Elementary

by william Todd

  After having satisfied himself with the arrangement outside, Holmes finally turned, and we made our way back; but I noticed in our walk that he kept looking up at the building across from the Austins’ flat. He then said to me. “We seem to have an audience. There is someone in the first floor flat across the street from the Austins who is watching from the shadows. His cigarette glow has given him away. He has been watching since our arrival. He looks to have the best view of the goings-on. Let us go and have a chat with him to find out what light he might shine on this affair.”

  We trudged through muddy puddles as we crossed the street, and Holmes rapped at the door with the tip of his umbrella. After a long moment and a second knock, the door jerked opened, and a balding gentleman stood before us holding a single lit candle. His only hair, red fading quickly to grey, was splayed out above his ears, and he had enormous and peculiarly round eyes, which looked upon us distastefully. His nose was arched and beaklike, giving him an avian—more precisely an owlish—appearance.

  As Holmes was about to introduce us, the man cut him off by saying, “I talked to you lot already and told you what I saw, so be on your way.”

  He was about to close the door when my friend stuck a boot between the door and jamb. “But you have not spoken with me,” replied Holmes coolly. It never ceased to amaze me that the man cared not whether his actions bordered on irritatingly intrusive. Indeed, I sometimes wondered if he received some grim pleasure doing things to purposely rattle those he wished to interrogate.

  The man reopened the door slightly, glaring those saucer-sized eyes at my friend. “Then get my statement from the other bobbies,” he huffed.

  Smiling apologetically, Holmes replied, “I would much rather get my information first-hand, as I will more than likely be asking different questions than those previously posed to you.”

  The man sighed. “You’re not going away then?”

  Holmes only returned a blank stare.

  “Fine. What do you want to know that I haven’t already said?”

  “First, may I ask what it is about our inquiry that has you so piqued?”

  “You mean besides the fact that it’s half-ten, and I’ve had about all I can stand of this weather?” The man nodded brusquely for us to come in. “It’s freezing out and my situation isn’t sufficient to heat the whole of London so come in so I can close the door.”

  It seemed to me that this gentleman showed the same annoyed behavior as Lestrade, as indeed we all seemed to be showing. The British constitution is notorious for its stiff upper lip, but in this prolonged twilight of winter, that lip was beginning to tremble.

  We obliged, and he moved back, letting us step across the threshold before closing the door. He had a bent, apologetic gate despite his flippant manner. With only candlelight dancing off his face, he looked much older than his forty or so years.

  Once inside, the stench of cigarettes assaulted my olfactory senses. Smoke wafted in a haze around the candlelight. I could almost feel the smoke in the air. In the gloom, one might consider the place to be on fire if it weren’t for the fact burning tobacco smells nothing like burning wood. Even Holmes’s smoking habits were amateurish compared to this man.

  I stifled a cough.

  Holmes said, “Thank you, Mr….”

  “Montrose,” the man replied. “Victor Montrose.”

  “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr. Watson.”

  A knowing look and a small crease that may or may not have been a smile transformed his face, however only slightly. “Ah, the famous detective and his chronicler.” That thin slit then suddenly disappeared, and his eyes narrowed and looked upon me. “I’ve read some of your accounts, doctor. Don’t care for them. I’m not a man taken to reading fiction passed on as fact.”

  Surprised by the accusation, I replied, “I can assure you, Mr. Montrose, that every account has been utterly factual. I may have expounded on the inconsequentials, elaborated on the settings to make the stories more palatable to readers, but the facts of the story always remained intact. I have taken great pains in that endeavor.”

  “The skeletons of your stories may have been truth, but you indulged so much in putting meat on the bones of them that many died of obesity.”

  Holmes laughed, “Ah, a man after my own heart!”

  Be it the weather or my old wound, but the man’s irritation was growing on me, and Holmes was not helping the situation. A bit affronted, I replied, “Yes, well, we can stand here all night critiquing my writing abilities, or we can have a discussion about what has brought us to your door. Which would you rather?”

  “Quite right, Watson, quite right. My apologies. Mr. Montrose, can you tell me what you saw and heard of the events earlier this evening?”

  The man sighed again, which seemed to be his normal mode of respiring. “I was lying in my bed reading, which I do often, especially in this protracted agitated state of weather.”

  Holmes looked beyond the man at the vast, empty darkness. “And your wife?”

  Montrose huffed at the statement. “I am not married.”

  That did not surprise me in the least, but I kept the thought to myself.

  “And you have a room with a window that overlooks Paget Street?”

  “Yes, that’s right, my bedroom.”

  “May I be so bold as to ask permission to see it?”

  “What the devil for?”

  “It will help me in piecing together the events.”

  Montrose’s high forehead beaded in thought for a moment. Finally, he said, “I suppose it would be alright. It’s not made up for a dinner party, so mind the untidy nature of it.”

  He turned and waved us to follow him, but before he showed us up the steps to his first floor rooms, he turned to me and said, “This better not make it into any of the fantabulations you write.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied…

  It was a room inundated in dirty linens and discarded garments crumpled in knee-high patches across the floor. Unwashed plates and cutlery were stacked upon each other helter-skelter wherever there could be found a flat surface to hold them. Several large stacks of books, nonfiction I presumed, based on Montrose’s loathing of its alter-ego, hid amongst the shadows given off in the candlelight. The ashtray next to the bed was filled to overflowing with ash and smoked cigarettes. The room reeked of sweat, urine and stale smoke. A basin partially filled with, I daresay what, lay at the foot of the bed, which was centered along the left wall. It was obvious that the man’s entire home and habits had been reduced to this one room; it was both appalling and dismaying that a person could devolve to such a state as this.

  Holmes crept through the malodourous debris, following Mr. Montrose, with me at the back. A window was centered on the wall in front of us. It was to this that Montrose led us as he took a moment to light another candle on his stand, apparently happy in the flickering gloom instead of showing off his slovenly habits with electric light.

  Holmes looked out the window studying the layout of the street below and the building opposite. “How long have the Austins lived across from you?”

  “About four years, I should think. I’ve been here ten myself.”

  “How well do you know them? asked Holmes.

  Montrose treated me to a caustic stare, I presume only because Holmes’s back was to the man. “By that, if you’re asking in a roundabout way whether there was trouble in the marriage, only the wearer knows where the shoe pinches.”

  “No discourse that you are aware of then?”

  “Now, don’t go putting words in my mouth, I didn’t say that. They’ve had their rows like anyone else. A few times I’ve seen a constable stopping over, probably summoned by a neighbor tired of the shouting. It’s all noises of the jungle to me.”

  “So, their quarrels were such to attract the attention of neighbors,” Holmes said more than asked.

  Montrose lit another cigarette and replied dismissively, “Again, no more or les
s than some of the other rows that have taken place on the street. This isn’t exactly Chelsea.”

  “Do you happen to know the nature of any of those arguments?” Holmes asked as his head maneuvered left and right, taking in the scene from this higher vantage point.

  “None of my business and nor do I care.”

  As Holmes turned around and regarded the man directly for the first time since we entered the room, Montrose looked to one than the other of us and said, “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Mr. Holmes, that much I can tell you. Whenever I have seen them about, they seemed fine. Whatever the nature of their quarrels it never seemed to affect them; they looked completely contented with each other—well, as content as a man and woman can be. For all we know, those contretemps could have been due to her making him a supper he didn’t care for. Or just a bad day at work. I can assure you that Mr. Austin wasn’t killed over a row with the missus. If that’s what you’re driving at then let me take over your detecting business. I could do better than that, and I could use the money.”

  Holmes gave out a hearty, if not sarcastic, laugh. Montrose didn’t seem offended, which relayed to me his abilities in detection were sorely lacking.

  “And how do you make your way if life, Mr. Montrose?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What do you do for a living?” Holmes replied, hiding—but not completely—his exasperation.

  The man hesitated then replied with no slight irritation. “You are indeed asking different questions than those posed by the bobbies.”

  “Did I not say so?” Holmes asked, surprised. “I am well aware of the inadequacies of professional law enforcement, which is why I wanted to speak to you in person.”

  “Yet, I fail to see—”

  “I am quite certain you do, Mr. Montrose, but I do not. For whom do you work?”

  “I work at City of London University, a lecturer.”

  “For how long and in what field?”

  The man put out his half-smoked cigarette testily and said, “Say, what has any of this to do with a murder across the street?”

  “Nothing, perhaps, but I am in the business of asking questions, and those questions, however inconvenient or seemingly inconsequential, have solved one or two little affairs over the years. So, I ask again, how long have you worked at the same university as the dead professor and in what field do you teach?”

  When the question was put more succinctly, it was obvious the man then understood why Holmes asked it. A bit more subdued, he finally replied, “Ten years. And I am a lecturer in mathematics. But on this block alone you won’t find less than three other men who call the university home.”

  “Thank you. Do you or have you interacted with Professor Austin in any capacity before?”

  Montrose pulled out another cigarette from the holder he withdrew from his pocket, lit it, and replied in a puff of smoke, “Before two months ago I only ever saw the man in passing, walking down the halls of the university between classes. We never talked. I am not on his level”—this he said with an air of sarcasm. “Then, out of the blue, he approached me, knowing I work in mathematics, and asked me to work out some problems for him. He said it was for some speculative chemistry he was working on, which is more than likely why he did not take his aspirations to Professor Gruber, the Mathematics Chair. He did not wish to be laughed out of the room.”

  “Ah, these equations pertained to the alchemy experiments in his laboratory?”

  Montrose gave a knowing look, “You have been told already about that, then?”

  “Vaguely,” Holmes returned.

  “He gave me some base equations, but I could not get the answers he was looking for. After about three weeks of trying I gave up and told him the answers for which he was looking were impossible. He was certain I was wrong, that the math could indeed be worked out. He said he would test some greater minds, thanked me for my time, and that was that.”

  “He did not say who those greater minds were?”

  “He did not, but I can tell you that none were Professor Gruber. I mentioned to him what Austin was up to, and his retort could be heard ‘round the entire university. From there, the news made its way through the halls like a wildfire. He was harassed and became the butt of jokes, to be sure, but he had brought it on himself. Alchemy? Really! There was even talk of disciplinary measures. But as with all folly, it soon died down, and in the last few weeks things seemed to have rather gotten back to normal for him professionally.”

  “Thank you. Most helpful. So, then, now on to more immediate things. Tell me about this evening. Pray, leave nothing out.”

  Montrose shrugged. “A peaceful night by any measure. If there was anything nefarious going on before the murder it was drowned out by the rain and wind. I was lying in bed smoking and reading when I heard what sounded like a pistol shot. It was high-pitched, not bombastic like a rifle.”

  “Thank you for noticing that differentiation. Most helpful. Many would not have given the sound itself any thought.”

  This rare compliment from Holmes seemed to please the man, and he went on with a less belligerent tone. “I roused myself from my book, jumped from my bed and went to the window. The Austins’ front door was open, which I could see from my window, despite this never-ending, bloody gale. Within moments of reaching the window, I saw the constable appear. He was running down Rawstorne as fast as the weather would let him. He was blowing his whistle and yelling out to stop. Just after that, I heard Mrs. Austin scream. The bobby must have heard it too, given up the chase, and returned to see if he could be of assistance…and here you are.”

  “You did not see the intruder yourself?” Holmes asked.

  The sanguinity that Holmes was hoping to bring out in the man suddenly perished with the question. “As I said already,” Montrose replied with heated impatience, “he was out the door by the time I got to the window. I don’t move as quick as I did in my younger days. I only saw the constable giving chase.”

  “This was how long ago?” asked my friend, once again turning his attention out the window.

  Montrose shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said with irritation, “an hour and a half.”

  “And the weather at the time?”

  “Bloody awful! Where have you been the last few weeks?”

  “By that, I mean was there a break in the rain when this event transpired?”

  “No, there was not.”

  Holmes turned from the window and gave the room one more cursory look. “Thank you, Mr. Montrose. You have been most helpful.”

  “Like I said, this is all information I have already given.”

  “Not all of it.”

  “Everything relevant,” he replied with a cynical sneer.

  “I’ll thank you for permitting me to be the judge of that.”

  “Yes, well your thoroughness has just wasted almost fifteen minutes of my time—time I cannot get back.”

  “Our apologies,” Holmes replied with forced deference. “We shall show ourselves out. Thank you for your time.”

  Once outside, I said, “You know, Holmes, I am not a man readily given over to exasperation, but that Montrose fellow was singularly irritating. To think that I embellish my stories. You know that those stories are, despite some artistic flourishes here and there, completely factual.”

  Clapping his umbrella tip onto the cobblestone as we walked back across the avenue, Holmes replied, “It is not like you, Watson, to let such a drudge of a man get under your collar. We shall chalk it up to misplaced agitation due to your ailing shoulder. I know this weather has not been kind to it.”

  Rubbing it I replied, “Perhaps you are right. It has been most troublesome these last few weeks. And frankly, you have said much worse about my writing, so I’m not sure why this man’s assessment bothered me.”

  As we made the opposite walkway, I then asked, “Were you able to glean anything pertinent from the information Montrose gave you?”

  “Some. I will say that
based on what I’ve been told so far, someone is lying.”

  “Do you think maybe the professor wasn’t as gracious as described in his spurning of Montrose’s failed attempt at those equations? Certainly, belittling a man in his position could have enraged Montrose enough to do this deed himself.”

  “If that were the case then who was our intrepid young constable chasing, a decoy, perhaps? That is entirely possible, perhaps probable. Yet, I need more data to put this little puzzle together.”

  As we stopped and Holmes bent to inspect the door and lock of the Austin home, he then said with a wry grin, “And regarding our new acquaintance’s analysis of your writing prowess, do not despair, Watson. I would not lose sleep over any literary critique given by a man who reads romances in his spare time.”

  “Romances?”

  “Yes, Watson, Romances. Most of the books were turned over or in too much shadow to discern, but the one on his bed was titled, Villette, a Bronte novel, if memory serves.”

  Lestrade was at the top of the stairs when we stepped through to the large, square entranceway. “Up here, gentlemen,” he said with a wave.

  Holmes examined the carpeted steps as we ascended. “The floor is quite wet, indeed. Did anyone check for dampness on the carpeting when they entered?”

  “Unfortunately, not,” replied Lestrade. “When Parker gave up the chase and went back to see where the screams were coming from, he saw the open door and dashed up the stairs, thinking there was still another intruder. That is at least partially his wet trail you see.”

  “Well, that’s unfortunate,” said Holmes.

  “Unfortunate for you, perhaps, but Parker did the right thing, thinking someone’s life was still in danger. We can’t worry about muddying up a crime scene if there are lives to be saved.”