Inspector Lestrade detached himself from a nearby group and walked up to us. His sharp nose and bright eyes shone in the yellow gaslight. He ignored the detective and addressed me. “What do you think, Dr. Watson?”
I sighed. “When you called me out here, Inspector, I didn’t think it was to establish time of death. What happened to your regular police surgeon?”
“Influenza. Half the force is down with it.”
“I can believe you. I’ve been run off my feet these last two weeks with patients of my own. Well, I’ve examined the body. He died from crushing injuries on his left side. From the position of the body, he fell from the top of this wall and landed on the cobblestones.”
“Jumped, fell or was pushed, Doctor?”
“That is the question, Inspector.”
“What time do you think it happened?”
I turned and looked at the body again. “It’s hard to say. What information do you have?”
Lestrade opened his official notebook. “According to witnesses Mr. Humphrey Dumfrey was in the habit of sitting on this stretch of wall observing the daily passing of the Palace Guards on their way to and from Buckingham Palace twice a day. Nothing unusual was noticed earlier this afternoon. After the parade he had tea in the little teashop on the corner. Later he was seen walking toward his flat. Little was known of his movements for several hours. Then some men coming home from the local public house found him like this just after dark.”
I nodded. “He must have died just before he was found. The cobblestones are still slick. Nothing has congealed even now.”
Holmes finally stirred. “Who found him, Inspector?”
Lestrade puffed up a little bit. “I’m very sure that it was kind of you to accompany Dr. Watson tonight, Mr. Holmes, but I want it understood that Scotland Yard has this case in hand. Any information given out will be addressed to the doctor in his temporary official capacity.”
My friend stiffened and stepped back. “Excuse me.” His voice was cold and he was clearly insulted. “Watson, I will see you back in Baker Street.”
“Wait, Holmes,” I pleaded. “Inspector, as the doctor on this case I may call in any consultant I need, may I not?”
Lestrade shuffled his feet. He clearly realized that he had been unnecessarily rude to Sherlock Holmes and now he grasped my inquiry as a face-saving move. “Yes, you may. Mr. Holmes, if I have said something untoward, I apologize. I have not forgotten the many times you have assisted us in the past.”
I stepped closer to the still figure by the wall. “Please, Holmes. Don’t leave me out here alone with only Scotland Yard.”
Despite himself, Holmes chuckled. “Very well, Watson. Proceed.”
Lestrade referred to his notebook again. “The three men were a butcher, a baker and a candlestick maker. They were in the habit of meeting at the “Three Blind Mice” to have a pint after work. They left there and were walking up to London Bridge when they stumbled over the victim.”
“Where did Mr. Dumfrey reside?”
The Inspector turned over several pages. “He had rooms nearby. I talked to his landlady and she said he spent the time after tea in his room reading a lexicon. Humphrey Dumfrey was very fond of words and spent most of his time with dictionaries, thesauruses and other publications, making notes for a definitive work he had been compiling for years.”
“Nothing strange, odd, unusual or peculiar about that,” murmured Holmes.
One of the local police called Lestrade aside for a moment. The Scotland Yard man returned in the company of a little crooked man. He wore a little crooked hat and moved with the help of a little crooked stick.
Lestrade introduced him to us as Mr. L. C. Mann. He looked up at us and I could see by the lamplight that he had been crying. “’Umphrey Dumfrey were my best friend, gentlemen. Many was the times we sat in ‘is rooms, arguin’ about the origin of the word “glory”. I still can’t believe ‘e’s gone.” Carefully Mann avoided looking at the broken body in the street.
“Did Mr. Dumfrey have any enemies?” Holmes asked.
Mr. Mann shook his head and tried to give us a little crooked smile. “There were ‘at little blond-‘aired girl what disagreed with ‘im, but ‘at were years ago. No, I’d say ‘e were the most ‘armless person I knew. ‘Is greatest joy were sittin’ on ‘at wall and watchin’ all the King’s ‘Orses an’ all the King’s Men ride past.”
A shudder shook his little crooked body. “I shall miss ‘im so!” he cried. “’E were a good egg!”
Holmes and Lestrade continued the investigation after that night but a definitive answer as to the cause of Humphrey Dumfrey’s demise was never established. I once asked Holmes if he ever developed a theory of the case.
“I have a suspect, but there isn’t enough evidence to go to court,” he admitted.
“Well, can you tell me if he jumped, fell or was pushed?”
Sherlock Holmes solemnly filled his pipe and lit it with an ember from the fireplace. He leaned forward and fixed me with a glittering eye.
“Watson, I think he was goosed!”
The Case of the Weary Wanderer
“You must help me, Mr. Holmes, or my life is ruined!”
At the sound of that dramatic announcement, I looked up to see Mr. Ashton Fellows, just ushered in by our landlady, as he stood in the doorway of the sitting room at 221b Baker Street. I saw a young man, slim in ruddy tweeds, clean-shaven, with a thatch of fair hair and bright blue eyes shining out of a peaches and cream complexion, reddened by exposure to the cold air outside. A blue knitted muffler was wrapped around his neck. He wore a shabby grey overcoat and held a brown paper parcel in one hand and his soft cloth cap in the other. Holmes motioned him to the sofa as Mrs. Hudson closed the door against the hallway draughts.
It was during the end of the first year of my association with Sherlock Holmes. I had not begun to write of his adventures, although we had worked together in several cases. I was not yet accustomed to seeing possible clients suddenly appear at our sitting room door. I stood up awkwardly from my seat by the fire, unpleasant weather having aggravated the wound I bore as a remembrance of my participation in the fatal battle of Maiwand.
It was a stormy morning in the middle of December, with frost on the windows and snow drifts piling up on the pavement beneath our cozy rooms. The gas lights that burned in the windows of the businesses up and down Baker Street gleamed only faintly against the blizzard. For weeks the weather had been chilly and miserable. That day the leaden sky was spitting down frozen flakes of snow that drove even holiday merrymakers off the streets and into the dun-colored buildings of London.
Holmes cast his eye over our client as the young man took his seat. He scribbled something on a half-sheet of paper from his chair by the fireplace. After a minute the detective drawled, “I deduce from your flowing necktie and long paint-speckled fingers that you are an artist. From your worn shoes and frayed shirt cuffs I see that your talent has not yet been recognized by an appreciative public. Watson, stir up the fire. Our visitor has been out tramping the streets in this chilly winter weather and would appreciate some tea. Ring for Mrs. Hudson, give her this note and have her add the odd sandwich to that tea. Now, pray tell, how may I help you?”
Our visitor was sitting on the edge of the sofa and speaking earnestly to Holmes when I returned from giving the message to our landlady.
“There is this girl… let me tell you about her, Mr. Holmes. She is an angel! What a profile! Skin like the finest marble and eyes… green pools a man could drown in! And her hair… thick and glossy in a chestnut shade! When she speaks it’s like singing!”
“Can you give us the lady’s name?” Holmes lit his pipe and leaned back in his chair. He nodded to me and I drew out my notebook.
“Cynthia,” sighed Mr. Fellows. “Isn’t that a beautiful name?” He sat
on the edge of the cushions, suddenly quiet, a little smile on his lips and a faraway look in his eye. I sat for a moment staring at him and then shifted my gaze to Holmes. He was looking closely at Mr. Fellows as a wisp of tobacco smoke drifting lazily upwards from his old clay pipe. Mrs. Hudson appeared with a tray of sandwiches and tea. I poured our client a cup of steaming liquid and he eagerly picked up a sandwich.
I spoke. “How did you meet?”
“She was sitting in the corner of my friend’s apartment at a party a week ago. He is a sculptor and was leaving for Scotland the next day. Some of us got together and gave him a little send-off. I saw her as I came in. She was wearing a green and white dress that set off her eyes. We talked of Wordsworth. For hours, we talked of Wordsworth.”
“I do not see your problem, Mr. Fellows,” said the detective drily. “Surely you do not need my help in wooing this paragon.”
Suddenly all the animation went out of Ashton Fellows’ face and he looked forlornly at Sherlock Holmes.
“My problem is that I have lost her, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes slowly set aside his pipe and gave Fellows all his attention.
“Indeed, sir? Please explain.”
“You must understand, Mr. Holmes. It was an impromptu party at an artist’s loft. There were a lot of people there and I didn’t know all of them. Guests came and went all evening. I never caught her last name. Our conversation was absorbing and frankly, at the time, her last name didn’t seem important.”
I stirred. “Who introduced you?”
Ashton Fellows smiled at me. “Clearly, Dr. Watson, you haven’t spent much time with struggling artists. We live in Bohemia. The staid manners and formal conventions of society don’t exist in our lives. With us everything is free and open. We sat together and talked all evening and then, in an instant, she disappeared.”
“Surely she wasn’t a spirit!”
Fellows shook his head. “Oh, she was flesh and blood, Doctor. Of that I am certain. But she did leave suddenly. I had turned away for only a moment and when I turned back… she was gone! I might have considered the entire evening a dream, except that she left these behind.” He held out the brown paper parcel.
I took it from him and carefully folded back the paper. Within was a dainty pair of green party slippers in the current fashionable Grecian style, with long trailing tie-straps. Holmes leaned forward and drew them into his lap. He picked up his large magnifying glass and examined first one and then the other. Fellows finished the plate of sandwiches and I poured out the last of the tea. Holmes looked at our client.
“Are you saying she left the party in her stocking feet?” he inquired.
“Not in the weather we have been having!” I exclaimed.
Fellows smiled ruefully. “I saw a pair of outdoor boots tucked next to her chair while we were talking. Doubtlessly she had changed out of her boots when she first arrived, then slipped them back on before she left. There was no provision made for ladies’ wraps. Her coat was folded on the back of her chair.”
Mrs. Hudson knocked on our door and handed me an envelope for Holmes. He tore it open, read the contents and threw the paper into the fire.
“That party was a week ago, Mr. Fellows. What have you done in all this time to find her?’ asked the detective.
Fellows shoved his weary feet with their worn shoes out in front of him on the carpet. “I searched for her, Mr. Holmes. I can’t afford cabs or even always the omnibus, so I have been walking. I visited everyone I knew who had attended the party and as I talked to them I got more names of guests. Then I went to see them. No one could tell me who she was. I even visited the various public houses in the area of the party, like the “Midnight Belle” and the “Golden Coach”. I tried to distract myself from thinking of her by painting but even that has failed. I can’t stop remembering that night.”
“What of your friend who had the flat where the party took place?”
“I telegraphed him in Edinburgh. He claimed not to know who she was either. Please find her, Mr. Holmes. I must find her or my whole life will count for nothing.”
“My dear Mr. Fellows…” I began.
Our client jumped to his feet, his fists clenched. “I mean it, sir! I must find her or I… I cannot answer for what might happen!”
Sherlock Holmes rose and put a steady hand on the man’s shoulder. “Calm yourself, please. I need you to do something for me while I work on your case.”
“Anything, Mr. Holmes!”
“I want you to return home and get some rest. You are overwrought and exhausted. I have four different leads to follow on your young lady. Come back tomorrow morning at 10 o’clock and I should have some results for you.”
“You give me hope, Mr. Holmes?”
“To go with the tea and sandwiches, Mr. Fellows.”
“I will return tomorrow. Thank you!”
I watched from the window as Ashton Fellows emerged from our door and trudged down the street into the teeth of the storm. Indignantly I turned to Holmes. Emotion seized me as I thought of that young man’s struggles. I shook my head at my friend.
“How could you, Holmes? That poor lad is obviously in love. You have promised him results by tomorrow and he has been searching for that girl for a week!”
“That is all the more reason for him to get some rest. I have already started inquiries.”
“How?”
“With that note you gave to Mrs. Hudson. I asked Cooke, the proprietor of the art and frame shop on the corner, about Mr. Fellows. He is a respectable artist, if such a creature can exist, from a vicar’s family in Setton Cross, Kent. He is twenty-five years old, poor, but greatly talented and spoken of in some circles as the next Constable.”
“What other leads could you possibly have?”
Holmes picked up one of the green party shoes by one of its long straps. “Here is one. Observe, Watson. I do not claim to be a fashion expert for young ladies, but I know a hand-made shoe when I see one. Look at the stitching and the craftsmanship displayed in this dainty slipper.” He handed me the footwear. “The ladies are your department, Doctor. What can you tell me of this bit of frippery?”
I borrowed his magnifying glass and examined it closely. “Well, it is obviously a party shoe. It is much too flimsy to wear to walk about in the countryside. The sole is too thin even for city streets. It speaks of hardwood floors and orchestras.”
“Perfectly sound!”
I felt encouraged. I turned it over in my hand and tried to think of something more to say. “This shoe has barely been worn. The sole is only lightly scuffed.”
“Well done, Watson! You progress!” responded Sherlock Holmes.
I handed the footwear back to the detective. “That is all.”
“Not quite all, my dear Doctor. There are at least two more points. Look at the color. This shade of green was made very popular six months ago when the Princess of Wales wore a gown of emerald hue to a ball given by the Duchess of Marlborough. I do read more than the agony columns, you see.”
“You astonish me, Holmes!”
He picked up the glass and peered inside the slipper. “Finally, if you look very closely, you can see the stamp of the maker just over the heel. ‘Gottmater and Co.’ Hand me down my index, if you please.”
I gave him the thick volume he indicated.
“My collection of Gs has its interesting points. On this page is Geller the forger and David Gill, the explorer who found the source of the Nompuso River. Here is Preston George, who gave me such an exciting few minutes at the Monte Carlo Casino two years ago. What a talkative old reprobate he was! Ah, here is Gottmater and Co.” He read silently for a moment and then snapped the book shut.
“I see I am for an Arctic expedition, Watson. I am going to brave the elements to Bond Street.” He began to pull on his
outer garments and slipped the shoes into his overcoat pocket. I reached for my hat. “No, Doctor. Your injury should stay out of this weather and next to the fire. I will return in time for tea.”
Again I stood at the frosty window, this time watching as my friend stepped out into the storm. Thankfully I noticed that the wind had dropped and more people had ventured out upon the pavement. A couple of bundled-up figures were already sweeping away the snow drifts that had accumulated against the storefronts. I picked up a yellow-backed novel and settled down by the fire.
I took my mid-day meal tray from Mrs. Hudson’s hand at one o’clock. The storm had ceased by then. A clear sparkling street greeted my eyes as I glanced out later to see Sherlock Holmes descending from a cab. He looked thoughtful.
He greeted me but said little and after drinking a cup of tea managed to occupy his time in a complicated chemical study that precluded talk until I went to bed.
The next morning I arose late to find the weather had greatly improved. Sunshine streamed though our sitting room windows and made a brave effort to melt the frost clinging to the glass panes. I had barely finished my breakfast before Mr. Ashton Fellows was shown up. Holmes had already eaten and greeted our visitor with a smile and an offer of the last eggs in the dish.
“Do you have news, Mr. Holmes?” Fellows asked between mouthfuls of food.
“Yes, I have. Finish your coffee, Mr. Fellows. If you wish, we do have an appointment in a short time with the object of your quest.”
Was I imagining it, or was there a note of warning in Holmes’ voice?
“You have found her? Marvelous! How?”
Sherlock Holmes and The Folk Tale Mysteries Page 9