“How did you catch him, Mr Holmes?” Tex continued.
Holmes explained to all of us then the phases of his investigation. First, there were the killer’s boot prints near the body of Beidler. “Young Tarleton wears a pair exactly as I described,” Holmes told us.
Second, when Holmes examined the crime scene, he found in the woods the iron rim from a wagon wheel. “The village blacksmith informed me that he had repaired a wagon wheel with a missing rim for young Tarleton that very morning, after the discovery of Beidler’s torso,” Holmes went on.
Additionally, Holmes said, he learned in the village that the muscular Mr Tarleton was an expert with a sabre, having been taught by his grandfather, the son of Sir Banastre Tarleton, nicknamed The Butcher. Sir Banastre cut off the heads of his enemies with one swipe of a sabre in the American War of Independence.
“When I confronted Tarleton with this information, and the fact that we had proof he had forged the agreement,” Holmes said, “Tarleton became enraged and lunged for one of the crossed sabres above the fireplace. ‘You know too much, Holmes, so it’s off with your head also,’ he sputtered. I dodged his advance and took down the other broadsword. He attacked, and I parried. We were engaged in this combat for only a minute when I intercepted a thrust and disarmed him, placing the tip of my blade against his chest. I asked him then what he had done with the heads of Mr Carroll and George Beidler, and he confessed that he had buried them in the family cemetery behind his home. He also acknowledged that he had taken Beidler’s life merely as a diversion to throw off suspicions in the death of Mr Carroll, as was my belief from the start.”
“That means he killed ole George for nothin’ and he killed Mr Carroll to inherit this farm,” Tex added. “Hangin’ ain’t good enough for him.”
THE TATTOOED ARM, by Marc Bilgrey
There are a number of cases that I’ve chronicled, involving my friend Sherlock Holmes that I have chosen not to publish. Some of these are of a very delicate political nature, and if they were released to the public, could seriously compromise the peace that exists between our nation and certain foreign powers. Other cases, I have also decided to keep in a locked box, in a bank vault, in Charing Cross, because, if the details of these were to come to light, they might potentially endanger the lives of a number of prominent public figures and their families.
There is one more class of case that I have kept private, due to the fact that they contain elements or events which I’ve deemed too sensational or fantastic to believe. The case which I’m about to recount, falls into this category.
It is fair to note that, in the years since these awful incidents occurred, the world has undergone many changes. While the passage of time has not dulled the impact of what transpired during those days, I believe that it has somewhat prepared the public to accept, or at least to approach, this case with an open mind. It is with this philosophy that I have decided to chance its release. Having made these statements, I must admit that, had I not personally witnessed all that I am about to recount with my own eyes, there is no doubt that I would consider myself a sceptic.
* * * *
The adventure began early one cold winter morning, while I was still residing in the rooms at 221B Baker Street. I was awakened by Sherlock Holmes, who urged me to dress immediately.
When I asked him for an explanation, he merely said, “Wear warm clothing, Watson, we are making a trip to the country.”
With that, he left me to obey his orders. I knew my friend well enough to know that it was useless to attempt to elicit information from him. He would tell me more in his own time.
I had no sooner finished shaving when the door was opened and Holmes stuck his head inside the room and said, “And do take your revolver.”
My curiosity now thoroughly piqued, Holmes and I set off in a cab for Paddington station. Once there, Holmes purchased our tickets, and a moment later, we stepped into a train car and sat down.
“How would you feel about a day at the seaside?” asked Holmes.
Though I’ve occasionally made mention of Sherlock Holmes’s bizarre sense of humour, in previous accounts, I suppose I shall never entirely get used to it.
“It’s February,” I replied, feeling like the straight man in a music hall routine.
Holmes smiled, removed an envelope from his coat pocket and took out a letter. “Our friend, Inspector Lestrade, has been kind enough to invite us to a scenic little coastal village in Cornwall, called Harbourton. It seems there’s been a murder there, one with some peculiar qualities.”
“Peculiar?” I said, knowing well Holmes’s interest in all things out of the ordinary.
It was then that Holmes began reading from the letter. “The victim was one Alvar Harris, a man of sixty-seven, who lived on a secluded farm, some five miles outside town. A week ago, a local woman, Millicent Stokes, who would periodically stop by Harris’s house to bring him groceries, found him missing. She had seen him alive only the previous afternoon, when he’d asked her to return the following day with the weekly newspaper, which she’d forgotten to bring him.
“After searching the property, Stokes discovered blood stains near the barn. Suspicion immediately fell upon Harris’s neighbour, Edmund Collier, who lived a quarter mile away. Harris and Collier had been known to detest each other. It seems that the reason for that contention is that Harris would let his cows graze on Collier’s land, despite Collier’s numerous pleas to the contrary.
“By all accounts, Harris was a taciturn man, with no living family, who seldom ventured into town. Collier, by contrast, is a retired Postal clerk, who lived with his own grown daughter, often socialized in the local village pub, and used his time to pursue his avocation, which is sculpting.”
I glanced out the window to see the buildings of London recede into the distance, as Holmes continued reading from the letter.
“Upon being questioned, Millicent Stokes was ruled out as a suspect. An extensive search of Harris’s house and grounds revealed no other evidence; nor did a search of Collier’s house. Other than the circumstances above, there seemed to be nothing to tie Collier to the crime.
“This changed two days later, when a human arm washed up on the local beach and was found by a passing fisherman. An examination of the arm revealed two tattoos, which a tearful Stokes immediately recognized as belonging to the deceased.
“Collier was promptly arrested, and another search of his house revealed a number of saws, which Collier claimed to use in his sculpting work. Due to the condition of the victim’s arm, which was severed with razor-like precision, it soon became obvious that we had our culprit.
“When presented with this evidence, Collier maintained his innocence. The matter might have ended there, were it not for Collier’s daughter, Katherine, who says that she and her father were home the entire night the crime was committed.
“It is Katherine Collier who insisted that I contact you, Mr Holmes, with the hope that you could perform a miracle and save her father from the gallows.” The letter ended there.
“It seems that Lestrade is satisfied that he has the guilty party, and that the case is solved,” I said.
“When Lestrade feels satisfaction, the world trembles,” said Holmes, with a half smile, then took a few photographs out of the envelope in which the letter had come.
“I must caution you, Watson, despite both your military and medical experience, you will find these photographs nothing short of gruesome.”
Holmes handed me the pictures. Given his usual flair for the dramatic, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but in this instance, he was not exaggerating. I stared at the photographs with revulsion.
Each was a picture of the severed arm, taken from different angles. I took note of the particularly strange manner with which the arm had been cut, then at the two tattoos on the upper biceps. The top one was of a nearly rectangular shape, the one below was an illustration of two intertwined vines. Further down, I noticed three dark circles, which were not t
attoos, though exactly what they were, I wasn’t sure, perhaps wounds of some kind. Then I saw an area of blackened puffy skin, which is common among drowning victims.
“What can you tell me about Mr Harris from looking at his arm?” asked Holmes.
“It is the arm of a healthy man, if not somewhat overweight,” I said, “The fingers have calluses, so it stands to reason that he worked with his hands.”
“Excellent, Watson.”
“The tattoos, are, of course, distinctive. Perhaps he was a lover of the art, or merely a follower of fashion. Since a number of royals created the vogue, the public has, as they always do, followed suit.”
Holmes glanced at the photographs, then said, “The victim weighed twenty stone, stood six feet tall, had grey hair, spent much time outside, (no doubt tending to his animals). He was a widower who lost his beloved wife not more than five years ago, after which he sought seclusion. But, while many men who find themselves in similar circumstances turn to drink in an effort to quell their sorrows, Harris indulged himself with cakes, tarts, scones, pies, cookies, and eclairs. All of which came naturally to him, as his profession was that of a master baker. Since his wife’s death, he has had no other romance in his life. He was a compulsive man, whose outward anger masked his inner emotional pain.”
“How could you possibly know all that, Holmes?” I asked, stunned.
“The circumference of the arm indicated his girth, and from there one has only to gauge the proportions of the body and reconstruct it exponentially, much the way a naturalist, who specializes in palaeontology does, when unearthing a new dinosaur bone. The hair colour is evident by small follicles that are still intact. The dark complexion indicates someone who has spent much time in the sun. The fourth finger on the left hand has a lighter colour around the third knuckle, obviously from the impression of a wedding band which was only removed within the last few days. If that wasn’t enough to declare his eternal love, the tattoo of the intertwining vines, a popular image symbolizing such everlasting devotion, removes all doubt.
“As for his weight being a product of his own overindulgence, the illustration above the vines is that of a loaf of bread. A tattoo proclaiming one’s profession is not uncommon, especially among certain classes. His anguish and compulsion is evident by the condition of his fingernails. They have been bitten, a nasty habit, which would suggest that he was alone, as few women would put up with such unhygienic and socially unacceptable behaviour in their man.”
“Astounding,” I said.
“At the risk of repeating myself, Watson, it’s really quite elementary. However, having said that, these photographs raise more questions than they answer. Would you care to speculate on what sort of instrument could have been used to sever this man’s arm?”
“Other than perhaps having been caught in the gears of some large factory machine, of which I am unfamiliar, and even then, I’m frankly at a loss to explain the odd uneven nature of the cut. It appears unlikely that even a surgeon’s knife could have achieved these results.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“It’s not often we agree on something.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Watson, your observations are invaluable.”
I looked out the window as the countryside went by and thought about poor Mr Harris.
* * * *
A few hours later we arrived at Harbourton, and were met at the station by Lestrade and the local constable, a dour looking man called Dunbar. We were escorted to a carriage, then driven through the sleepy little village into the hills beyond. A quarter hour later we turned onto a secluded road and stopped at a cottage, which we were informed belonged to Edmund Collier, the man in custody. The door to the cottage was opened by a beautiful woman of no more than twenty years with pitch black hair.
“Mr Sherlock Holmes, I presume,” she said, curtsying, as if she were greeting a visiting noble. “I am Katherine Collins.”
“Miss Collier,” said Holmes, “this is my friend and associate, Dr Watson. I take it that you are already acquainted with Inspector Lestrade and Constable Dunbar.”
“Yes,” she said, looking none too happy.
We stepped into the living room, and Holmes walked over to a painting that hung above the mantle—a portrait of a gaunt, frail man in his sixties dressed in a plain, white shirt and dark trousers.
“Your father,” said Holmes.
“Yes,” said Miss Collier, “he traded with a local painter for a sculpture he’d made of the man. A portrait for a portrait.”
“You contend that on the night of the murder you were here?” said Holmes.
“Yes,” said Miss Collier, “I was with my father the entire night. When we heard the news the next day from the constable, it came as a complete shock to us both.”
“Is it possible that your father could have gone outside that night without you perceiving him?” asked Holmes.
“No, Mr Holmes. Even if I had not seen him, I certainly would have heard him leave, since I have the room next to his and am a very light sleeper. In addition, the floorboards groan, and the doors and windows squeak when opened. Though, as I understand it, whoever did perpetrate this heinous act would have needed more than a few minutes to do it.”
“Quite so,” said Holmes, “may we look around?”
“Of course,” replied the girl.
I accompanied Holmes through the house’s few rooms, each of which contained wooden sculptures. Most of them were busts, or small figurines. In a shed behind the house, we found a workroom with a table on which rested a number of saws of various sizes, as well as hammers, axes, and other craftsman’s tools.
From there, we went outside and saw a horse and cart. Here, Holmes knelt down and examined the cart’s wheels. After a moment or two, he stood up and met the gazes of Lestrade and Dunbar, who were standing a few feet away, watching us.
Katherine Collins went over to Holmes and said, “Is there any hope for my father?”
“If you’re asking me if I believe that he murdered Mr Harris, the answer is no.”
“That’s preposterous,” said Lestrade.
“We have the right man,” said Dunbar, “of that you can be certain.”
“When it comes to crime, nothing is certain, except uncertainty,” said Holmes. “ Keep your spirits up, young lady. I expect to bring you good news soon.”
* * * *
On the trip up the road in Dunbar’s carriage, I wondered if Holmes should have been so optimistic. I’d seen nothing that cast doubt on the official version of the case, let alone that would point to Edmund Collier’s innocence. But once Holmes had an idea in his mind, there was no talking him out of it. My concern was for Miss Collier. I didn’t want her to have unrealistic expectations, and as a result, subsequently be disappointed.
In five minutes time we stopped in front of another cottage. This one was bigger than the previous one, and the grass in front of it a bit overgrown.
“We’ve preserved the scene,” said Lestrade, as we walked up the path to the front door, “for what it’s worth.”
Holmes turned to Lestrade seemingly unamused. Dunbar unlocked the door, and we went inside.
The living room was simply furnished with a wooden table and a few chairs. On a cabinet were some framed photographs of a fat man—presumably Harris—with a plump woman—presumably his late wife.
A search of the pantry turned up tins of dried fruit, chocolate, and some jars of jam. On a counter were a stale loaf of bread and a few traditional Cornish pasties which, judging by the smell, had gone bad.
Then we went outside and walked to the barn, which was empty. On the ground in front of it, were the blood stains that Lestrade had mentioned in his letter. Holmes examined them, then gave his attention to a horseless cart that stood nearby. As he had done at the previous cottage, he inspected the cart’s wheels then seemed to take notice of a small wren that had landed on a nearby log. The bird was eating a worm.
Holmes then walked to som
e shrubs not far from the barn and examined them. I turned to Lestrade and Dunbar, who were watching the proceedings with what I took to be expressions of extreme boredom.
“And the prisoner,” said Holmes, returning from his foray into the bushes, and directing his attention to the two lawmen, “may I speak with him?”
“By all means, Mr Holmes,” said Dunbar, smugly, “if it’ll hasten your departure from our midst, you’re welcome to have a brief chat with him.”
It was now obvious that Lestrade and his new-found friend were enjoying themselves immensely at our expense. While this annoyed me no end, Holmes seemed to be oblivious to their attitude.
* * * *
When we arrived back in town, the lot of us descended upon the local jail. Edmund Collier greeted us in his cell with the enthusiasm of a condemned man resigned to his fate. He looked even more gaunt and frail than his portrait.
Holmes’s interview was short and seemed to add nothing of substance to the case. Afterward, Holmes asked Dunbar if he could recommend lodgings for the night. The Constable gave us the name of the town’s only inn and public house, The Harborview, which, it turned out, was a short walk away.
Once there and free from Lestrade and his shadow, Holmes seemed to relax a bit. In the public house we ordered poached cod for dinner and after it arrived, Holmes said, “We seem to have a most singular case, Watson, one filled with many twists and turns.”
“Despite Lestrade and Dunbar’s claims to the contrary,” I intoned.
“Neither of our friends seems to have the slightest concern with the fact that Collier, a man of no more than eight stone, is supposed to have taken on Harris, who was twenty stone, in a fight, using what was undoubtedly a blunt instrument—based upon my examination of the blood stains—and single-handedly overpowered him, removed the body, presumably for burial in some secluded spot, of which, incidentally, there are certainly are no shortage of in that region. And yet, all this was done clandestinely, without his daughter’s knowledge, consent, or cooperation.”
“She could have been lying,” I said, reluctantly.
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