for the name of an individual.”
“I’m sorry, Holmes, but I don’t follow.”
“The cross, the linen, ‘St V’—surely that would indicate St Veronica.”
“St Veronica’s Hospital for Women! Of course.”
“Yes, Watson. I have just sent a telegram to them, asking if Mrs Benson is a patient and if we can pay a visit tomorrow morning.”
“To whom did you send the second telegram?”
“To our good friend, Nicholson, apprising him of our progress.”
It was already dark when we arrived back in Baker Street, and I was relieved when Holmes decided to join me for dinner. That night, I fell asleep to the melancholy strains of Holmes’s violin and did not re-awake until some time after dawn. When I entered our sitting room, Mrs Hudson was already setting our breakfast upon the table, and Holmes was reading the paper.
“Good morning, Watson. Have a seat. There should be ample time for breakfast before we resume our investigation.”
“You certainly are in a good mood, Holmes.”
“I have just heard from a Dr Smythe at St Veronica’s. Mrs Benson is, indeed, a patient there, and we are free to visit her at any time after eleven o’clock. I expect this meeting will go a long way in establishing a motive for our case.”
“Does that mean you know who killed Lord Morris?”
“My dear Watson, I have known that since yesterday morning.”
“But who?”
“All in good time. I must satisfy myself upon a few more points, before I can be absolutely certain of events. Would you like to have a look at today’s paper? It contains an account of what we saw yesterday at Sherrinsthorpe.”
After breakfast, we departed for the East End. It was there, in the City, that we found the rather ugly pile of a structure known as St Veronica’s Hospital for Women. It was, in reality, more of a mental asylum than a traditional hospital, and its sterile, white, arched corridors reverberated with the screams and moans of its imprisoned Bedlamites. Dr Smythe, a rather shabby looking bald man with a flaming orange beard, was leading us through a throng of black and white uniformed nurses to the room of Cecilia Benson.
“Here we are, gentlemen, but I must warn you that my patient may not be of much help to you,” he said as he swung open the room’s heavy door.
Even with no make-up and dressed in a shabby white hospital gown, Cecilia Benson was a stunningly beautiful woman. Her flawless, milk-white skin was emphasized by her long, black hair, and her movements were still incredibly graceful, reflecting her several years upon the stage. Yet, when I looked at her eyes, I noticed a vacancy in their gaze, and I could also detect a slight slackness about the mouth.
“Oh, Smythe, you have brought me company, and a handsome pair they are,” she said, touching Holmes’s arm.
He did not attempt to hide his distaste and quickly brushed it away. “Mrs Benson, I would like to ask you some questions about Lord Morris.”
“He is dead and gone; at his head a grass green turf, at his heels a stone,” she rambled.
“I take it, then, that you know what has happened. Do you have any idea why?”
“As if he had been loosed out of hell to speak of horrors, he comes before me,” she said as she turned to me and placed her hand on my leg. Like Holmes, I deflected it but, admittedly, with a greater reluctance.
“Mrs Benson,” resumed Holmes, “can you tell me anything of your husband?”
“I was the more deceived,” she said sadly. “There’s fennel for you, and columbine; there’s rue for you; and here’s some for me.”
“O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown,” said Holmes in frustration while turning to leave.
“You are a good chorus, my lord,” replied Mrs Benson, and as we left, she began to sing:
“For to see mad Tom of Bedlam
“Ten thousand miles I traveled
“Mad Maudlin goes on dirty toes
“To save her shoes from gravel.”
Once outside the door, I made my diagnosis, “Dr Smythe, it appears Mrs Benson is suffering from syphilis.”
“That is correct, Dr Watson. She admitted herself on Tuesday and has very rapidly deteriorated.”
“You say she admitted herself? There was no one with her?”
“No, Mr Holmes. She mentioned that her physician had referred her to us but, upon questioning, could not seem to recall his name.”
“Thank you for all of your help, Dr Smythe.”
While we were walking back to our cab, Holmes began to speak.
“Watson, we must have the name of that doctor.”
“The one who gave the referral.”
“Yes, if you could call it that. Would it be possible for you to find out the identity of Lord Morris’s physician?”
“I imagine I could make a quick stop over at Barts and see if any of my colleagues know anything.”
“Excellent, Watson. We shall drop you off there. First, I have some business to attend to back in the West End. Remember, get as much information as possible, and meet me back in Baker Street before supper.”
As we agreed, late that afternoon, I returned triumphantly to Baker Street. Holmes was already seated in his armchair with his feet propped up on the fender before the fireplace.
“Good afternoon, Watson. How did you fare?”
“Holmes, Lord Morris’s doctor’s name is Edmund Samuels. He has offices in Wimpole Street and was in a riding accident two years ago, causing him to walk with a pronounced limp! Here is his address.”
“Brilliant, Watson! You have outdone yourself!”
“It is just as you have said, Holmes: ‘When a doctor does go wrong, he is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge.’ It now looks to me like this is all simply a failed attempt at blackmail. But Holmes, where are you going?”
“I have to send one more telegram, Watson. I expect developments. Go ahead and have supper without me. There is no need to wait on my account.”
Indeed, Holmes ate nothing that night and shunned sleep, as well.
The next morning, I perceived him
dimly through a fog of tobacco smoke. He was smoking impatiently, obviously awaiting a reply to the telegram he had sent the previous evening. It arrived shortly after breakfast
“Watson, I must leave to notify Nicholson and Lady Morris that we shall meet them at Sherrinsthorpe Manor this afternoon. It is at that time I will clear up this matter for them. You will accompany me, I presume.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. But really, Holmes, you must eat something.”
My entreaty fell on deaf ears, however, and I was left to finish my breakfast in solitude. Later, that afternoon, Holmes, Inspector Nicholson, Lady Morris, Perkins, and I once again found ourselves in the sitting room of Sherrinsthorpe Manor, and everyone but Holmes took a seat.
“Mr Holmes, am I to understand that you have, in fact, solved this case?” asked the inspector.
“There are but two points which I need to clarify. The first and most pressing of which is how you managed to procure the second derringer round so soon after discovering the body, Perkins.”
The butler practically leaped out of his chair and exclaimed, “Surely, Mr Holmes, you don’t think I killed Lord Morris?”
“Nothing of the sort, Perkins, and please, resume your seat. Why don’t I reconstruct the events of the evening, as I believe they occurred, and you can fill in the gaps for me when I have finished.
“After you heard the shot, it could have taken you no more than forty-five seconds to reach the room. This event could not have been totally unexpected by you, and you will also have to explain to me how you knew what had driven Lord Morris to suicide. It is obvious to me, however, that you did know, because you managed to rearrange the room so quickly, obscuring what had really happened. You entered the room and closed the door behind you, for if the wind had been strong enough to blow that door shut, it would have also created a larger mess within than what was there when we examined it.
“Somehow, you found a second round for the gun, and with that came your idea. You reloaded the weapon and replaced it, wiping the powder marks from the lord’s hand. To minimize the chance of anyone’s noticing the odour of the discharged weapon, you opened the French doors which also made it look as though an imaginary intruder had used them. From the appointment book, you quickly removed the pages which would have scandalized Lord Morris, and it was this which prompted you to create the illusion of the room’s being rifled by the imaginary killer. After scattering a few papers from that cabinet, you reopened the door and waited for Lady Morris to appear, which would have been moments later. Am I correct so far?”
The Sherlock Holmes Megapack: 25 Modern Tales by Masters: 25 Modern Tales by Masters Page 7