Sherlock Holmes At the Raffles Hotel

by John Hall

  Holmes said, “If I am correct, there was a note near your wife’s body, along with this bottle. Superintendent Ingham did not mention finding any note and therefore I conclude that you destroyed it. Am I right?”

  Gerard shook his head, and looked away.

  Ingham interjected, “Mr Gerard, you have already admitted tampering with evidence, a very serious matter. If there was further evidence which you have concealed or destroyed, it would be as well to tell us about it.”

  Gerard merely shook his head again.

  “You see,” said Holmes in a dreamy tone, “there remains the matter of the poisoned sugarplums. Can it be, Mr Gerard, that you entirely fail to see the significance of those? Or shall I explain?”

  Gerard looked blankly at him. “You keep talking about poison in those damned sugarplums,” he said, “but I say you are wrong there, Mr Holmes. That is, if you are right …” and he broke off, looking even more baffled than I felt just then, if that were possible.

  “It is indeed a puzzle, is it not?” said Holmes. “Because, as you have just realized, if your wife intended to commit suicide by first poisoning the sugarplums …”

  “What?” roared Ingham and I together.

  Holmes completely ignored us. “… then the sole reason must have been to conceal the fact of its being suicide,” he concluded. “And thus the bottle would not have been left in public view. Now, Mr Gerard, if I am to help you … and I should like to do so if possible, for your complete ineptitude convinces me of your innocence … then I can only do so if you will tell me the truth. Was there a note?”

  Gerard stared at him in silence for a moment, and then nodded. “Yes,” he muttered.

  “And where is it now?”

  “I burned it,” said Gerard defiantly. “In that stinking alleyway. You’ll not find it, Mr Holmes.”

  “It might be better if we did,” said Holmes in a significant tone. “For you, that is.”

  “And for Emily?” Gerard stared at Holmes with something of his previous defiance, then his face changed. “But, then … if … that is …”

  “If your wife did not kill herself, and you did not … yes,” said Holmes. “In that event, you must certainly give us what help you can, so that we may determine who did kill her. And if I am wrong, then it will not help your wife should you hang for a crime which you did not commit.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” Gerard thought about it and nodded. “You are right, of course, Mr Holmes. Yes, there was a note. But …” and he shook his head.

  “Mr Gerard? Having come this far, you might as well continue.”

  “I suppose so. Yes, there was a note, but it was in Emily’s own handwriting.”

  Holmes leaned forward, an eager look on his face. “Ah! You are sure?”

  “Certain.”

  “And do you recall what it said?”

  Gerard nodded, dumbly. “How can I possibly forget, Mr Holmes? It is forever engraved upon my brain. ‘Can you find it in you to forgive me?’ it said. ‘I really cannot help myself, my dearest one. I have never felt such emotion before, nor shall again’. That was it, Mr Holmes, word for word, I swear it.”

  “There was no superscription? The note was not addressed to you by name?”

  Gerard shook his head. “It was exactly as I have said, Mr Holmes. Word for word, no preamble and no signature.”

  “But you would swear it was your wife’s writing?”

  “I do swear it.”

  “Tell me,” said Holmes, “was it a whole sheet of paper?”

  Gerard shook his head. “A half sheet.”

  “Ah! Was it torn, or had it been cut? Did you happen to notice?”

  Gerard closed his eyes, as if trying to visualize the note. “The sheet had been folded and torn across the middle, as you do when you’re writing a hasty memorandum or something of the sort. The note itself, the text, I mean, was written on the top half, so the fold and tearing was at the bottom of the note itself.”

  Holmes nodded. “Anything else? Was the paper of decent quality, say?”

  “Yes. In fact, it was just the sort of notepaper upon which Emily was accustomed to write her letters to me, before our marriage.” He gave a bitter, fleeting little smile. “I remember noticing the watermark, you see. And there was a faint perfume about it, for Emily sometimes used scented ink.”

  “I see.”

  Gerard frowned, as if trying to remember more. “And there was a little tear on the top, where it had been ripped from the notepad, I imagine.”

  “Was this tear to the left of the sheet, or the right?”

  “The right.”

  “Was your wife left-handed?”

  “No.”

  “Tell me, if you would, what occurred that day, when you returned to your lodgings.”

  “I went in, there was nobody about … the place is usually quiet through the day. I went upstairs and called out to my wife, so that she would not be unduly concerned when the door opened.”

  “The door was unlocked, then?”

  “Yes.” Gerard went on, “I saw Emily slumped over the table. I knew at once that something was amiss, that she was not just dozing. I ran to her, saw … saw …”

  “Yes, yes,” said Holmes gently. “Then you saw the bottle, and the note?”

  Gerard nodded. “The bottle was on top of the note, like some obscene paperweight. There was a glass there, too, with the remains of some brandy, and some cloudy stuff, I assumed it was the dregs of the poison that … you know. Well, I couldn’t tell you just what went through my mind right then. I guess I went mad for a short time. Then I managed to pull myself together, though I couldn’t say just how I did it. I remembered the silly argument, Emily’s headache that I’d thought was just an excuse not to go out with me … I blamed myself, you see.”

  “For what you thought was suicide?”

  “What else could I think? The glass, the bottle and the note in her very handwriting.” Gerard shook his head again, as if trying to clear it. “Well, I didn’t want her found like that, not with the poison there. I washed the glass and put it in the bathroom. Then I had to get rid of the note and the bottle. I picked them up and ran downstairs … the landlady had appeared by that time, so I had to make some excuse for running outside. I shouted some nonsense or the other, went out and round the corner into the alleyway. There was nobody much about in there, despite the road in front of the place being crowded, so I put a match to the note, and shoved the bottle into one of the dustbins. That’s all, I swear, Mr Holmes.”

  Holmes nodded. “It is much as I had imagined.”

  Gerard looked at my old friend, a glimmer of hope appearing for the first time in his eye. “But, Mr Holmes … do you really see any light in this dark and tragic business?”

  “It is too soon to put it in those terms just yet. I should prefer to say that I see certain inconsistencies in the matter. Inconsistencies which need further investigation, but which I hope and trust will remove the cloud of suspicion which currently hangs over you.”

  “I am truly grateful, sir,” said Gerard quietly. “For myself, for obvious reasons, but more than that … for Emily’s sake. For I may say that on reflection I cannot believe that she committed suicide. And I can think of no man who is better qualified than Mr Sherlock Holmes to bring the truth to light. If you cannot do it, sir, nobody can.”

  Holmes nodded. “Thank you. One last question only, sir, and that a rather delicate one. Was your wife of an affectionate nature?”

  Gerard stared at him in amazement. “I must ask it,” said Holmes.

  “Well, sir, then I reply that Emily was as affectionate a wife as any reasonable man could wish,” said Gerard stiffly.

  “Thank you,” said Holmes, nodding to the constable who stood at attention by the door.

  When Gerard had been taken out of the room, Holmes sat back and looked at Ingham and me. “Well, gentlemen?”

  Ingham shook his head. “It’s a rum tale, and no mistake,” he said slo
wly. “I’d be inclined to think Master Gerard was trying to fool us, but there remains the problem of the poisoned sugarplums. If he did kill his wife, why move the poison bottle, but leave the poisoned sweets?”

  “And then what d’you make of the letter?” asked Holmes.

  I answered, “That sounded odd, too. Of course, we have only Gerard’s word that any letter existed.”

  “But why should he lie? He admits to concealing the bottle … the act of a man who has not thought things through, surely? He could have denied the existence of a letter … or, if he planned to kill his wife and make it look like suicide, why not leave the letter there? Anyway, assuming for a moment that there was such a letter as he described? What then?”

  “Then, it is odd that an affectionate woman should say ‘my dearest’, instead of ‘my dear husband’,” I replied. “Or again, she spoke of some ‘emotion’, where one might have thought she’d say ‘oppression’, or ‘depression’, or something stronger.”

  “Your conclusion?”

  “That the so-called suicide note was nothing of the kind!” I replied triumphantly. “It was a portion of a longer letter, sent to a friend, hence ‘my dearest one’, or whatever it was.” I frowned at Holmes. “A former lover, perhaps? When she married Gerard?”

  “It is possible.”

  “The note was faked, then. But the business about Mrs Gerard being left-handed? What was that all about?”

  Holmes handed me his notebook. “You, like Mrs Gerard, are right-handed. Be so kind as to tear a sheet from my little book there.”

  I took the book, flipped it open, and gripped the top sheet with my right hand. “Oh! I tear from right to left, of course. And if the sheet were to stick, and a piece be left behind on the pad, it would be on the left. But then … ah! The missing portion was a figure, ‘2’ or ‘3’ or something that would show at once that it was part of a longer letter. Simple, of course.”

  “Absurdly so,” said Holmes.

  “Though that still does not tell us the letter’s original recipient, does it?”

  “True,” said Holmes, “but there is one very obvious candidate.”

  “The sister, you mean?” asked Ingham. Holmes nodded.

  “Yes, and it was the sister who gave Gerard the box of poisoned sugarplums,” said Ingham slowly. Then he frowned. “But in that case, why leave the sweetmeats to be found? And, if she were wanting to kill her sister with the sweetmeats, why the nonsense with the bottle and note?” He shook his head. “I’m floundering, I’m afraid. Any ideas, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson?”

  “Perhaps two separate people wanted her dead?” I suggested tentatively … silly, I know, but it was the only thing that might have made some sort of sense to me.

  Holmes treated the suggestion as it richly deserved. He made a noise indicative of disbelief. “In that event, the late Mrs Gerard must have been more unpopular than is usual in one so young.”

  “Well, let’s hear your brilliant proposition, Holmes.”

  Holmes took out his pipe and filled it slowly. “It is a puzzle, I agree. But how’s this? The sister plans to kill Mrs Gerard, but make it look like suicide … why, we cannot yet imagine. She knows of her sister’s fondness for walnut confectionery, and doctors the appropriate sweets, sending them via the husband. Mrs Gerard eats the four walnut-centred sweets, dies, and the sister comes into the room and leaves the bottle, note and glass. How’s that?”

  “Possible,” I said doubtfully. “But?”

  “But … it leaves a lot to chance, Holmes. A lot unexplained.”

  “And I agree there, too,” he said thoughtfully. “And yet the presence of poison in the sugarplums is somehow related to the death of Mrs Gerard. It must be so, or it would be the most enormous coincidence yet.”

  Superintendent Ingham stood up. “Well,” said he, “I don’t know about you gents, but I’m ready for my dinner.”

  “Me, too,” I said.

  Holmes laughed. “I might as well make it unanimous.”

  “You gentlemen will be my guests at the Raffles Hotel,” said Ingham. I promise you, you’re in for a treat. But I’ll tell you this,” he added, as he led the way outside, “first thing tomorrow, I’m having a few words with Mrs Masterton, despite what the doctors may say.”

  “And with Mr Masterton too, perhaps?” suggested Holmes.

  Ingham nodded. “Whatever the rights and wrongs of it, the Mastertons have some explaining to do.”

  Chapter Nine: Mrs Masterton Explains

  “A grand morning, Holmes.”

  Holmes gave a grunt that might have meant anything, and continued to gaze out of the carriage window. Superintendent Ingham had been as good as his word and bought us dinner the previous night at the Raffles Hotel; and the food had been every bit as good as he had boasted. I had enjoyed my meal, but Holmes – as was his way when engaged upon a case – had failed to do proper justice to what was before him, and more than once had the anxious waiter asked him if all was well, to be answered with a wan smile. Ingham, too, had been concerned about my old friend, but I assured the Superintendent that there was nothing that need worry him and that it was merely Holmes’ custom. After dinner Holmes had retired early, saying that he needed to think in peace. Ingham and I had treated ourselves to a few gin concoctions at the bar – a few too many in my own case, I regret to say. And then I had sought my bed, and knew nothing more until the tropical sun streaming through my window caused me to awaken.

  A magnificent breakfast started the day properly – for me, at any rate, though Holmes’ own meal was rather frugal, I regret to say – and now we were rolling along the busy streets heading for the Masterton house. It was marginally cooler than it had been on the previous night, but I knew that the day would quickly become uncomfortably hot.

  Superintendent Ingham packed some evil-smelling tobacco into his pipe, drew air through it experimentally, adjusted the density of the filling to his satisfaction, and applied a match. Through a cloud of blue smoke, he asked, “Solved it, Mr Holmes?”

  Holmes turned his gaze from the bustle around us, and smiled. “I have a half dozen theories,” he told Ingham, “of which three are significant, and all would serve to explain part of the mystery. The trouble is that none will serve to explain it all. We need more to work on, I fear.”

  “Well, let’s just hope that Anya and Derek Masterton will provide it,” said Ingham, and we lapsed into a silence that continued until the carriage halted outside the Masterton house.

  The house was low, new and smart, and set in its own grounds in what Ingham told us was the most fashionable area of the city. The grounds were bright with flowers and trees, the work of several skilled local gardeners, as I judged. It was all in strong contrast to the rather dowdy lodging house which the Gerards had favoured, and I could not help but wonder just why Charles Gerard had been so insistent on their not staying here with their relatives. Suspicious, that, surely? But then, if Charles Gerard had wanted privacy in order to murder his wife, why had he not ordered matters better? I mentally shrugged my shoulders, gave it up, and got down from the carriage to follow Ingham and Holmes to the front door.

  The door was opened by a butler who would not have been at all out of place in Mayfair or Belgravia, and who sedately ushered us into a large and airy drawing room. “Mrs Masterton is awake and feeling a little better,” he told us in answer to Ingham’s enquiry, “and I shall find out if she will see you gentlemen.” And off he went, solemn as before.

  Holmes glanced round the room. “It is an impressive house,” he said.

  Ingham nodded. “Masterton has done well for himself these past few years, and no mistake.”

  “He thus has much to lose, then, should there be some murky secret in his past?” mused Holmes.

  “That he has,” said Ingham, with another nod.

  Further speculation was prevented by the entrance of Mr and Mrs Masterton. Derek Masterton was some six feet tall, forty years of age or perhaps just a trifle more, wi
th his wavy hair just beginning to go grey and his moustache neatly clipped. He wore a beautifully tailored lightweight suit in a pearl grey material, and, in short, he looked every inch the successful businessman. Mrs Masterton was some ten years younger than her husband, strikingly attractive, but with the strain of the last day or two showing only too clearly upon her face. She entered the room leaning on her husband’s arm, and he escorted her to a chair.

  When the necessary introductions had been made, Ingham told Derek Masterton, “We’d like a word with Mrs Masterton first, if you could excuse us, sir?”

  Masterton frowned. “I’m not sure that I can allow that,” he said, his tone firm but not belligerent. “My wife has had a tremendous shock, you know, and has not been at all well. Indeed, the doctor has expressly forbidden any excitement for a time. Can you not ask me your questions? I’ll answer as fully and as honestly as I can. Or at any rate, let me stay here while you talk to Anya.”

  “It’s the form, Mr Masterton,” replied Ingham, his voice every bit as courteous, but every bit as uncompromising, as Masterton’s own. “We’ll need to talk to you too, of course, but if we could speak to Mrs Masterton first, and then she can get back to her rest?”

  “Well, could Miss Earnshaw not remain here in the room, at least?”

  “And we’ll perhaps have a quick word with Miss Earnshaw, as well, later on,” said Ingham. He smiled at Masterton. “There’s no need to worry about there being someone here to see fair play, sir. We’re all quite civilized, you know.” And he added to Mrs Masterton, “Merely a matter of routine, madam. You’ll want to help us clear up the tragic matter of your sister’s death, now won’t you?”

  Masterton clearly did not like it; but equally clearly Ingham was not going to give way. So, with a muttered, “Have it your own way,” Derek Masterton cast one last look at Ingham, another at his wife, and reluctantly showed himself out.

  “Now, Mrs Masterton,” Ingham began, “I’m not sure just how much you already know concerning the circumstances of your unfortunate sister’s demise.”